The Shouting Reflex

My long-standing fandom of Duran Duran is well documented. We could call it a twenty-two year obsession. But that makes me sound…obsessive. John, the handsome bass player, was always my favorite. In the early 90s, I had a brief crush transference to the singer, Simon. By the time I got my dog, I had seen the light and ceded the number one spot in my heart to John once again. However, 'Simon' makes a much better pet name than 'John' so my giant pooch became Simon Le Dog.

Here in LA, one of my favorite nuggets of my Hollywood life is that that I have a friend that knows John Taylor. I’m tickled by that chance, however remote, that I might meet him as a regular person one day. It’s the kind of thing any fan dreams of. In fact, my friend got us back stage and introduced me a few years back but he was so adrenalized from performing I’m sure I made no impression. Since then, I’ve run into him once in public and froze. I promised myself the next time, I’d say something normal and nonchalant to him like ‘hey, I’m so-and-so’s friend. I met you…’ thus undoubtedly legitimizing my sanity in his mind.

This in fact was the topic of discussion a few weeks ago as I hiked a well-known celebrity-spotting LA hiking trail with two girlfriends and Simon Le Dog. I prattled on and on about my back stage meeting, how I knew he lived quite near to where we were and I was hoping my friend would invite me to a brunch where he’d be soon so I might get to meet him as a person and not a back-stage fan. Basically, I monopolized the conversation with “John Taylor this and John Taylor that and blah blah blah John Taylor” in a monologue befitting a Tiger Beat reader.

As we descended the trail, a tall man with rock-star hair and angular good looks passed us downhill. My friend paused my John-a-thon with:

“Um, Heidi, I think that was him.”

I looked more closely and gasped. Yes, the Man himself had just passed us with me blathering on about him. Certainly he’d heard his name. Certainly he’d rolled his eyes in recognition of my complete ridiculousness. Now what? I’d promised myself I’d talk to him in a non-stalker-like way at our next encounter and here it was; our next encounter. But how much had he heard? Was this my last chance? What would he think if I disturbed him on the trail? These questions raced through my head as John reached the bottom of the trail ahead of us and turned to loop back up.

Now he was coming right for me. I would actually be able to touch him in less than thirty seconds. How should I get his attention? How could I prove I’m not a crazy fan? And…where the heck was my dog?

In all the excitement, my dog who always sticks to me like glue had wandered off. Now I was a crazy stalker and a bad dog mom. As John passed me again, I decided my pet parenting took precedence and my stalking would have to wait.

So I started screaming “Simon! Simon! Come back! Simon!”

I swear I saw John flick a look back over his shoulder. It said: Not only is she a crazy nutter, she got me mixed up with my band-mate. Precisely the impression I was going for.

And so went my third encounter with the man I’ve loved since age eleven. I think our relationship is going well, don’t you? I also think I’ll go ahead and wait until my friend plans that long-promised brunch before I attempt to make any impression on him in a public place again. Someday we’ll laugh about this.

“Ah that was you, yes, that was funny,” he’ll purr in his Birmingham accent.

We’ll relate as two normal people and he’ll finally know I’m not out of my gourd or possibly dangerous to him. Yes, I'm a competely and totally normal person who occasionally likes to relive 1984. And he'll be fine with that. Save a prayer.

To Birmingham With Love

Five years ago I adopted Simon and he is the love of my life. No, he’s not a Cambodian refugee child. He’s a giant Shepard/Collie mix. His name wasn’t Simon at the pound. It was Levi. No offense to the jean company but I was not having a dog named Levi. As a writer, I wasn’t about to be denied the privilege of naming this character. Especially not when I’d had a name in mind for years.

When I tell people my dog is named after one of my favorite Brits, they say “You like Simon Cowell? American Idol is so annoying.” I shake my head. Then, especially if they are children of the 80’s, a light of comprehension spreads over their face. “Simon LeBon?” I smile and they either laugh, groan or hum “The Reflex” for me.

