It’s been pointed out to me that Jim Morrison has been dead for fifty years as of today.

His was one of the graves I visited at the Père Lachaise Cemetery four years ago as part of my ongoing morbid research into all things death-related. I mentioned this only a couple of blog posts ago, so it was fresh in my mind when the anniversary crossed my feed. Being reminded of the grave of the lead singer of The Doors and proud member of the 27 Club, my brain was also jostled concerning what I’d written about him.

The Rip Eulogy occult-detective mysteries I’ve been working on (go get your copies of Necropolis and Epitaph if you haven’t already—The Boneyard remains in production) feature, among many colourful cast members, moirologist Tracy Poole. She was always a character I meant to write more about. The short story, Crocodile Tears, serves as a good introduction to who she is and what she does for a living, and has already seen print twice (in Betty Fedora 4 and Petty Crimes and Vindictive Criminals). Solo novels are inevitable and, I’ll confess for the first time here, pending.

The first book in this proposed series serves as a prequel to Necropolis, and details what Tracy was up to immediately prior to her first meeting Rip Eulogy. Unlike Rip’s adventures, Tracy’s will feature no supernatural elements, and will be, in many ways, my closest approximation to the “cozy mystery” genre. Except for all the sex, violence, profanity, and twisted horrible crime.

Okay, screw it. Fans of cozy mysteries should probably stay the hell away from Tracy Poole, lest their hair catch on fire. Maybe one day I’ll write something that will fit into a safe, comfortable, commercial genre, but this ain’t it.

All this to say, there’s an exchange in Chapter Three that specifically refers to Jim Morrison and takes advantage of what I personally witnessed on my research excursion. Here’s an excerpt:

The Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris offered the usual challenges for finding famous graves on grounds that had been accepting the remains of the dead for centuries. A map was essential. But Jim Morrison’s grave was the simplest one to locate in the hundred-plus acres. One only needed to get in the general vicinity. Graffiti etched onto nearby crypts by generations of fans pointed the way, with arrows and the name “Jim” defacing any number of respectable French family tombs full of people who had never lived to see the era of rock stars who would inspire such loyalty and vandalism.

Morrison’s was one of the most visited graves in the world. Not only would sightseers pop by for a visit and a selfie, many would linger, contemplating, meditating, drinking, chain smoking, or worse, abusing a musical instrument. Even with a gate to keep them at bay and off the grave itself, some would spend hours there, making a day of it, and contributing to the disgusting monument of chewing gum that had been affixed to a nearby tree. A skirt of bamboo slats kept the sticky mess off the bark and could be replaced at regular intervals. But the rapid replenishment of gum wads attested to the fact that, even generations later, hippies were still plentiful and filthy.

For those who want to read more, I’ve posted a nearly 3000-word chunk on my neglected Patreon page behind the dollar-tier pay wall. Back me for a buck and you’ll be able to access rare tidbits like this. You’ll also contribute to making me less ashamed of my sad patron count.