So then there was the time I met Bono.
That was at Ceili’s too, although it wasn’t Ceili’s then. And it wasn’t really “met”. It was…
So, okay, Bono‘s obscenely wealthy. And the sunglasses thing is just weirdly selfindulgent at this point, the Celtic version of Elvis’ white jumpsuit.
But the man is talented. The man is earnest.
The man is dead sexy.
So we will hear not a word against Bono at the ol’ raincoaster blog, nay, no matter how many hundred and eighty million dollars may be squandered marketing Red merchandise to make only a million for charity.
We luv us some Bono, indeed we do.
So there was this time I met Bono at Ceili’s, but it wasn’t Ceili’s then and I didn’t actually meet him.
It was like this:
I was strolling home from something I don’t remember, which was – oh yeah, yet another trip to the courthouse to deal with my father’s probate. I was doing that a lot that summer. And this particular day, for what reason I am sure I know not, I decided to wear my orange floral batik sundress that I got in Indonesia, my cute sunglasses, and my silver thong sandals. For once, I looked adorable.
And as I trundled homewise, a bundle of papers in my bag and a song (“Vertigo,” actually) in my head, I passed Skybar. Skybar was the biggest, the glammest, the coldest, the Thinks-Its-New-Yorkiest bar in the city. And I am, yea verily, the sharpest tack in the tack shop, for when I noticed a huge tour bus with blackened windows pulled up outside, heavy-duty velvet rope and door gorrilla action going on, a paparazzi-corralling area (although only two had been rounded up so far), and literally several hundred U2 posters on the wall, it began to dawn on me that something may, in fact, be happening or be about to be happening or be about to be preparing to be happening, so I asked.
I walked up to Security Gorilla #1 (you can tell because he’s the one talking into his cuffs) and asked brightly, “So…what’s going on?”
He looked left. He looked right. He looked down at me and whispered “U2“.
“Oh reeeeeeeaaaaalllly?” I responded, in my blondest-possible voice. “Do you think I could peek?”
He paused. He looked left. He looked right. Apparently, his alien leaders gave him permission through the wiring in his ear, because he looked left-right yet again, leaned down and said, “Okay, but Do. Not. Speak. To. Anyone.”
This was a no-brainer. If anyone in U2 had spoken to me, I’d have lost all power of speech and quite possibly bladder control as well, so no probs. I wasn’t going to natter on and force The Edge to look at photos of my cat or anything, no way.
Security Gorilla #1 led me upstairs. I should explain that the bar is multileveled, and at that time every level was as dark as the inside of Satan’s mangina. And I, being both blonde and somewhat giddy on U2 fumes, had forgotten that I was wearing my dark sunglasses, so I was not going to see much of anything at all, even had the place been lit like a WalMart. He opened the door to the VIP bar, looked left, looked right, and motioned for me to look.
I did so.
As I peeked in, a voice to my immediate and I mean IMMEDIATE left like just out of range of my tiny, prehensile ear hairs said, “Hi.”
I turned to the person standing beside the door, automatically saying, “Hi” back. My mistake.
A hand closed on my shoulder and SG#1 said, “That’s it, let’s go” and downstairs and out the door we went.
All I had time to see was a pale face and, yes, dark sunglasses.
So either I met Bono or I met the ghost of Roy Orbison.
Beats the hell out of the Tom Cruise story I told nurse myra
Interesting. You know, my mother was the spitting image of Roy Orbison. But that’s a whole other story…
I remember meeting Stéphane Grappelli once and was almost burned to a pile of ashes by the way he looked at me after getting off the bus at Bird’s Hill Park (no limo!). Didn’t care though – how many people get to meet a living legend?
I was shuffling up the dusty track to the dispatch shack at Canadian Forces Training Camp Vernon one day when an older fellah surrounded by a pack of well-dressed helpers came out of the barn-like building heading right for me. I was squinting into the sun, and unsure if it might be a VIP who required saluting, so like any trained soldier I pretended to ignore him.
Which was difficult, because as he passed he damn near bumped into me and said “Hi” enthusiastically.
“Hi,” I mumbled, adding a near-silent “Sir” just in case.
“Nice place, huh?” he asked.
He was in civvies, meaning I didn’t need to salute him, but looked vaguely like he might be a visiting general or honourary colonel. I decided he was probably IP, if not VIP. There was a young dark-haired guy in a sports jacket at his elbow whom I thought looked vaguely like a junior officer–maybe his adjutant. He was wearing shades, and somehow reminded me of Tom Cruise.
Normally this sort of encounter takes place under carefully controlled conditions, on a parade square; If the VIP feels like being “informal” then at the mess or the mess hall. But generals are easy to deal with. Their adjutants are the @$$#0!3s to watch out for, and they’ll come down on you afterward if you put a foot wrong.
“You like it here?” he continued.
“Love it.” I answered.
“What do you do?”
“I’m with transport. Standing night duty dispatcher right now.”
“Oh, well have a nice evening.”
I stepped into the driver’s room and was surrounded by babble. Since the usual mood was sullen silence and the snap of playing cards at this time of day I was curious. I grabbed “Jethro” and asked him what the fuss was.
“Martin Sheen’s filming a flick here, man. He and Charlie were here, right here!”
