I was driving west on Sunset and singing “Honky Cat” with all the skill and deep-down feeling I could muster. Well, I wasn’t actually “singing” as much as singing along with Elton John, but I was holding my end up. I can sing pretty well when I’m in the right mood, and the notes were all within my range and my phrasing and voice control were pretty good if I do say so myself.

So there I was as I approached the Bel Air gate, cruising in Elton heaven. It was sometime in the mid-summer of ’83, a week or two after I’d moved to Los Angeles to work at The Hollywood Reporter, and all seemed right with the world.

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