This song is one of my favorites and holds a lot of personal significance so, naturally, I decided to butcher it. I’ve already written about my obsession with Warren Zevon and the importance of this composition, so I won’t repeat myself. If you feel so inclined, you can read all about it here.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off for a virgin margarita…
I became obsessed with Warren Zevon in college, although I first heard him when I was just a boy. My father loved “Werewolves of London,” which was the biggest hit Zevon ever had. My old man used to get especially excited at the line “I saw a werewolf drinking a Piña Colada at Trader Vic’s—and his hair was perfect.” He thought that was just the best. And so did I, which makes this instance one of the only things my father and I have ever agreed on.
By the time I made it to Berkeley, I had become a werewolf of sorts myself. I preferred straight rum to Piña Coladas and my hair was far from perfect, but I would find myself transforming into a beast rather frequently nonetheless. Empty bottles were my full moons, and Warren Zevon became my patron saint of lycanthropic alcoholism.
The first friend I made at Berkeley was a Zevon enthusiast and he quickly converted me. We were both artistic and misunderstood (by our own reckoning), and we related to Zevon, whose creative genius and reckless exploits we worshipped. The two of us talked about Warren as if he were a close friend of ours; we felt like we knew him intimately and that he was with us in spirit at all times. Despite the fact that Zevon had been dead for years, his cult of personality was alive and well in Berkeley, and we even started our own religious order in his honor: Zevonism.
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