Keith Moon and my Mother were in love
by Regis Boff
Keith always insisted they had a connection.
The trajectory of my mother’s last years was not unlike what was finally to be his as well.
They both headed south like programmed seasonal geese into jet engines taking off from God’s airport. Neither jet nor psychosis willing to alter course.
I loved them both. My mother more. Their broken feathers scattered all around me. Moon’s drifted over all of the music.
I showed him a picture of her once; she was beautiful. Someone had snapped it in the decade of the flowered smock. He was smitten. His mind tended to cut into the lines of his thoughts so he would often bring her up to me out of nowhere.
The smock dress, a product of the 1950’s, was the church’s last attempt to stifle any hint of a woman’s sensuality. It failed, of course. You can’t camouflage the female body. The more one tries the hotter they get. We owe all our sexual fantasies to those draconian and repressed American Puritans. They managed to make sex, so filthy that humanity has nearly wrecked itself consuming it.
When my mother died, conveniently between Who tours, Moon took it in pace.
He was inclined, however, for years after, to sidle up to me and whisper in my ear to ask if I had any luck yet in finding a flowered smock in his size.