Amos Lee, the singer, was on the Aspen-Denver leg of my flight this morning and I acted like a star-struck fourteen-year-old girl. Minus the screaming, giggling, and underwear-throwing. He saw my obvious gawk and threw up an introverted "What's up?"
Amos Lee isn't one of those artists I know and pretend to like when I bump into them. I actually think he's a complete artist and a real musician. I've seen him on late night shows, I have one of his albums, and can sing along with most of his songs. Plus he's underground enough that he travels amongst us commoners and not, say, Plutonium Class on planes.
For these reasons I debated whether to approach him to say how much I liked his songs -- or his "work" as is the parlance. I didn't, though. Several people don't know this about me but I'm actually really shy. Any overt display of character is an act of compensation for me. I remember when the site was more popular and I would be approached in random ways, like restaurants, airports, on the street. I learned how to cope with it but I'm a tyro at celebrity compared to him, and I figured his fans were many.
I think there's something neat to being recognized but maybe not the groggy morning after a late-night concert.
See, one time, after a solo rap show I did in a small town outside of Toronto, the next morning, I went to a coffee shop to try shake the cobwebs and, well, wake up, essentially. Rap shows are difficult gigs, specifically if you're headlining. "Headlining" sounds like an honour, but in case of small-time shows like the ones I was doing, what it means is "You're on at 2:00 am."
As I walked into Starbucks I noticed from my periphery a couple staring at me the whole time I was ordering an Earl Grey tea. At the moment I was debating whether to et a scone, I was suddenly hit in my gut with a mixture of regret and doom. You know, when you wonder which was more suspect: Eating cheese nachos at four in the morning or the cheese itself. I saw the sole washroom in the corner and quickly walked towards it. I tried the handle but it was locked. While turning my head towards the cashier to see whether I needed a key or if someone was already in there, the guy stood up from his table to get into my line of vision.
"8W," he said. "I'm a big fan!"
I was thinking at this moment that a big fan would be useful after I was done in there. Almost doubled over in pain, I wondered, in my vanity, what "work" he had in mind and how he came across it. But for some reason I couldn't look him in his eye when I mumbled my thanks. His smile faded as he saw I wasn't being as friendly as I was last night on stage.
He turned to his girlfriend and shrugged, speaking within a volume that I could hear, "I guess a little success gets to people's heads. You do one small show and you forget the little people."
She said something like, "I guess that whole website thing is an act."
At that moment, someone walked out of the washroom, and though I wanted to say something, I had to run in. When I came out, they were gone.
Now, I'm sure Amos Lee didn't have any digestive emergencies, seeing as he was sitting near my gate with a phone to his ear and his computer on his lap. But something about the whole thing freaked me out. I never will forget that Starbucks misunderstanding and, this morning brought it all back.
Even now, thinking back, I wonder whether I should have just said, "Thank you, Mr. Big Fan. I really appreciate your compliment but I'm about to make something pretty creative happen in my pants if I don't make short our little dialogue here."
Which, on second thought, might have kept right in character with what people expected of me during that time.
I opened this page to write something the other day and I sat here for a couple of minutes thinking about what to say. I was distracted by the idea of eating Cheez-Its, though, and you understand how this will inevitably work itself into a growling, blinding, and mandibular ordeal. It could happen to anyone. I come back several days later and Blogger, as keen as ever, saved what I had written as a draft.
I have no recollection of actually typing this but, in its entirety, I had written, "I like boogers". How that translated into my foray on Cheez-Its, I'm not quite certain, nor can I think of any reason I would have to write that. I find myself strangely silent now on the topic of snot.
I was at the airport after the three rockstars and I finished teaching in Ontario and decided to get myself an omelette at the sports bar, seeing as I had some time. I saw China get theirs handed to them by Spain in basketball, despite 7'4" Yao Ming. I was at this table watching the flat screen beyond the bar and, two tables down, another Chinese guy, in a suit and navy tie, sat there doing the same. A few East Indians were at another table and didn't care at all. I realize I'm more Chinese than Spanish but my immediate alliance with China's basketball team was a little surprising. And with my empathy, I also found them hilarious. Gone are the sleek plays and skill of the NBA: Both teams were gold medal efforts, but the ball would hit feet and bounce off court, shots would repeatedly get lobbed towards the basket only to be rejected by the rim, people with wild hair were running around even more wildly. It was an act of Olympic desperation. I couldn't help laughing the whole time.
The Chinese guy turned toward me and I shrugged, "This isn't funny at all to you?"
"This is the Olympics, man! We have to cheer on the motherland!"
The thing is, I was. Or something. I mean I'm as Chinese as I am Canadian. Or maybe I'm proportionately not either. But the point was they were hilarious. And patriotism or not -- and whatever that means within this context -- I wasn't going to hang my head in shame that my people weren't good at the finer points of bouncing and throwing a ball up and down a court.
At this point, a Chinese guy who had been running around in circles prior to finding the ball in his hands, attempted a three-pointer (read: chucked it in the general direction of the backboard) and it was a complete airball, falling at least three feet short of the rim. The Chinese guy next to me coughed back a laugh himself and we both smiled as we finished our breakfast.
(Is my website banned in China now?)
In other news, while walking to my gate this morning, I saw an elderly lady in a wheelchair, trying to roll herself down the corridor. She had a lot of make-up on and large, trendy and gold-emblemed sunglasses, fur-trimmed hat, an expensive coat and a tasteful skirt. By contrast, she had clunky beige shoes that I see nurses wear. I was walking towards the washroom myself so I asked her if I could help push her down to whichever gate she needed. She had a husky, low voice that croaked her gratitude and she pointed toward the washrooms. I'm going there myself, I told her, as we rolled along. We passed first the men's room and she turned her head sharply.
"That's the mens room, ma'am," as I pushed her along further to the ladies' room. She tried to backpedal and I was genuinely confused. "Men's is what I want."
"..." I apologized profusely, wheeled, uh, him in and promptly forgot how urinals work, standing there dumbfounded. I know this is probably a poor time to say something tasteless like how I just met a "tranny granny"... but, darn it, I think I just did.
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