mrs-roboto's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Celebrity Skin or Why Rockstars Suck We had a fabulous camping trip, just absolutely wonderful. Think lots of long hikes, dips in the lake, and marshmallowy goodness by a warm campfire. Oh, and the weather could not have been better. I feel incredibly refreshed and ready to face the world again. But when Pete and I first arrived at the site on Friday, I did panic momentarily. You see, we like this site because it is really off the beaten path and usually you can avoid everything that is horrible about car camping here. Anyway, after we had settled in and gotten our tent up, a car full of toothless, inbred yokels roared in. I say "roared" because they were driving the world's oldest pickup and blaring Aerosmith. I have a serious hatred for Aerosmith and not just because their music is so bad. Back when I lived in Boston and was working at the erotic bakery, I had the unfortunate experience of meeting Steven Tyler. He was heading off to the butt rock radio station located around the corner to pimp a new album and stopped in to buy a novelty to amuse the deejay. So into my shop he comes and I have a vague feeling he might be someone I should know but I have no idea why. He is wearing a long cape and lots of feathers but he stands barely 5' 4" and moves around like a meth addict. He picks up various items, places them back down, hums and sighs. I watch him closely, desperately trying to figure out where I have seen him before. He finally finds what he wants and approaches the counter. I ring him up, take his cash, look him dead in the eye, and ask "Are you in a band or something? I think I might have seen you open for Buffalo Tom at TT and the Bear's a few weeks ago." For those not in the Boston-know, TT's is a small, bar-like venue where lots of nobodies play and Buffalo Tom is a one-hit wonder. Mr. Tyler looks at me with rage in his eyes. "Excuse me," he says. "I did not OPEN for anyone last week." "Oh," I say while wondering if this guy is really on meth after all and going to tear me to shreds. "Are you in a band then?" "A band," he say in this perturbed voice. "A band???!!! I am Steven Tyler, goddamnit." He is drumming his fingers on the counter and looking at me expectantly. I am looking blankly back at him. "You know.....of Aerosmith?!!" "Oh," I said to this nasty ass sonofabitch. "You guys do the backup on that Run DMC song, right?" Mr. Tyler storms out of the store without even getting his change ( a mere $ .52 so no big gain for me). I have a good belly laugh over making this celeb pissed and eject our security tape which I have kept to this day to document my personal triumph over evil corporate rock. So to get back to the original story, the yokels blared "Dream On" and put up their tents and I sent poor Pete over to tell them to turn it down which they kindly did without pummeling my husband to death. They started drinking their Keystone Light in a can around 11:00 AM and passed out good and early, ceasing to be a problem at all. It was all good and everybody got to enjoy nature and the great outdoors. Although I still wonder why toothless, yokels are drawn to camping. I mean they live in the country, right? Wouldn't a better holiday getaway be a trip to the city? But I think that's another entry entirely... 11:27 a.m. - 2002-07-22 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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