am not a star-fucker.
myself a star-make-lover and if you'll allow me, I'd like the chance
to explain. Actually, I think the best term for me, according to
my friend Andy, is TALENT WHORE. Yes, I am unabashedly attracted
to genius, which in my book is better than being into say, felons
or mimes, like my friend Sheryl. Never have I pursued a man because
of his success status and have even turned down some A-listers.
For example, once in Mexico, Russell Crowe asked me to watch him
pee and I respectfully declined. He then told me I'd rue the day,
and truth be told, he was right. Point being, I did not watch the
Gladiator urinate nor did I go back to his hotel with him. Okay,
part of it was because I'd forgotten to shave my legs and I figured
he wouldn't look too kindly on that.
Another reservation was that I didn't figure Mr. Crowe to be a "spooner"
and having come off a bad break-up, I was really just looking to
cuddle. Bottom line, there was no sex with the master OR the commander.
Now I only mention this because I want you to understand my position
on the difference between being a "back stage stalker dweller"
and simply falling for the man behind the curtain.
all started a few years ago. Let me set the scene. I'm at Amoeba
Records with my friend Dave, growling because it's too crowded and
smells like a mixture of patchouli and broken dreams. As I pick
up the newest Flaming Lips record, I see from the corner of my eye,
a well-known local musician whom I am not only a fan of, I've also
had a crush on for quite some time, (let's call him Max). Eye contact,
smile, look away, ya know the usual. Dave, who is one aisle over
sees this exchange and knowing who this guy is, winks at me. I shoot
him a warning "Keep your mouth shut" glance but it's too
he yells, looking at Max to make sure he's listening. "Here's
that Michael Bolton CD you were looking for. Look, he cut his hair!"
ha ha, you moron. I was picking up this new Wilco album."
were not," he insists. "Dude, you told me you had three
CDs to get. John Tesh's Christmas album, Mariah Carey's "Rainbow"
and Michael Friggin Bolton."
looks disappointed and walks into the import section. I follow him
and say, loudly, "I wonder where the new Interpol import is."
He briefly looks up and smiles as I continue, "I just LOVE
listening to my indie-rock, all alone, naked in my apartment on
4500 Spaulding Street, wherein I keep a spare key above the door."
seems I've now confused Max. He picks up a handful of guitar picks
and heads for the checkout. Meanwhile, Dave continues to hold up
various CDs, while screaming, "Look! Finally, we found the
best of Jefferson Starship. Oh, but you only have a cassette player,
right? Let's see if we can't find it on tape."
the fuck up," I say, as Max quickly leaves the building.
note: I've always been a bit of a music snob. For example, in the
fifth grade, I ended a friendship with Missy Dosher because she
insisted that Oates was the more talented of the Hall and Oates
duo. I wasn't especially a fan of either, I had told her, but at
least Darryl Hall had collaborated with geniuses such as Elvis Costello.
She'd looked at me, her Texas green eyes sparkling with such earnest
resolve and said, "I don't know who this Elvis whatever guy
is, but Oates sure does have a sexy mustache!" I remember having
that inexplicable feeling that one gets when they fear danger, but
aren't sure why. I slowly grabbed my Mork and Mindy lunchbox
and said in a low raspy voice, "Missy, you are dead to me."
Okay, so flash forward from Amoeba to six months ago. I'm at a local
hep cat pub where enormously talented singer/songwriter types play
their bittersweet ballads in that way that you think they're singing
JUST TO YOU. You know how rock stars do that; they look out into
the audience and they're really just seeing a blinding white light
but they move their eyes around and get all soulful and you think,
"Bono means me. He says he can't live with or without ME!"
And then, normally you get upset because you start to wonder, "Why
does Bono say he can't live WITH me? He doesn't even KNOW me. Whatever,
he probably supports the IRA or something."
Max does NOT support the IRA. And as I watch him take the stage,
his black guitar strung for perfect pitch, his wide-set green eyes
slowing my oxygen intake, I realize that he CAN live without me
and this is crushing. Even more bitter than sweet, he sings about
his tendency to "fall for it every time," meaning that
he's been tricked into love. I think to myself, "You're preaching
to the choir, buddy."
So Max finishes singing just to me. I wipe my eyes, pay my tab and
as I'm walking out with my friend Jen, there he is, standing by
the door of the pub. I walk by and say "great show." He
grabs my arm and says, "Could I please get your phone number?"
Oh. My. Can't breathe. Nor can I remember my phone number but Jen
quickly writes it down and hands it to him. Sweet Jesus, he WAS
singing to me.
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