[The JD]

In 1982, I met Johnny Rotten, the sneering orange-haired lead singer of the Sex Pistols (though he was in PiL at the time). I was 19 years old, and thought I was the coolest punk in Atlanta for scoring the backstage pass and getting access to the father of punk rock. Except when it was my turn to meet him, I went completely starstruck. I never said a word... I simply handed him my ticket for him to autograph, my eyes as big as saucers.

He briefly evaluated me, flashed his trademark smirk, and autographed my ticket. He never said a word to me either, and I consider it a kindness on his part: the tiniest insult (no matter how typical of him, or deserved by me) would have reduced me to tears, I'm sure.