The Dancing Queen of Suburbia

Shhhh... I have a secret boyfriend. Don't tell The Man. Though if he reads this post then the cat is out of the bag and I really should have never put a cat in a bag in the first place.

I've been lax in writing because I'm still reeling from our chance encounter, this secret boyfriend and I. It happened about two weeks ago on a grassy knoll with tiny fairy lights flickering. It was so beautiful I think I even heard music playing.

Was it in my head? The music? Nope. It was on the lawn seats of the Molson Ampitheatre with Toronto skyline in the background. Does it matter if there were 10,000+ other people in attendance? Billie Joe didn't seem to think so as his soulful eyes searched the crowd to find me. A pointed finger and a full moon later and I was reeling. It was meant for me. Out of the thousands of people bopping and weaving to 21 Guns or whatever other song on the list, he looked for me and instantly I was transformed, my hair flipping in the wind, my hips moving and my arms outstretched for the embrace I was sure was coming next. It didn't matter that he'd have to crowd surf about 50,000 feet, he'd find me.

I started to write this post a few days ago in the confines of my Cell Block C cubicle and I shivered with every word I typed. I hate to say that I think it was the dregs of my Sinus/Ear Infection but it was shivers nonetheless. The Man knows but doesn't really know how deep my love for Billie Joe Armstrong goes. The Green Day concert was just his front to find both of us in the same city, the same venue, breathing the same August wind.

This summer, my travels have been relatively close to home: Toronto, Kemptville, Quebec City. But it's nowhere near BJ and his gyrating. I don't think I'll ever be someone who would travel the world following a band. I know there are people out there (and probably in this blogosphere) who would but it's just not me. BJ has to come to me. And under a mid-August night, he did and I loved every minute of it. It's just too bad the restraining order keeps me so far away from him.

Okay, I jest. There is no restraining order and although I love my BJ (that sounds so bad but oh well...) I am pretty sure I would not know what to do or what to say if I ever had a chance to meet him in the flesh and not just from a distance. I'm kind of shy like that and I definitely holds me back.

I remember when I was wee and I would meet new people, even my parents' friends, and I would hide between my dad's legs and peek out to catch glimpses every once in a while. This shyness still rears its ugly head every once in a while with a bout of tongue-tiedness and the inability to walk into a group of people and immediately start a conversation with a group of strangers. It's worse if I find them attractive or, god forbid, actually genuinely like one of them. I go red, get flustered and all forms of communication slips from my grasp. I'm just thankful I don't resort to grunts and guffaws the like of my ancestors, the neandrathals. They may walk upright but they can't for the life of them use a full sentence of comprehensive words. Maybe I have more in common with them than I think...

I was a little tongue tied in Quebec City, where I again met up with a crowd of people I hadn't seen in almost 10 years. I was nervous at seeing them all, given how much I had changed physically. Gone was the trendy hairdo, the svelteness of my youth. But, after a few minutes of hiding behind some well-placed legs and I began to find my own voice. It didn't matter how much I had changed on the outside; I was still the same on the inside and that was what mattered.

I met up with Francis, my favourite French roommate/brother/friend and even though we were now into a new decade, I was still his "girl," in his circle. It was like no time had passed and I was still that fun-loving, water-fight instigating girl who danced the night away. And danced I did. Arms wide, head back and laughing. I danced like no one was watching and it was liberating.

So, when I ventured downtown to meet up with Billie Joe and his entourage I kept with it... dancing arms outstretched and head held back, taking in the sounds, the sights and dancing like I was the only one there. He was singing for me and I was dancing for him.

We all need more moments like that - carefree and unabashed - regardless of who is there and who is watching. The only person I judge is myself and I'm beginning to like what I see.

P.S. I was going to write about phoque shows and in meeting old friends for dinner and drinks in the city. When I put the fingers to the keyboard I had no idea where it would take me. The rest will have to wait for tomorrow's post. I have so much to catch up on.

You can never have enough cowbell...

Unless you’re in a car that’s stuck in traffic on your way to the Green Day concert and your friend (yes, it was me) kept clanging the cowbell when pedestrians went by. That’s when there is too much cowbell and there is a danger of getting said cowbell thrown out the window or stuffed up your… ve-jay.

I was just excited. I was seeing my boyfriend up there on that stage, eye make-up done to perfection and his cute little butt (and I mean little) stuffed into some skinny black jeans, dancing around, jumping off of stage sets and looking fierce. It’s just too bad he’s so busy with his Green Day band mates that our relationship almost seems non-existent. At least the restraining order proves we have some contact, well outside of 500 ft., that is.

Over two hours of non-stop action later, including a humping scene on the stage that left me breathless, and we were on the move – navigating through the crowds at Hamilton’s Copps Coliseum – and the cowbell was in service once more. I don’t like crowds, I really don’t, and unless you want a fist upside the head you will not cut me off and step on my toes in the process. Breath on me and I’ll bring out the uzi.

So the cowbell did the job, without the blood letting. Which is a good thing. Sometimes. Sometimes you want there to be blood, just a little, so your point of moving the hell out of the way is brought home. Nothing brings it home like a contusion.

Despite the restraining order and with the help of a borrowed set of binoculars, I am a happy girl. Not Mrs. Billie Joe Armstrong-happy, but it will have to do. I sure hope the man isn’t reading this… it’s you I love Mon Petit Chou Chou (which means, my little cabbage in French btw). Billie Joe and I are just a passing fancy. I fancy him and he passes on me. It’s okay, I’ve come to terms with it.



The cowbell now has a permanent spot in my oversized purse, just for crowd situations like the one we experienced last night. It’s also good for serving notice to pick-up drivers talking on the cell phone while smoking a cigarette and driving on Hwy. 403 going into Hamilton. For that, bucko? Cowbell.

Billie Joe, I love you...

...and not in the platonic, friends-only, brotherly sort of way.

It must have seemed like Quiz Night on the network channels last night because I was asked a few "If you could" questions. "If you could live anywhere, in any city, where would it be... and why.... If you could 'have' anyone famous, who would it be?" Oh, what questions!

It took me all of two seconds to answer, quite emphatically "John Cusack." I don't know what it is - his soft eyes, soft lips or the dark hair. I can't pinpoint any one thing but I do remember watching Say Anything and thinking "Oh man, now there's a guy I'd spoon with..." Despite his oft-sucky movies of late, I remained a fan. Oh sorry, present tense... I remain a fan, an oogly, love-struck fan. That's me. Remind me to wipe my drool off the keyboard before it crusts over with my saliva.

I soon added to that list: Matthew McConaughey. It goes without saying. He's eat-off-the-washboard-abs Y-U-M-M-Y. What took a little bit more thought and a run-through of his band's new album, not to mention an upcoming concert (Oh my Darwin, it's tonight!!) is my next crush. Now, Billie Joe Armstrong is not my typical choice for a leading man, my leading man. He's shorter than I like them but what he lacks in height, he makes up for in stage presence. His lyrics are spot-on, as is his delivery (and the entire Green Day line-up for that matter). And, he can make fun of himself too. That's sexy. And so are his eyes, rimmed in kohl and willing me to gaze deeply into them. I wish I had front row seats, but the restraining order won't let me (okay, just kidding. Really. I am).

Add Taye Diggs and my love list is complete. Yes, I like them tall, dark and handsome, or in Billie Joe's case, dark and handsome. I'm just hoping they love me as much. Why wouldn't they? I'm lovable. I sometimes just have to make them love me, all Misery-like. But with no clubs. That would be messy.