There is so much I could post about. Usually I am frantically shuffling through my brain to try to find something glamorous or even slightly interesting in my boring day to day life to relay to you. However there has been a fairly decent amount of mildly interesting stuff going on. Not glamorous but not heinously dull either.

I could rant about the absolutely appalling customer service situation I recently found myself in but things are not quite resolved and I can feel a story of high drama possibly in the making so I’ll save that for when things pan out-either in a fizzle or in a bang. Only time will tell.

I could also tell you all about my parents celebrating their 50^th wedding anniversary last Friday. It was also my mom’s birthday and my sister-in-law and I cooked a Mexican themed dinner for the family. It worked out pretty good. Since my dad is still not able to get around on his healing-but-still-not-strong broken hip we are planning a fabulous summer garden party in 2008. I can guarantee there will be some outrageous photos from that. We are doing a theme and that is all I am going to tell you about it now.

What I am going to post about today is about actually experiencing huge moment in my life that I have pictured happening over a million times in my brain but like most epic life experiences didn’t exactly turn out like I hoped. Not extra bad or extra good but just different.

At the end of October I went to see my boyfriend, Henry Rollins, at one of his spoken word performances. I don’t think I’ve missed one of these in over 10 years. I’ve been a big fan of his for a long time and I have consistently found spooky and odd little coincidences in many of his shows.

I risk sounding like a psychopathic stalker but there have been so many similarities in rant topics, words and phrases and even books read or music listened to between us it is always interesting to go to his show and see what ‘thing’ we happen to have in common this year. For instance he’ll talk about some obscure band he recently hung out with and I will have just heard that same band out of the blue the week before. Stuff like that. Stuff that ultimately means nothing but that I stubbornly and intentionally misconstrue to mean that we are wildly compatible.

*gack*

Anyway, I have always wanted to meet him. I tell people I just want to shake his hand but in my sad, lonely, fantasy dreamscape what I really want to happen is to shake his hand and for him to gaze into my eyes and find me captivating, fascinating, infinitely intelligent and an all ‘round gorgeous gal (all this occurs to him in the split second our hands touch, mind you). We then fall into scintillating conversation where he finds my witty remarks and quirky outlook precious and endearing. I dazzle him with my insights and ironic life observances and we enter an exciting, fulfilling relationship where the fact he is tortured, on the road constantly, an aging rock icon and a US citizen and that I have no real job, constant panic attacks, a jiggly bum and freakishly scarred boobies only enhances our eerie sexual and intellectual connection.

TOTALLY deluded, I know but I never claimed to be logical. Or sane.

So here is what happened. In one of his newsletters or on his radio show he mentioned he would be very happy to meet with fans and sign autographs outside his tour bus at each venue. This announcement spun me into conflicting emotions-a desire to meet him and loathing the thought of anybody possibly mistaking me for a groupie. I decided to see how things looked after the show and decide then if I would be willing to debase myself to lurk around a rock-star’s bus to fulfill my dreams.

I waited outside the venue where his bus was conveniently parked with my sis-in-law for a few minutes freezing our asses off seeing if he would come out. Pretty soon a small crowd began to gather which consisted of a few very young street-punky looking teenage girls who were loudly talking about whether they would make it to the last bus running to their suburb. Then some young guys with posters, CDs and books to be signed started trickling over and my 38 year old fogey self bailed out and decided to leave. I was simply embarrassed to be there.

I walked to my parked car and found myself having to drive past the venue to get onto the main thoroughfare to get home and lo’ there he was, in the middle of a small crowd, in all his glory. AND lo’ there was a parking spot (the only one in this very busy area) which I quickly turned in to thinking, It is FATE! The universe really does work. I got out, fluffed my hair, gummed off any possible lipstick on my teeth and joined the group.

And I was obviously and very clearly the oldest one there. By a lot.

I also don’t ever think about getting an autograph so I had nothing for him to sign either.

After waiting for a few minutes I tapped him on the shoulder and stuck out my hand which he shook.

Me: Thank you for coming.
Him: Thank you for having me.

He looked at me in such a way I suddenly realized that he was possibly thinking I might be affiliated with the theatre and maybe was going to hand him a cheque or paperwork or something.

My mouth got very dry and with a grimace of excruciating shyness I blurted out something about how I enjoyed his radio show. He was very kind and talked about that for a few sentences and then somebody else tapped him on the shoulder and he turned away.

I walked to my car and drove home hardly believing it all happened.

He is much slighter than I thought he’d be. I am taller than he is. His hand was small in mine. I didn’t dazzle him. I didn’t stand out in any way. Our souls didn’t meld in a cosmic explosion of perfection. I’ll never cross his mind again.

It was still pretty cool.