Part One is John Callahan’s recollection; Part Two is mine.
It was 1991. (A few of us went to a bachelor party for one of the Jimmy’s waiters and we ended up) at a “gentlemen’s club” on Sunset Boulevard, called “The Body Shop” (not too subtle). As we were sneaking shots into our sodas, I heard a dancer mention something about Mick Jagger. I looked around the room and there he was, sitting at a table with two guys who looked like linebackers in suits. I was definitely the biggest Stones fan at the table, because when I suggested we say ‘hello,’ everyone else backed off. I knew I had to say ‘hello,’ so I approached his table. One of the bodyguards stood up and squared off with me. I told him I just wanted to meet Mick. Mick waved him off and I told him how much I loved his music, blah, blah, blah, which he has heard thousands of times. But he was cool and put his hand out. I shook it and he said, “Thanks, man.” That was it. But it was a great moment for me.
William, you can vouch for me on this one.
William:
Yeah, so true. I remember a few things: like all of a sudden the girls on the stage in front of us disappeared and we couldn’t figure out where the hell they went until we saw Jagger at a rail a few stages down and that’s where all the dancers had gravitated—of course, in true stripper fashion, following the money.
Secondly, I look over at Mick and I’m trying to get a bead on his emotions (I know, a weird thing to be doing in a strip club, but there you have it). And I’m running titles from the entire Stones’ catalogue through my mind—”She’s Like a Rainbow,” “Satisfaction,” “Honky Tonk Woman,” Sympathy for the Devil,” “Brown Sugar,” et. al.—trying to match the song with the moment but nothing’s sticking. And here’s Mick, and he’s like in his late forties, his eyes not wavering from the stage, and what I’m really wondering is: What is Mick Jagger doing alone in a strip joint on a random Wednesday night? Hasn’t this guy had enough, er, companionship in his life? How much is too much? Don’t you just reach a point? . . .
And I’m left there, pondering.
So after John introduces himself to Mick (truth is, I don’t head over with him because I’m just not that big of a Stones fan—now were it Bukowski or Pete Townsend . . .), and we hang out at our table awhile longer, finish our spiked colas and head to our cars parked on the hilly, apartment building-cluttered side streets off the Strip, feeling like you always do heading back to your car from any late night venue in LA—alone—it dawns on me: “Ruby Tuesday.”
“Lose your dreams and you will lose your mind.”
Even Mick.
One last thing, earlier in the night a stripper walks by and notices John, hamburger in hand, eyes agog on one of the dancers on a pole in front of us, and she quips, “How’s the burger?” . . . oh, wait, that was a different place, different time. (Sorry, John.)
Beejorama 
