Handwritten page of a diary dated Sept. 22, 1990
… knew if we couldn’t scrounge some quarters off someone, we weren’t going to get Lindsey on the bus in time to make it over to play practice on time. Why didn’t she think of this when she was counting all our money to see if we had enough for her to buy the beaded hat at the thrift store?
There’s a total of exactly one guy within a block of the bus stop, and he’s sitting there sound asleep.
I go “He looks like Death’s daddy.”
She goes “Who is Beth?”
I go “I didn’t say he looks like BETH’S daddy. I said he looks like DEATH’S daddy.”
The sleeping guy heard us and woke up. He looked less scary when he was awake, but still, I was not so happy with Lindsey when she said this: “Sir, if you’ll give me the money for a bus ride, my friend will sit here and have a nice conversation with you for half an hour” Then she looked over and saw that I was mad, so she goes “OK, no 20 minutes. She will talk to you for 20 minutes about anything … but keep it clean because she took judo lessons.” (I didn’t)
After Lindsey rides away, he smiles. Then he goes “I’m not going to insist that you stay here with Death’s Daddy.”
I kind of mumbled that I was sorry for calling him that, and he goes “Actually, that’s quite an interesting turn of phrase. Are you a poet?”
I go “Most of the poets I know are kind of … gloomy.”
He goes “The Traveling Wilburys aren’t gloomy at all.”
He had to explain to me who they were (except I already knew about everything there is to know about Bob Dylan from my grandma) and somehow “Death’s Daddy” ended up convincing me that I should try my hand as a writer of song lyrics. Which is a good idea, proved by the fact that I got a pretty good start on a song thought up in my head while I walked home.