Broken Axl: Lose Five Days
Turns out I should have more faith in people. The crowd parted and there, at a table behind a velvet rope, with two bodyguards and another girl who appeared to be in his entourage just to pour drinks, was Axl "Nananananananana-kneees! Knees!" Rose.
Now it was cool when I saw Madonna at MisShapes, but she had several strikes against her in terms of fabulous celebrity encounters. One, she looked great. Two, she's not a hermit. Three, I knew she was going to be there. Four, she didn't have multicolored white person cornrows. Axl "Seriously, that's fucking Axl Rose" Rose was a cornrowed, sweatshirt wearing, reclusive surprise. Waving his arms to "Freedom" by George Michael.
I believe the apex of the night, and also my life, was wearing a white denim jacket, dancing approximately three feet away from Axl "Hey, where's Chinese Democracy at?" Rose to my all time favorite monster ballad, Journey's "Don't Stop Believing." I mean, really. How does it get better than that? How? Until Slash serves me Kristal out of his top hat, this is going to go down as the most awesome moment of my short, trashy life.
The New York code of celebrity ethics dictates composure and disinterest in the presence of anyone with any kind of notoriety. To some extent I'm down with this; I feel a little dirty pointing or whispering someone's name while they can see me. I mean, I'm not really comfortable pointing and whispering about anyone when I'm sure they'll catch me doing it. I don't want to see people whispering about me, and I'm sure Elizabeth Berkeley doesn't either when she's standing outside Tasti D Lite.
However. There is the matter of jumping up and down and squealing when just slightly out of earshot. This will never go away, because I will never, ever stop being excited when I see people who I've watched for years on TV, or who wrote the second song I ever downloaded onto the family computer (cough, "Sweet Child o' Mine", cough). It may not be cool, but I never claimed to be anything but a twelve year old trapped in an entry-level grown-up's body. Goldie Hawn? Squeal. Kathy Bates? Squeal. Axl Rose? Squeal and text message. John Cusack? Squeal and please, for the love of God, do not lose bladder control.
Yes, they're all just people, and sure, fame is not a character asset, but look: these are my celebrities, inflated in my brain by familiarity like one of those little figurines you submerge and watch expand. Seeing them in person is the whole TV-, movie-, music-junkie childhood realized. New York decorum be damned, I'm gonna gawk at Axl like he's the mayor of Paradise City.
"Like" he's the mayor of Paradise City. Psssht. He IS the mayor.
I, on the other hand, am merely Deputy Sheriff of The Remaining Large Binder Clips in the Supply Desk. However, today I get to be Her Royal Highness, Queen of The Burrito I Ate For Lunch Made Me Sick and Now I'm Gonna Puke.
(Oh won't you please take me home?)