I fell madly in love with Duran Duran back in 1984 with the Seven and the Ragged Tiger album. Dreamy John Taylor was my first hardcore celebrity crush after Bo Duke. He started a lifelong obsession with all things British. I liked John because he seemed like the sweetest one, the good heart. He’d endured a childhood of being the odd kid, being teased. I could relate. He seemed really close to his family according to 16 Magazine. Plus he was the tallest and it was clear from a young age I’d hit six feet. I read everything I could about him, saved all the Tiger Beats that had the slightest mention of the band and watched MTV for hours on end just hoping they would play “Rio” AKA, “Ohmygod, they’re wearing Speedos!”

As I got older I became obsessed with another Brit: Shakespeare. As my literary tastes matured and expanded, I decided it made more sense to crave Simon since he wrote all the lyrics and recites part of Queen Mab’s speech at the beginning of the “Night Boat” video. Besides, as a girl gets older, she moves away from the square-jawed sweetness of the good guy and gravitates more toward the impish danger of the bad boy. And to my good girl upbringing, Simon was plenty bad boy for me.

As my life has moved through phases of grunge, acid jazz, techno, shoe gazer and back to Brit rock by way of indie, the fab five were there going through breakups, career obscurity, retro cool, reunion and genuine resurgence.

As the teen need to rebel faded, my pendulum swung back to John. Of course I am a grownup so I call it a fondness rather than a crush these days. I do feel Simon makes a better dog name though.

Now as my LA life unfolds, it turns out one of friends actually knows John Taylor. He got her tickets and back stage passes to the Duran Duran tour this summer and like my fairy godmother, she made my dreams come true and took me.

Like any good rabid fan, I smuggled my digital camera in my bra and shot away during the concert and then back stage after. Yes, I really thought it would just be a handful of us special friends and maybe some family with the band. My poor friend must have seen my face fall as she walked me into the 200 plus crowd in the green room.

After chatting with some other people she knew, my friend said she’d introduce me to John and I tried to breathe. I asked her if I could get a picture with him but she looked at the swarm of star-fuckers John’s wife was fending off and hissed a quick no. His wife blocking me? She’d known him, what, maybe five years? I’d known and loved this man for two thirds of my life. But not wanting to embarrass my friend, I pocketed my camera. And, after a mere twenty one years I was shaking hands with my lovely, square jawed John Taylor. Determined to make a good impression, I sweated, stuttered and finally said something completely inane about him being my fairy godmother.

Later, my friend guided me in my post-John haze to the car. “Let down?” She asked. It wasn’t fair. Here was a relatively new friend who had gone out of her way to make a dream come true for me. I had no right to be anything but ecstatic. I realized there was nothing the poor man could have done to live up to the combined pressure of twenty one years of day dreams. Anything…short of falling on one knee and declaring me his long lost soul mate and true love. Yes, I really had hoped to make an impression on him, make just a tiny difference in his life for the huge one he’d made in mine. Yes, I really thought we’d laugh over the fact I’d named my dog after Simon. I’d get to tell him how I’d spent my thirteenth summer with my ear pressed to my boom box dutifully transcribing every single Duran Duran song because I needed the lyrics and there was no internet back then.

I had read bits to my mom who murmured “That’s some lovely poetry, dear.”

“It’s Duran Duran, mom. I told you they were the best.” I’d sneered.

“It’s not like he’s going to remember you from in there.” My friend comforted me. I knew she felt responsible for my let down. In the green room he was not John-her-friend, he’d been John-the-rock-star who was as much of an alien being to her as to me.

But this is Hollywood and everything is possible. Last week, I smooshed into a packed elevator and turned to face the closing doors.

“We can make this one,” said a smooth British voice as a tall, beautifully square-jawed man appeared less than three feet from me. He stopped, seeing the capacity crowd and for a moment we locked eyes. I smiled and the slightest cloud of “Do I know you?” passed over his face.

I willed myself to remain silently smiling at him as the doors closed while my inner eleven year old jumped up and down yelling “Ohmygod it’s John! Ohmygod it’s John!”