I'm told that some people go to Paris to see the Louvre, a highly-regarded museum containing such works as the Mona Lisa. I'm told there are plenty of other world-renowned galleries, cathedrals and museums in that city.

Sure, I checked out a lot of those "must sees" when I was there recently with my wife and two daughters. But the real gotta-go item on my list was this: the grave of Jim Morrison.

If you know your cultural history, you're aware that Morrison, lead singer of the Doors, died in Paris in 1971. He was living there, trying to escape the music business and become a poet or something. He was allegedly found dead in his bathtub from a "heart attack." Come on, the dude was 27. Can you say: drugs?

I didn't idolize the guy but I liked the music. For more than 30 years I've been hearing about his grave and the pilgrims who hang out there. I wanted to see it.

You know what really shocked me? My wife and daughters didn't want to go. They preferred to go shopping along the Champs Elysees, the big-deal boulevard near the Arc de Triomphe. So be it. To each his own.

During the Metro ride to the Pere Lachais Cemetery, I had Doors music running through my head...

"Strange days have found us..."

You know what else shocked me? There were no huge crowds of tourists lining up at the cemetery, as I had seen at the Caehdral of Notre Dame and the Louvre. Where was everybody?

I just walked into the place, passing those big stone walls (after buying a map of the cemetery from a vendor, which gave me some idea of where to find J.M.)

Here's another shocking thing: there were no signs directing people to his grave. I had to keep studying the map, trying to figure out where I was in this massive lay-out of thousands of headstones. I was caught in a big maze and nobody seemed to speak English. How could that be?

"Tried to run, tried to hide--break on through to the other side..."

Truly: I must have been wandering around that place for a good half-hour when at last I saw a cluster of people and I knew: This is it!

"My eyes have seen you..."

I came upon a simple headstone: "James Douglas Morrison 1943-1971." There was a line below it that I couldn't decipher because it was faded and probably in another language. It didn't look like French.

There were fresh flowers on his stone and a basket with ribbon that read: "Fan Club Francois Doors." Also two framed poems, the lettering too small to be read from a distance. And yes, we were being kept about five feet away because this was the only grave in the place that had a metal police barricade surrounding it.

Why the security? Because idiotic vandals/worshippers had, early on, chipped away at it, taking souvenirs! I noticed the front stonework was slightly chiseled away.

I had expected to see some English-speaking tourists at this site, but it didn't happen. (The dollar is very weak now vs. the euro, so it costs big bucks to travel around Europe.) When I saw a middle-aged dude wearing an Aerosmith shirt and leather vest and shades, I thought: "Ah, yes! A Yank!" But then he started talking to his wife and young son in a foreign tongue. She was wearing a Disneyland hat, worn backward. The big dude had rings on every finger. The kid just started at the grave, looking very sad. He seemed to be about 10 years old. Finally his mom consoled him with hugs and kisses.

I wasn't as emotionally moved as that kid, even though the Doors were my contemporaries. No, I never saw them in concert, not even when they came to the New Haven Arena in 1967 and Morrison got into a fight with a cop and they stopped the show and arrested him.

"Blood on the streets in the town of New Haven..."

It was starting to get a little creepy around that grave, so I split. I took a long, last look and I thought: "You blew it, Jimmy. You could've written a lot more songs, even some more poems, done some more touring. But no, you just fed your head like a big dope addict and now here you are, lying in a cemetery where gawkers come and stare at your name. This is the closest I ever got to you, but it was no concert -- just an odd kind of freak show.

"This is The End..."