"The Faint Whiff of Idolatry"
Keep Calm and Carry On
Introduction.
Those of you (greetings, both !) who were unfortunate enough to encounter either ‘Highway 12’ or ‘Virtual Vortex’ in their glory days will be familiar with the concept of the ‘lang Boring Article’. This bastion of each fanzine arose because the author is pathologically unable to express herself in less than 2,000 rambling words at a whack (and it also usefully filled a few pages) Sorry folks. Leopards and their spots and all that. Buckle in and prepare to fall asleep.
1. Mild multi-lingual expletive warning. There is a story (which may or may not be apocryphal) about the black box data recorders you get on planes. Apparently, cockpit voice tapes for native English speakers about to buy the farm invariably end in ‘...Oh shit’. In German it’s ‘...Ach, scheisse’. In French it’s ‘...Merde, alors’. The famous exception was an Aeroflot crash where it became apparent to air accident investigators that the pilot was letting his twelve year old son fly the plane : the last words on the tape were ‘Yuri, don’t touch that. (Pause) (Scream) ‘YURI, I SAID DON’T TOUCH THAT!’ (Impact noise)
[The relevance of this section will become apparent in due course. Keep reading.]
2. Bus journeys into work are great for daydreaming out the window. From a rough, unformed boulder of post-porridge thought I’d gradually carved out, then smoothed, a sculpture I could touch, feel and see. I had it all worked out in my head about how it would be when I met kd. It would be in an Art Gallery, one of those all-white interior efforts with wooden floors, very minimal, glass wall letting in the North light. I’d be a bit thinner, a bit better looking, a bit taller. She’s in town to play a show, has come in to check out the exhibition. The room is empty apart from the two of us. She’s got a question about one of the works. Luckily, I’m the curator so I can help. I am not nervous in the slightest. I offer a lucid and trenchant analysis of the BritArt stuffed shark superglued to the bonnet of an Austin Allegro. She looks me in the eye as we’re talking; she nods, I explain; she smiles, I explain more; she smiles more. We’re still looking into each other’s eyes. She’s not wearing a watch. She reaches out and gently takes my wrist, turning it in her hand so she can read the time. Half-past eleven. Would I like a coffee ? (Och, if you’re paying, sweetheart... I think in true Aberdonian fashion) We’re still looking at each other. She seems to have forgotten to let go of my hand...
Snap out of it, you sad woman.
Nice dream.
But this is what really happened :
3. Queen Elizabeth Theatre, Vancouver. Saturday January 20th 1996.
The author has had approximately six hours sleep in the previous three days (this includes a sleepless night before the flight worrying about it. Flying gives me the screaming abdabs) and is still slowly adjusting the eight hour shift from Greenwich Mean Time to Pacific Standard Time. Late in the evening though it may be, I don’t half fancy a spot of lunch. The show was wonderful, the Goddess very relaxed in front of her ‘home’ crowd (as we know, She was actually born in Edmonton, but did live in the Fraser Valley at this time) and doing a highly commendable Canadian accent, eh ? At the party afterwards, backstage is a heaving scrum of record company types, friends of La Diva, family of ditto, Darlene, Darlene’s two ADHD Jack Russells, Ben Mink, assorted musicians, and David accompanied by his ‘non-date’ Kevin (Kevin turns out to be a charming bloke and arrestingly handsome in the mould of 1980s actor Michael Praed circa ‘Robin of Sherwood’. This sort of thing can make a girl reconsider the habits of a lifetime.) There’s a complimentary drinks table and, in the name of selflessly researching Canadian plonk, a glass of the Okanagan Cabernet Sauvignon seems a very good plan. (Taster’s comments : rich on the nose, a big mouth-filling quaff, blackcurrant notes and dusty finish : should cellar well) A door opens at the end of the crowded room, there is a spontaneous burst of applause from the masses and the Goddess enters to mingle with the mere mortals. Fashion notes. She’s wearing a huge and ancient jumper with unravelled threads hanging off it, faded jeans and canvas skateboarding trainers. I’m wearing a black Driza-Bone and heavy leather hiking boots for the snow. Other useful information to share with you : the author’s BMI at the time was over thirty (this translates as about 190lbs) Mm-hmm, the devil’s in the details, isn’t it ? The two Jack Russells, still puppies really, are zapping around madly chasing each other through the forest of ankles and generally having a great time. The Goddess moves through the crowd, chatting and laughing. Gosh, it’s hot in here, isn’t it ? More liquids. Another glass of that rather fine Cab. Sav. please, bartender. Dutch courage. I am so nervous.
