San Francisco's weather can turn real bad sometimes, what with the rain and fog. And this particular day it turned into a helluva 'n awful one. Not the kinda day that a pretty girl wants to be standing around on street corners, if you know what I mean. So I slipped into The El Matador to rest my feet, dry my clothes, wet my throat and listen to some jazz. For a mid-week afternoon the joint was filling up pretty quick. Well, what would you expect with Bill Evans playing the first of his sets for the day. Smooth. Mellow. Cool. This cute little guy walks up to the bar and straight off starts up a conversation about my crazy leopard-skin print mini-shirt and how much he dug Bill Evans. Said he was in town on some kind of assignment or something and lived above a jazz club somewhere or other. That's about all I really knew about him. We sat at the bar, listened to the trio, drank some wine and just jawed about stuff. You know, just one of those slow, chilled-out, easy-going afternoons. By late afternoon it was still raining cats and dogs, and I sure as hell wasn't going back on those damn streets, so I ask the friendly little guy if he'd like to come back to my place for something to eat, maybe listen to some records or whatever. He said okay and mumbled something about not being able to shoot in the rain. Had I just invited a killer to supper? A girl can't be too careful you know. But, what the hell, it was too late now. I'd offered, he'd accepted. Done deal, no turning back. We knew diddley-squat about each other. Hell, we didn't need to, we were living for the moment. I was Joni and he was Ronnie. Years later I found out that that sweet guy I met all those years ago was Johnny Lizard, a Cockney photographer from London. Not Ronnie, an Australian assassin, I always thought he was way back then. So Peace 'n Love to Ya JL!