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listen  jim guthrie read  the little prince laugh  ryan belleville
random © design and text by near-sighted 2001-2002 |
My old boyfriend would get me on the guestlist for my favourite Canadian band at the time. I was overjoyed. I was in! I was in and I was saving money, two of the hallmarks of any successful university media student. Part of the catch was that we inevitably had to make small talk with the rock star brother where I would huddle in the background, feign disinterest in the fact that I was standing beside one of my favourite Canadian rock stars, a national icon to anyone who pays attention to the country's music scene. I admitted it: I was downright intimidated by his presence. I had listened to his band's albums for six years and spent the same amount of time writing his name on my pencilcase in high school. He was an icon. And despite being around him so many times, I could not feel comfortable striking up a normal "Oh, what a nice day today!" sort of conversation. My concerns were so petty!, I thought. He probably talks only to artists! What do I say? I was convinced that all he does is go around speaking in poetry and obscure yet lofty thoughts and all I would have been able to do was summon a muffled "mmm hmmm", stifling a stream of glorious praises for the band and whatnot. I'd learned to feign disinterest very well in these days. And you know what? I still didn't know what to say to this guy beyond the "Hey, how are you?" and almost immediately panicking and running behind someone else who would actually proffer something interesting to the conversation. The longest conversation I had with him was a brief stop in his apartment, where he seemed normal enough but scared me when he opened up his refrigerator and the only thing on the shelves were a crushed bottle of cola and an opened bag of nacho cheese doritos. Is this how my favourite musician lives? The boyfriend tells me off-colour stories about drinking and drinking accidents. My dreams are squashed. I started hanging around the scene, and started witnessing musical men in their mid-late thirties courting fawning fan girls who had just gotten out of high school or their first year of university. It started to make me ill. I didn't want to see this side; I wanted to be a music fan again. When I notice another Canadian singer at a photo exhibit, I nudge the boyfriend and say, "Hey, cool! There's Hayden! He hasn't been doing much lately; wonder what he's been up to!", to which he (a musician of a local band himself) replies, "Yeah…" and then proceeds to ask me, "I wonder if anyone looks at me and says, hey! That's _________!" I can't believe he's actually asking me this. I cringe. "What do you think I got into music for? The attention and the giiiirls!" He pumps his fist in the air and says it in a way to be funny, but with a genuine sincerity that I can't shake. "Are you serious?" I prod. He hesitates but responds with a convincing "Well, sure!" I cringe again. I should have figured. I wanted out. I didn't need to be caressing someone's ego when my own didn't even exist. I found that I started to lose interest in the music that I once loved. I, frankly, just wanted to be a music fan again. It was Thanksgiving Dinner and I was invited to the family's home to feast on turkey and turkey companion dishes. Rock-Star, in attempts to look like he dressed up for the occasion, comes in with a white dress shirt. He turns around and his right shirt sleeve is hanging on by a few threads. He takes off his shoes and sprawls on the livingroom floor, toes peeking out of his worn and mismatched nylon socks. He seriously needs some anti-perspirant, I note with a shudder. I want to sit by the younger brother because he's pretty goofy and I get along with him. Instead, I am placed right beside quirky Rock Star. Meanwhile, the father is busy assembling his new video camera and puts it on a tripod to record the scintillating events of the Thanksgiving dinner, myself and Rock Star being the only two offering frontal views. I sit uncomfortably while the airwaves are full of ample complaints from the Rock Star about how he hates yams and has never liked yams and that he's not going to touch them because they're just wrong. And I look to his right shoulder where his sleeve is desperately hanging for life and I can see a little patch of skin. Were it six years ago, I would have been giddy. Thanksgiving Dinner at the home of my favourite musician, seeing a bit of shoulder flesh, all of it caught on video tape. Instead, I can only shake my head, thinking about his refrigerator with the crushed bottle of cola and an opened bag of nacho cheese doritos. And I realize that he's just a lonely 30-ish man whom I would not be friends with under normal circumstances, and who just happens to have an amazing talent. The moral of the story is: Never get rock stars wet Never expose rock stars to direct sunlight and Never, ever feed doritos to a rock star after midnight.
And I feel fine....... - 2004-02-23 |