Back when I was dating the Rock Star, his band opened a show for the Misfits (legendary punk rock band). I never grew accustomed to "groupie" status and usually insisted I was a crew member, despite the fact that I knew nothing about setting up the stage -- although I am pretty good at making an obscene amount of gear fit into a small passenger car. So I had a backstage pass, but mostly used it to wander around feeling like a conspicuously out-of-place poser, trying to find places to smoke. At least I knew how to dress the part.
Anyway, I was in the hallway when the Misfits finished their set and exited the stage. It was a narrow cinder block corridor that stretched the length of the club, and there was nowhere to escape to get out of the way. Now, risking the readership of this blog (ha! yeah, right! this blog has no readership), I will admit that a) I have never been starstruck by celebrities, and b) I think the Misfits are overrated. (I have now lost any measure of street cred I ever accrued.) But it's hard not to be overwhelmed as a nineteen-year-old waif when one finds oneself directly impeding the path of a group of large, endorphinized, world-famous rock stars. Accordingly, I pressed myself up against the cinder block wall, from the heels of my appropriately-scuffed Chuck Taylors to the shoulders of my carefully-selected band t-shirt, held my breath, and averted my eyes. At this point I should probably illustrate the personage hurtling through the narrow corridor toward me. Let's just say Jerry Only is a very large person, in person. As a world famous rock star, he evidently enjoys intimidating coy young women backstage. He turned his brutish shoulders as if to slip past me -- because while it may have been a narrow corridor, it was certainly wide enough to allow two persons to pass one another if they were reasonably-sized, or if one were gargantuan and one excessively gracile -- then suddenly leaned forward, pressed his entire front into me (and my bony shoulderblades further into the cinder blocks) and rubbed himself across me, eyes boring through me, and continued on his way.
I don't remember the rest of the band passing, although assuredly they must have. Later on, Rock Star's manager got Jerry to sign a poster for me because I was a) too shy to ask for myself, and b) not that intent on getting one. I don't know what ever happened to it, anyway. I only remember that that was the night Jerry Only sweated on me. Besides the time in kindergarten when my dad took me to see then-vice-president George Bush (Sr.) give a campaign speech and he shook hands with me on his way out, I think that's the closest I've ever been to famous: rock star sweat. All over me.
Anyway, I was in the hallway when the Misfits finished their set and exited the stage. It was a narrow cinder block corridor that stretched the length of the club, and there was nowhere to escape to get out of the way. Now, risking the readership of this blog (ha! yeah, right! this blog has no readership), I will admit that a) I have never been starstruck by celebrities, and b) I think the Misfits are overrated. (I have now lost any measure of street cred I ever accrued.) But it's hard not to be overwhelmed as a nineteen-year-old waif when one finds oneself directly impeding the path of a group of large, endorphinized, world-famous rock stars. Accordingly, I pressed myself up against the cinder block wall, from the heels of my appropriately-scuffed Chuck Taylors to the shoulders of my carefully-selected band t-shirt, held my breath, and averted my eyes. At this point I should probably illustrate the personage hurtling through the narrow corridor toward me. Let's just say Jerry Only is a very large person, in person. As a world famous rock star, he evidently enjoys intimidating coy young women backstage. He turned his brutish shoulders as if to slip past me -- because while it may have been a narrow corridor, it was certainly wide enough to allow two persons to pass one another if they were reasonably-sized, or if one were gargantuan and one excessively gracile -- then suddenly leaned forward, pressed his entire front into me (and my bony shoulderblades further into the cinder blocks) and rubbed himself across me, eyes boring through me, and continued on his way.
I don't remember the rest of the band passing, although assuredly they must have. Later on, Rock Star's manager got Jerry to sign a poster for me because I was a) too shy to ask for myself, and b) not that intent on getting one. I don't know what ever happened to it, anyway. I only remember that that was the night Jerry Only sweated on me. Besides the time in kindergarten when my dad took me to see then-vice-president George Bush (Sr.) give a campaign speech and he shook hands with me on his way out, I think that's the closest I've ever been to famous: rock star sweat. All over me.
No comments:
Post a Comment