#7: A Kiss is Just a Kiss, Unless It Comes from a Rock Star!
Look at me! I'm becoming a regular!
I try to stay sporadic because I know me and once I confine myself to a schedule I'll break it. Then everyone will panic because there is no Column and it is, in fact, the third Thursday of the month and ohmygosh Heather must be dead and/or trapped under something heavy such as an armoire or elephant. I know how devastating that would all be for you.
But I just have something so Column-worthy to tell you about that I couldn't wait!
(Okay, I can wait, especially for a grateful tangent - I must say that when I type these things up I don't really think anybody reads them. Oh, sure, one or two people maybe, but usually I just think you see "The Column" in your inbox and hit delete. But the other day I met a friend for lunch and he began talking about something I did a few weeks ago. I was really freaked out. I hadn't talked to this friend in more than six months! How did he know what I was doing? Of course then he mentioned The Column and I remembered writing about it. So, long story even longer, Wow! You all actually read this! Thank you!)
The Column-worthy event: I was kissed by a rock star. Me! Kissed! By a bona fide leather-pants-wearing, long-hair-sporting, guitar-toting Rock Star! I suppose I should start at the beginning, but this is really the most important part of the story.
The beginning: Sir Not Appearing in this Column (who from now on we will call "Sir" for short because I am getting tired of typing the whole damn title) surprised me with tickets AND backstage passes for a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert. How'd he get them? He knows the bass player! How? None of your business. But enough about Sir. He doesn't want to be here anyway.
So I went to the concert and at the appointed time noted on my very important looking backstage pass I attempted to find the backstage doors. Of course, they don't want you knowing where the backstage doors are because then everyone would want to go backstage, not just the special people like me.
After asking several very unhelpful and sullen vendors, I finally found someone who pointed me to the bowels of the building, which I had to get to by taking an elevator. Not a nice big open elevator, but a tiny service one. Filled with people.
I do not do well in small enclosed spaces.
Especially when I am forced to stand so close to the woman in front of me that I can smell her hair spray.
But this was meeting the band! The Band! So I sucked it up and rode down in the metal coffin for what felt like three hours to the first floor of the stadium.
Following a group of people with similar-looking special backstage passes, I arrived at the backstage door at precisely the time the pass noted. However, it seemed that the band had not been informed of that time. So I waited. And waited. And waited. I had a lot of time to think about the ride back up in that tiny little elevator.
Finally the security guard motioned us in. I was suddenly very nervous. Though I love the song "Sweet Home Alabama" and that one that goes "What's your name, little girl? What's your name?" I had no idea what any of the members of Lynyrd Skynyrd looked like. I pictured myself grabbing the hand of the janitor and saying, "I'm a really big fan." How would I know it was the janitor?
Luckily, they filed us into the room in line. Unluckily, Sir made me go in front of him. He was the one who knew someone and he made me go first anyway. Fine.
The band was sitting behind a table signing things. I had nothing to be signed (as I didn't know we were supposed to provide something) so I just started sticking out my hand and introducing myself. Like they really want to know who I am. "Hi, I'm a big fat nobody working at a faceless corporation in the Midwest. You're a big rock star who has been popular for 30 years. Would you like *me* to sign that paper for you?"
Sir recognized the bass player, Ean Evens, and they started chatting after the rest of the line had shuffled through. I was introduced and before we left Ean KISSED me (on the cheek - but does it really matter where?).
I went back to my seat (up the stairs this time) not really comprehending what happened until I saw Ean (yes, we are now on a first name basis) on stage. Then I realized, I had been kissed by a rock star. An older rock star from a band that I don't know very well and that my kids won't even recognize, but a freakin' ROCK STAR nonetheless!
Though he didn't know exactly where we were in the crowd, as those bright rock star lights make it difficult to see anything past the end of the stage, Ean pointed in our general direction several times throughout the concert. Because I am that special.
The group of 50-year-old men in front of us seemed to be having a good time, too. Even though I'm pretty sure they weren't kissed by a rock star. However, they didn't seem to mind. In fact nothing at all seemed to bother those men as they took hit, after hit from their marijuana pipe. I lost count of the times the guy right in front of me took the pipe, sat down, inhaled, exhaled, stood up and passed the pipe back to the beginning of the line. I was tempted to push him gently from behind to see if he would fall over. Just for fun, you know.
The funniest part wasn't that the guys were middle-aged and smoking pot, it was that the guy sitting next to us was a cop. A very large, imposing looking cop with broad shoulders and lots and lots of muscles. He kept looking at them and shaking his head. I think he found it rather amusing. Of course about half the stadium was also dragging on doobies (seriously, I smelled soooooo icky when I got home), so I don't think Mr. Cop could have done anything unless he planned on arresting the whole audience anyway. But it would have been funny to see these doped-up, middle-agers trying to talk their way out of the situation, like they must have done 35 years ago when their parents caught them smoking weed.
I have a very odd sense of humor.
But I have also been kissed by a rock star.
