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…

complicated.

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.

:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::