I look over at Nubbin the shoeshine boy, who’s professionally eyeing my badly scuffed wingtips with withering distain. Caught, I smirk and put my right shoe down on his wooden box.
Nubbin daubs on some tan Shinola and smirks back. "Hey" he says, squinting up at the press card stuck in the band of my Sammy Taft fedora, "Ainchoo da guy who rode abowd Aliz Coopa nawd bein’ in da Rawk Hawl?"
Smart kid, thinks I. "Read that, did you?"
"Nah," he says brushing in the wax. "My brudda did. He sez da toim ‘Rawken Roll Holla Fame’ iz ozzy moronic."
"He means the term ‘Rock and Roll Hall of Fame’ is an oxymoron — and he’s right. Every year the enemies of rock ’n’ roll castrate rebel musicians by formally interring them into their officially sanctioned, non-threatening, society-friendly, tax-deductible chargeable organization. And every year a new herd of freshly neutered sheep acquiesce at the Waldorf-Astoria, where they bend over and humiliate themselves by shamefully mugging next to soulless session men while ingratiating ingrates fawn over them publicly and laugh at them privately."
"My brudda alzo sez dat Aliz iz too hawdcore rawken roll furda Rawk Hawl."
"I guess being banned from the Rock Hall is the highest honor Alice Cooper can get."
"Mebbe." Nubbin snaps his rag and shrugs. "But if Bred "Da Hidman" Hawd kin finely ged indugded … den hoo noze?"
The screech of a car careening wildly out of control fills the venue. As I watch hardcore legend Mick Foley lumber down the ramp, Nubbin’s words slowly sink in: If Bret "The Hitman" Hart can finally get inducted …
Suddenly it hits me like a chair shot to the skull: Alice Cooper joined grappler Jake "The Snake" Roberts in the ring at WrestleMania III. Which means Alice is eligible for induction into rock ’n’ roll’s real pantheon: the WWE Wrestling Hall Of Fame.
I lean back and put my left shoe on the box. If he doesn’t get any polish on the laces, maybe I’ll give the kid a tip. Jeffrey Morgan is a freelance writer. Send comments to [email protected]