No One Here Gets Out Alive

This is a story about Pére Lachaise, Brett Favre, me, and the Lizard King.

It's been 35 year since Mr. Mojo Risin "died" of an apparent drug overdose in a Paris apartment at the ripe age of 27. In the three-and-a-half decades since his death, the final resting place of the lead singer of the Doors has become the city's fifth-most visited tourist attraction. Each year, 5 million visitors make the trek from all over the world to come to Pére Lachaise cemetery, which has enough trees to be officially considered Paris's largest park. Surely, a few of the gravewalkers are intrigued by the tombs of Oscar Wilde, Camille Pisarro, Edith Piaf, Georges Seurat, and countless other titans of European culture, but most of them, no doubt, are -- like me -- here to see Jim.

Pére-Lachaise is a big place, spanning 44 hectacres (whatever that means), and containing 70,000 burial plots. If you're scouting out one headstone in particular, you're gonna need a map. I drew one, popped it in my back pocket and we jumped on the metro to the 20e arrondisement in search of my high school idol.

My sketch, while incredibly artistic and revealing the obvious anthropomorphic layout of the cemetery, quickly proved to be, sadly, of almost no use. I didn't label the roads or mark the surrounding plots. I guess I wasn't thinking...or wasn't thinking that I'd really need that kind of detail. I felt like I would just know where the gravestone was, or that Jim would give me a sign. Worst case, I'd listen for the lyrics from L.A. Woman as I walked up the hill from street level (Keep on Risin'. Risin'.), until I honed in on the spot.

Alas, nothing. It was Saturday morning and almost, well, deathly quiet.

No sooner did Heather and I resort to a desperate line of thinking -- "What would Mojo do?" -- than the legendary quarterback for the Green Bay Packers, Brett Favre, appeared in front of us like an archangel descending from the heavens to guide the way. I thought to myself, what an incredible stroke of luck. Not only was Favre here in the cemetery, but he was wearing his game day jersey so I could recognize him, AND he had an official map of the grounds! And then I thought, no, this is all too much of a coincidence. This isn't luck. Jim sent him.

So, I told Heather, "That's Brett Favre, the legendary quarterback for the Green Bay Packers. I know why he's here." Heather seemed dubious, but agreed to accompany me as I followed the man, knowing he'd lead us to the headstone like he was driving toward the end zone on a 2-minute drill.

Favre showed the kind of determination that has made him an NFL legend. He barely spoke with the woman on his arm (he was kinda slumming, I must say), except for a quick T.O. when they sat curbside to consult the playbook one more time in preparation for the final march. I knew we were within spitting distance when I saw a stringy-haired squatter in a black Doors concert t-shirt leaning against a nearby tomb. I turned the corner, and there he was, James Douglas Morrison.

Heather and I reflected, mumbled a few lyrics (I wanna tell you about Texas Radio and the Big Beat). I thought about how scuzzy the flowers on the grave looked, and how it was kind of weird (and maybe a bit pathetic) that they were draped with a ribbon that said someting in French followed by "The Lizard King." And then, having breathed in all we could of the late great Jim Morrison, we set out to find a few other gravestons and loll around for a while in the enormous cemetery-slash-park.

Brett Favre had his fill of Jim right about the time H&I started walking away (hardly a coincidence, I hasten to add. His job was done.). No. 4 and his favorite wide receiver made their break -- a textbook slant pattern -- just ahead of us. And as they crossed our path, Favre launched a zinger that I'm sure he's been waiting the entire offseason to unleash. "What a waste of talent," he said, shaking his head, as his lady friend drew him close, nodding in consolation.

Damn, he's good.