Laguna Beach wasn’t all beaches, billionaires and babes. Somewhere in the back of a tiny, hole-in-the-wall dive bar called The Marine Room, I found a funky, blue grass band and a man who defied the Southern California norm and rocked the house. And when I say rocked, I mean the pulsating, still-ringing-in-my-head kind of rock. With a unique guitar twang, a token tambourine man and a Johnny Cash, freight train-like sound. Awe-struck and smitten, I randomly and spontaneously slid a beer bottle across the wooden table to Mr. Jones. Secretly hoping he would say thanks but knowing he’d probably only grab it and go, he did neither, actually. Instead, much to my dismay, Mr. Brad Jones turned around smiling and said hello back. I might have died and gone to heaven.