“Wow.” I said “Sorry I missed that. Was that this morning?”
My buddy looked at me oddly and gestured out the window:
“What the £µ¢λ are you talking about? Who the hell didja think you were talking to out there, man?”
My brush with greatness.
The film was made in and around Vernon, and is called “Cadence”.
Once while walking along the Granville Mall/Strip/Whatever I elbowed a friend and said. “Here comes Donovan!” About ’77 I believe. Anyway, he says, “Right”. And we both almost actually look at Donovan as he goes by himself by us except we are way too Canadian, way too Montreal, to ever gawk at a celebrity. Damn! An autograph would be cool today. Donovan was opening for Yes that night at the ol Vancouver PNE Colosseum or whatever it was called. Great show!
I happily bragged I had never come over all fan-like….. untill I met Victoria Hislop. I made a complete arse of myself as I watched from a distance my own self come out with complete babbling crap.
I have never recovered.
Don’t talk to me about bladder function, just be thankful Bono didn’t buy you beer.
If Bono bought me a beer, I’d never drink it. I’d take it home and put it in a prized place on my bookshelves, with a little frame and a sign saying “The beer Bono bought me”.
Metro, you are too cool for school. No wonder you didn’t recognize him with no cheerleader-costumed hookers.
Neath, I saw Donovan in concert at the Town Pump and although his best years are behind him, he’s still got that little angelic hippie glow. I’m sure he’d have been nice to you.
az: wow. Respect!
FFE, put out. Where’s the story? Link?
Ooooh, thankies! Me wants to be famous.
Actually, I should install that Digg widgety thing. Later…later. Much to do in the meantime.
This is a very cool story. I have met some famous people. I had dinner with a Playboy Playmate. Does that count?
Anyway, I was at an Iron Motorhead/Dio/Iron Maiden concert and I snuck to the front and snagged a grand section of floor which was actually roped off and even included a table. Don’t know why security never clued in on this. After moshing with some strange long haired guy, a roadie walked over and asked me if I wanted to meet Lemmy.
Sure, I said. So I follow him backstage and there is Ronnie James Dio having a cup of beer. I stopped and we chatted for a long time. I hugged him and he felt very bony. BTW, I think I am taller than him and I am short.
He was very kind. He even split his next beer with me, ordering one his lackeys to fetch me a plastic cup. As he poured it into two glasses he put them side by side to make sure they were even. What a gentleman!
That is, until I pissed him off. He allowed me to read his palm and I told him he had two children. I looked again and realized I misread but I wasn’t about to admit my mistake.
I only have one child, he says.
Well, maybe you have an illegitimate one somewhere.
He shot me a dirty look and snubbed me the rest of the evening. Before returning back to the audience I asked the roadie if I could use the loo so he led me to their trailer and said, “Don’t take a dump in his bathroom. Ronnie hates it when people take a dump.”
Um, ok. That really sucked because I actually had to take a big one.
PS It’s Motorhead, not Iron Motorhead. My flub.
NP, it’s a great story anyway.
I told this story to a couple of guys the other night, and they said something that applies equally to your story, SG: they said, “This sort of thing NEVER happens to guys.” It’s true, and there’s only one solution: put women in positions of power. Then, when some guy reeeeeeealy wants to get backstage with Christina or Mariah or whoever, it’ll be a straight chick who decides whether or not he gets in.
You’re up to 2 diggs…put in the widget!
BTW, the ONE U2 video is the GERMAN version, should you wish to partake of St. Paddy’s day without betraying your ethnicity.
Edited to add: holy fuck, that’s a lot of work! I gotta do this for every bloody post? Beaver Shots has been dugg a bajillion times…will those count or not?
Sie sind ein Freund. :)
Pingback: Muy Bono? « raincoaster
I’ma gonna need a faster computer to do the social bookmarking stuff AND the special Digg thing. Ain’t no way I’m doing the delicious widget, too.
I never did figure out what delicious was for, frankly.
(voice of The Count from Sesame Street) Three! Three diggs on Digg! A ha ha! (lightning flashes)
Getting there. I know for a fact that people have Dugg Beaver Shots, but Digg says they’ve no record of the URL, so I stuck it on there anyway. It’s v tempting to digg every damn post I make, but I’m too lazy. If I get a faster computer, though, watch out!
Bono seriously gets around Vancouver, it seems. Mme Metro reminds me that a mutual friend from Knowhow once told Mme and self that she literally bumped into him in the Toys ‘R’ Us.
Rain, did you see this?
Add This! social bookmarking button and rss suscribe button
I’ve been using it on Bridlepath if you want to see what it looks like.
I saw it. I figure I’ll impliment one or two things at a time, particularly as my Inet time is rather limited at the moment, alas. Got to get a wireless router; I don’t care who pirates off me, but I’m not going to be blocked from teh net in my own apartment, that’s just NOT ON!
So eventually I’ll get to that. What I’ll probably do is integrate it into SBK’s template for social links.
Pingback: U2 »
Metro no longer remembers I called him “too cool for school” sadly.
Pingback: Olympic Torch Ride-Along Live (well, undead) Blog « raincoaster
Pingback: sickie « raincoaster
Pingback: Kismet! « raincoaster