Sir Harry Bowen

When you travel alone, you never know who you're going to meet. You have to leave yourself open to new experiences even it it happens to find you while sitting on a barstool.

I was in Mobile, AL the other night for a Lyle Lovett concert. He was playing at the Saenger downtown, so I went over early that afternoon hoping for something exciting to come my way. I thought it would be great to work my way backstage and meet some of the band, the back up singers or even Lyle. I'm not a big fan of celebrity. People are people. But like a kid I'm more curious about the whole process of what goes on before a concert, how does the soundcheck work, who's doing what, are there really no Red M&Ms in the bowl. And there's also something covert about being somewhere others aren't supposed to go. It wasn't like I was going to try to bust through security, but if I could find a sympathetic ear, I may be able to talk my way past the guys with the tight shirts.

But outside the theater I bumped into the manager. He was taking down the ad poster from the outside case, telling me he was going to try to get Lyle to sign it so he could hang it in the Green Room.

"Is he signing autographs now?" I asked. I didn't want one, but I just wanted to see if he was around and what was going on back stage.

"He's not even here yet," the guy said.

"No sound check?"

"I think that's later," he said. "No one's in there except for the guys setting up the equipment."

It was only 4, so they had three more hours to get things right, and not wanting to be some kind of backstage rat, I headed for a place I knew would welcome me: Hero's sports bar. I decided to give up on any adventure for that day, and spend the next few hours nursing a beer or seven.

I was on my second beer, watching Richard Simmons crying about New Orleans on TV. On the other TV, the Simpsons were on. By the time the third beer came, I began to notice that if you were to shave off Richard Simmon's hair, leaving a little on the sides and a couple of strands on the top, he'd look just like Homer Simpson. Sure you'd have to keep Richard out of the Dermasurgeon for a while so his five o'clock shadow could return, but otherwise, he's a dead ringer for Homer.

So I'm sitting at the bar killing time watching three or four TVs, when this guy pulls up a stool next to me. He's a large black man wearing a black cap, sweat shorts and a T-shirt. He takes a look at the beer menu and gets excited when he sees Carona.

"Carona!" he exclaimed. "They have Carona."

I wasn't sure who he was talking to, but I offered, "A buddy of mine swears by Carona light."

He turns to me. "That's the best stuff. But they don't have that here."

So he orders his beer, and it was time for another Dos Equis so I ordered my next beer.

"You from Mobile?" he asked.

"Pensacola. You?"

"L.A."

The bartender brought his beer over, and we began to talk. The guy was a great conversationalist. We discussed things like Karma, keeping an open mind, learning from others, and exposing yourself to new situations. We talked about the excitement of running into someone interesting and actually having an intelligent conversation. The guy was one of those choice people you hope to run into, just to gleen a little insight in to another's perspective. We both shared the same philosphy that says you're responsible for your own happiness, we both agreed on the Golden Rule way of life, and we agreed that no matter what you have to put yourself out there in a place where you'll have the greatest odds of success.

He had moved from Detroit to L.A. because his work was drying up in Michigan. Unless he wanted to work in the auto industry, there was nothing left. So he took a risk and moved to L.A. He didn't know anyone, but because of his outlook, he quickly made friends, and those friends led to more friends, and he was able to find work in his profession.

So here I was talking with this guy who I suddenly admire, perhaps because he reminds me of me, but more so because he's just a great guy. Sitting there on that barstool, I realized I had made the right decision to come to Hero's, and not try and scam some backstage pass just because I've never been back stage before. I didn't need the thrill of meeting some singer or band member. I truly enjoyed my time with Harry, and I was looking forward to my next beer with him.

An hour passed and we finished our dinner and beers, and he said he had to go. He said he had to shine his shoes.

"What's going on in Mobile tonight?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I'm in town for the Lyle Lovett show."

"Hey, me too," I replied. "Where are you sitting?"

"Oh, I don't have tickets," he said. He looked at his watch as if he was searching for the best way to say it. "I'm singing with him."

"No way."

"Yeah. I've been with him for nine years."

"You're pulling my leg."

"No. Before that I was with the O'Jays, and Was, Not Was--you know 'Everybody walk the dinosaur.'"

He didn't have time for another beer. As the professional, he wanted to be prepared. Though before he left, he did tell me he give me a sign to let me know he feels me. So he raised up his fist the way a boxer would if protecting the side of his face.

That night from my seat, I had a clear shot of Harry. I was watching a man do exactly what he enjoys doing, and getting paid to do it. I was watching the faces that fill the corners of my home with their voices. And one of those voice would've never been heard had he not had the courage to take a risk and leave Detroit.

So, Cheers to Sir Harry Bowen, singer with Lyle Lovett. The next Carona's on me.