Marvellaland

Essays on memoir, music, and more from Beatrice M. Hogg

Lenny Kravitz is My Homeboy

 

After years of intense observation, I have decided that what Lenny Kravitz needs is a good black woman, just like his Mama. I humbly offer my services to Mr. Kravitz on the auspicious occasion of his 48th birthday.

Okay, let me review the attributes of the above-mentioned rock god. It appears that Lenny is the only African American man who seems to really get it, who knows how to meld soul and rock in a way that garners fans from both genres and all races. For a rocker/funkateer  like me, that is one of the highest compliments I can pay to any man. To me, Lenny – in all of his West Indian/Jewish caramel deliciousness – is the kind of man I can relate to. He is a gifted guitarist, singer and songwriter, as well as a talented actor. He knows how to dress for success, as nobody can wear black leather like Lenny can. And all of those tattoos and piercings, how can anyone resist those? Yeah, I know, a lot of women don’t like all of that, but to me, it is sexy as hell. And his most important attribute is this: he was born on the exact same day as my best friend Mary – May 26, 1964. So it was meant to be, right?

I have yet to see Mr. Kravitz in concert or in person. But I haven’t given up hope. All I need is a concert ticket, a backstage pass or to be at the right place at the right time. I mean, Lenny goes to Las Vegas a lot and so do I. It would be fun to hang around with Lenny. He has been everywhere and knows everyone. Maybe we could go to Paris and he could buy me a Louis Vuitton bag, which I would carry to a café near the Eiffel Tower. There, we could write poetry or lyrics and talk about our lives. I could show him some of my essays about my mother and he could tell me about his. We could raise our champagne glasses to the strong Black women who raised us. We could discuss Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix, as well as George Clinton and Bob Marley. Lenny could help me with my bass guitar lessons. He could teach me some chords and accompany me on guitar. I could help him write his memoirs. We could go shopping for hair products and jewelry. The possibilities are endless. No, I am not deterred by the fact that I’m broke and homeless in Sacramento while Lenny Kravitz lives in some fancy place in New York, or Miami or Los Angeles collecting royalty checks and going on world tours. It doesn’t matter that I am seven years older than Lenny, as that barely makes me a cougar. Love conquers all, or as Lenny says, “Let love rule.” He has loved and lost, and gotten stronger from the experience. He is a loving father, a beloved son, and a fine brown man.

Wearing the Lenny Kravitz tee shirt that my friend Rukiya bought me is probably the closest I’ll ever get to getting Lenny in bed, but I continue to dream. And isn’t that what rock and roll is about anyway – a dream, a sound, and an escape from the ordinary? Happy Birthday, Lenny. See you in my dreams.

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