What do you do when you’re alone in a room with your idol - oh yeah, and approximately a hundred other people ? You don’t want to let David down by drooling, fainting, or visibly foaming at the mouth. Staring would be uncool, obviously, so somehow, utilising inhuman powers of concentration, you manage to ignore Her. Unless She’s right in front of you, whereupon, of course, you turn so you’re facing the other way (I know what you’re saying. You’re right. And boy have I spent the last ten years kicking myself). Blood alcohol update : this Canuck version of burgundy brew has had the same effectiveness as being lightly smacked about the head with a 4 by 2. Sydney and his furry friend are dervishing around my feet. The Goddess is close. Mindful of not accidentally injuring any animals in Her presence, and aware that Darlene will probably break my legs one by one if I do, I jump smartly back to avoid the little dogs. And land on the person behind me. I can tell by the sudden silence and the dilated shock in the eyes of the bloke looking over my shoulder exactly who it is I’ve just squashed. Oh, shit. No, no, no. What to do ? Apologise, obviously. Except I can’t turn around. I’m not brave enough. I just crashed and burned and want to die. May the Good Lord take me now. Should anyone have recovered the black box from the wreckage of my life at this point, they’d have found the following on the cockpit voice recorder. There’s a nice scatological mantra in progress : shit, scheisse, merde, shit, scheisse, merde, shit, shit, scheisse, scheisse, merde, merde... ( This whole European Union thing has had a such a positive effect on British vocabulary) The Autopilot takes over. Pretend it didn’t happen. Stiff upper lip. Stand up straight, there. Keep calm and carry on. Someone kindly senses the mortification and starts a conversation which I gratefully pounce upon like a Great White would a passing surfboard. The pause is over. Noise starts again. There is, however, a pending Karmic debt. The way that the law of Karma works means that what goes around, comes around. Sometimes it takes lifetimes, but not this evening. Later on, without apology, and to my great relief, Ben Mink stands on me. This is not as bad as you might think because although he’s actually taller than I’d thought he’d be, I comfortably outweigh him - and my boots are bigger.
The party starts to break up and people drift off towards the stairs, while a few groups are going on to the Railway Club. Suddenly, nearly everyone’s disappeared and we’re standing discussing the clubbing concept with David when She ambles over, limping slightly, accompanied by a friend. She asks to borrow a pen. David hasn’t got one, neither do I, but luckily my intrepid companion, Steffi Van Helsing, never travels anywhere without pliers, an adjustable wrench, a tracheotomy kit and a full set of stationery requisites in her handbag. A pen is produced and handed over to the friend who starts to write something down (Editor’s note : this is usually what you need pens for). David looks at Her. We look at him. She looks at us. It’s gone very quiet. There is a space where someone should say something to be polite. The Goddess addresses us : “Hi”. Stephanie immediately says “Hi” and I can’t bloody think of anything to say other than “Hi”. Expecting at any moment the look in Her eyes to flick into full ‘Connie Chung’ fury upon recognising Her recent assailant, and then immediately deck me for being rude, I try and unobtrusively sidestep a bit so that David’s between us. She isn’t actually as tall as I’d imagined. I’m 5’7” and the thick soled footwear (sorry again, O Great One) means we’re nearly on a level. Her eyes are an extraordinary dark blue, the kind of rich blue of a midsummer midnight. As any posy git with a degree in Art History will tell you, blue is the most precious pigment, that lapis lazuli was always reserved for the cloak of the Virgin or the vault of Heaven. Blue is also the most unstable colour, the most mutable by light. On a boat off Queensland’s Barrier Reef some years ago, we watched a storm approaching over the Pacific, the sea darkened to a deep marine, and it occurred to me that here was the exact inky shade of lang iris. Umm... Where were we again ? Back in Vancouver, the pen is returned with courteous thanks, the Goddess and her friend walk off. We fall downstairs on legs of latex and out past security into the bitter January evening. Then a slow trudge in the snow to the Guest House at 1362 Haro and the sleep of the truly exhausted. It kind of wasn’t what I’d hoped in meeting my idol, but what the hey. The powers behind the universe are fickle, Ladies and Gentlemen, and they are easily amused.
Given the choice of writing this down or having root canal treatment without anaesthetic, frankly I’d choose the dentist every time. However, having spent over a decade in denial, it was probably time to face facts, conjure up the gumption to exorcise the demons and share the awful truth with you. It’s been tough. But I know you’ll help me process the pain, possibly with the phone number of a really good therapist.
(Only 1,786 words : we came in under the budget, for Pete’s sake. Thank you for your attention)
Text by Confused_Tofu / August 31st 2006.
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And do you think David's spotted someone hunky off camera ?