So there.
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Look at me! I'm becoming a regular!
I try to stay sporadic because I know me and once I confine myself to a schedule I'll break it. Then everyone will panic because there is no Column and it is, in fact, the third Thursday of the month and ohmygosh Heather must be dead and/or trapped under something heavy such as an armoire or elephant. I know how devastating that would all be for you.
But I just have something so Column-worthy to tell you about that I couldn't wait!
(Okay, I can wait, especially for a grateful tangent - I must say that when I type these things up I don't really think anybody reads them. Oh, sure, one or two people maybe, but usually I just think you see "The Column" in your inbox and hit delete. But the other day I met a friend for lunch and he began talking about something I did a few weeks ago. I was really freaked out. I hadn't talked to this friend in more than six months! How did he know what I was doing? Of course then he mentioned The Column and I remembered writing about it. So, long story even longer, Wow! You all actually read this! Thank you!)
The Column-worthy event: I was kissed by a rock star. Me! Kissed! By a bona fide leather-pants-wearing, long-hair-sporting, guitar-toting Rock Star! I suppose I should start at the beginning, but this is really the most important part of the story.
The beginning: Sir Not Appearing in this Column (who from now on we will call "Sir" for short because I am getting tired of typing the whole damn title) surprised me with tickets AND backstage passes for a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert. How'd he get them? He knows the bass player! How? None of your business. But enough about Sir. He doesn't want to be here anyway.
So I went to the concert and at the appointed time noted on my very important looking backstage pass I attempted to find the backstage doors. Of course, they don't want you knowing where the backstage doors are because then everyone would want to go backstage, not just the special people like me.
After asking several very unhelpful and sullen vendors, I finally found someone who pointed me to the bowels of the building, which I had to get to by taking an elevator. Not a nice big open elevator, but a tiny service one. Filled with people.
I do not do well in small enclosed spaces.
Especially when I am forced to stand so close to the woman in front of me that I can smell her hair spray.
But this was meeting the band! The Band! So I sucked it up and rode down in the metal coffin for what felt like three hours to the first floor of the stadium.
Following a group of people with similar-looking special backstage passes, I arrived at the backstage door at precisely the time the pass noted. However, it seemed that the band had not been informed of that time. So I waited. And waited. And waited. I had a lot of time to think about the ride back up in that tiny little elevator.
Finally the security guard motioned us in. I was suddenly very nervous. Though I love the song "Sweet Home Alabama" and that one that goes "What's your name, little girl? What's your name?" I had no idea what any of the members of Lynyrd Skynyrd looked like. I pictured myself grabbing the hand of the janitor and saying, "I'm a really big fan." How would I know it was the janitor?
Luckily, they filed us into the room in line. Unluckily, Sir made me go in front of him. He was the one who knew someone and he made me go first anyway. Fine.
The band was sitting behind a table signing things. I had nothing to be signed (as I didn't know we were supposed to provide something) so I just started sticking out my hand and introducing myself. Like they really want to know who I am. "Hi, I'm a big fat nobody working at a faceless corporation in the Midwest. You're a big rock star who has been popular for 30 years. Would you like *me* to sign that paper for you?"
Sir recognized the bass player, Ean Evens, and they started chatting after the rest of the line had shuffled through. I was introduced and before we left Ean KISSED me (on the cheek - but does it really matter where?).
I went back to my seat (up the stairs this time) not really comprehending what happened until I saw Ean (yes, we are now on a first name basis) on stage. Then I realized, I had been kissed by a rock star. An older rock star from a band that I don't know very well and that my kids won't even recognize, but a freakin' ROCK STAR nonetheless!
Though he didn't know exactly where we were in the crowd, as those bright rock star lights make it difficult to see anything past the end of the stage, Ean pointed in our general direction several times throughout the concert. Because I am that special.
The group of 50-year-old men in front of us seemed to be having a good time, too. Even though I'm pretty sure they weren't kissed by a rock star. However, they didn't seem to mind. In fact nothing at all seemed to bother those men as they took hit, after hit from their marijuana pipe. I lost count of the times the guy right in front of me took the pipe, sat down, inhaled, exhaled, stood up and passed the pipe back to the beginning of the line. I was tempted to push him gently from behind to see if he would fall over. Just for fun, you know.
The funniest part wasn't that the guys were middle-aged and smoking pot, it was that the guy sitting next to us was a cop. A very large, imposing looking cop with broad shoulders and lots and lots of muscles. He kept looking at them and shaking his head. I think he found it rather amusing. Of course about half the stadium was also dragging on doobies (seriously, I smelled soooooo icky when I got home), so I don't think Mr. Cop could have done anything unless he planned on arresting the whole audience anyway. But it would have been funny to see these doped-up, middle-agers trying to talk their way out of the situation, like they must have done 35 years ago when their parents caught them smoking weed.
I have a very odd sense of humor.
But I have also been kissed by a rock star.
So there.
Labels: My one and only Sir
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posted by Sun at 2:56 PM
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