Did Jim Morrison O.D.?

The mystery surrounding the 1971 death of the lead singer of the Doors rock band intensified today with a highly detailed account published in a U.K. newspaper alleging that Jim Morrison perished from a heroin overdose in a nightclub. The account in the The Mail on Sunday, given by a French-born journalist with a forthcoming book, alleges that Morrison's body was dumped in his Paris apartment's bathtub by the two nervous drug-dealers who supplied the heroin that killed him. (Morrison's manager, Bill Siddons, who handled Morrison's burial, was in Charlottesville in late March.)


Ack. Convulsive laughter.

As it happens, I went through my Doors & grass phase. For nostalgia's sake, I still have complete vinyl recordings of all Doors albums, from their first epynonymous LP, which includes Backdoor Man, a lyric from which you reference above, through L.A. woman and the execrable American Prayer, which can empty a house after even the wildes night of partying. Admittedly, these records have not seen a turntable in many a night.

We were, all of us, young once, although what upward mobility has to do with your observations -- or anything else -- is just as mysterious and pretentious as anything Jimmy Morrison had to say.

Listening to The End is best experienced (and was used by Coppolla to maximum effect) during the opening of Apocalypse Now.

And if you really must groove on the Doors, drag yer collection out of formaldehyde and pop on The Soft parade. Listen to the title track. Not because of Morrison, but for robby Krieger's funky guitar riff that comprises the second movement of the song.

Peace out, O flaming bird.

The key words here are "journalist with a forthcoming book...."

Some conspiracy theorists opine that Morrison expired from asphyxiation after vomiting and choking to death on his own pretentious poetry.

"The men don't know....
but the little girls understand."

Open your mind Mr. Cteve.

Apparently you never were a young, upwardly (horizontally?) mobile adolescent, enjoying some of our planet's 'greener gifts' and pondering the secrets of the Universe (and some of your own) while listening to The End.

Enjoy it for what it was. Or is. Or is yet to be.

you just never know what to believe. but i do like to think he died in peace and had good thoughts to die with.of course i have know idea what its like to die of an overdose or heart failure but i do feel bad that it even happen.people alwas say die young stay pretty but everyone is human and we all live our life and die but jim morrison was just one that died to early . enough said

I suppose one must be female to truly appreciate Mr. Morrison's, ahem, gifts.

He is a part of any female's coming of age awakening. Leather pants. Long hair. Beads. You get the picture. (or do you?) It's not just the musical ability that makes one want to appreciate him. It's the package. Our love of rock n' roll is twofold: Music and Image.

Face the music, Mr. Cinematic. (and learn to spell!)

Why cloud the song with a movie???? Are you not creative enough to be able to spin a record (!), sit back with your eyes closed, and see what pops up? Does your (closed) mind require that you have moving pictures (doing my clown dance) in order to not be alone with your thoughts? Maybe you are timid of what your mind may conjure up with such disturbing lyrics!

Sigh. You're missing the point. So, let me help you out.

That's why we (non-sheeple) love music....(again, take my hand and I'll guide you...).....because of what it stirs inside of us. How can you appreciate the music if you're too zoned out on flashing colors and the concentration on war. (Did Mr. Coppolla think he was being smart by playing The End at The Beginning???)Automatically, you have tainted the music and its intention by forcing images into your mind. How corrupt! How contrived!

Go out and play, boy!

My God, you are amazing. I have seen the light. I agree with you. More significantly, I think I Love You (did David Cassady once make your heart go a-flutter? Could I?)

Will you marry me? Failing that, can I at least buy you an ice cream cone?



Thank you.

(Dusting off plumage)

Marry you?
Do you have a job? Jail record? Do you live with your mother?
How do you feel about delegation of tasks in the household based on gender?
(Not a trick question)

Ice Cream?
But only if you let me pay for it.


Can you bake a cherry pie, darling Lily?

Gainfully employed. Well, employed.

No felony convictions. Indictments? Mebbe. But no convictions.

Mom lives at her place; I have my own lil' hovel in the country. You'll recongize it, cuz Zep is blaring out the windows night & day.

Glad to hear you are picking up the cheque for ice cream. Make mine pistachio.

Woo hoo,


Can I come too?

Sounds like quite a woman to me.

With a diverse and intelligent taste in music.

And witty.

What a catch.

Do you live here in town, Phoenix?

I like ice cream.

Dearest Phoenix. We'd best take this offline.

Call me on the bat phone: BR-549.

Yerz 4 ever,