The last time I was here, on a gray midweek morning some 20 years ago, the cemetery was empty other than four still-drunk Irish boys stumble-dancing at Jim Morrison's gravesite. They were stripped down to their undies, drinking beer (and offering to share it with us) while their ghetto blaster warbled out old Doors tunes. Today it's a different scene. There's a fence around Jim's grave. Throngs of tourists press up against it taking photos. There are groups of school kids being toured about by guides. I overheard two versions of La Vie en Rose at Edith Piaf's grave and a dum, dum dadum version of the Funeral March here at the gravesite of Frederic Chopin. I've sat through several tour guide explanations while doing this sketch, and if my understanding is to be trusted, his body is buried here, but his heart, as per his request, is enshrined in his native Poland where crowds of people come each year honorary their respects to his genius. Now that's spreading the love.