I'm With the Band

Still blogging away alongside three other talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.  (Usually we are on time.  Usually.  Ok, sometimes.)

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie 

Moma Rock

This week, Moma Rock chose, and she asked, If you could travel with any band for one week, which band would it be, and why? What sort of experiences do you think you'll encounter? This can be a band currently in existence or one that is no longer, the sky's the limit!

            I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, “Ooh, Denise is going to write about Bon Jovi!”  In the shared opinion of Moma Rock and Merryland Girl, the world would spin off its axis if I didn’t write about Bon Jovi.  Locust would rain from the sky!  My Five Loyal Readers would be crushed!  Give the people what they want!

            Sorry, guys, but I am not going to write about Bon Jovi.  Well, I’m not going to write about traveling with Bon Jovi.  And here’s why.

            First, I’ve been a Bon Jovi fan long enough to know that “traveling with the band” these days is pretty uneventful.  Jon has often spoken about touring and what it entails.  The days of party-filled bus rides are long gone.  Jon and David Bryan (keyboards) are 53 – and they are the babies of the band (Tico, the drummer, cleared 60 a few years ago).  The band hasn’t traveled via bus in decades, opting for a private jet.  Jon has said the first thing he does when he gets to a hotel is ask the location of the restaurant and the gym.  I have a feeling naps are involved (I’m up – I mean down – for that).  Jon runs Bon Jovi like the business it is, and there’s little place for unmitigated fun when you’re working.  I’ve no desire to watch Jon Bon Jovi make phone calls.  (Well, I do, but not in this particular scenario.)

            And this leads me to reason number two of why I don’t want to travel with Bon Jovi for a week:  I am completely terrified of meeting Jon Bon Jovi.  The reasons are numerous and might not be obvious, so I’ll explain.

            First, there is the obvious.  I full on expect that, should I ever be within 10 feet of Jon Bon Jovi, I will, ahem, overreact.  This might include total paralysis, rendering me unable to move or speak.  This is actually preferable to the other imagined alternative, which involves crying, fainting, and loss of control of bodily functions,  followed by a phone call to my lawyer friend, Tina, to bring the bail money.  I almost cannot wrap my mind around meeting the man I’ve loved from afar for more than 30 years.  It seems impossible, like I’d be entering another universe.  I fear my reaction.  I don’t want to be that fan.

            Then there’s my fear of how Jon would react.  What if he isn’t nice?  I’ve heard a mixed bag of stories – some good, some not so good – what if I catch him at a bad time?  Worse – what if it isn’t love at first sight?  He’s supposed to sweep me off my feet and carry me away to his castle in New Jersey!  What if I get a mere, “Hey, how’s it going?”  Or worse??  I’d be crushed.  This fear is based in reality.  Two summers ago, Michelle, my Sister-in-Bon-Jovi, and I went to a suburban Chicago mall to meet Bon Jovi guitarist Richie Sambora, who was in town promoting his clothing line, Nikki Rich.  The meet and greet was set to start at 11:00am.  It started at 3:00pm.  The reason offered by the store was that Richie was having a “rock star moment.”  Richie’s “moment” led to hundreds of fans standing around for four hours – with no acknowledgment by Richie of the inconvenience (his partner, Nikki Lund, did, indeed, apologize).  When Michelle and I finally walked up to Richie, we were both tired.  Annoyed.  We handed him our swag to sign.  He was nice (he’s always nice) but disconnected.  He looked tired.  He didn’t smell good.  Michelle showed him a photo of her and Richie taken decades ago, but he barely seemed to recognize himself.  The whole thing was weird and disappointing, not the kind of thing you wait 30 years (or even four hours) to experience, not the kind of meeting you want to remember.  Would Jon equally disappoint?  I don’t think so, but I truly don’t want to know.

             But that’s not my biggest fear.  For that one, I’ll share a story.  Years ago, Phil Jackson coached the Chicago Bulls, back when it featured megaplayers like Scottie Pippen and Michael Jordan.  Phil Jackson brought his young son (I think he was about 8) to meet Michael, who happened to be his son’s hero.  They had a good meeting, after which Phil asked his son how he felt about his face to face with Michael Jordan.  Instead of elation, his son responded with sadness.  He said something to the effect of, “I already met my hero – now I have nothing left to look forward to!”

            I get that.

            I can’t help but think that, after 30 years of hoping and wishing and pining, something would be lost should I actually meet Jon Bon Jovi.  This has nothing to do with Jon disappointing me – it has to do with my dream coming true.  What remains?  I’d like to think that Phil Jackson’s son found another hero or conjured another dream, but I wonder whether that hero or that dream could ever truly hold the place once held by Michael Jordan.

            All of this means that on some level I don’t want to travel with Bon Jovi for a week.  Would I say “no” should the opportunity arise?  Of course not.  (I mean, I’m not stupid.)  But I would step onto that plane/into that hotel with a heap of trepidation in my heart, trepidation borne less out of concern that I would somehow disappoint and more out of fear that he would.  I don’t want to see the man, the mere mortal, the one who uses the gym and seeks out the restaurant and pounds cups of coffee and an occasional cigarette.  I would rather hold onto the dream, to the yearning, to the Superman who flies through the air (or who used to, anyway), who brings me to my knees with a mere shake of the maracas. 

            And, so, I choose to stand on the ground and dream of the Bon Jovi jet flying high above, off to the next show.  And while I’m doing so, maybe I’ll stick out my thumb and hitch a ride on Motley Crue’s tour bus.  There is absolutely zero chance of any illusions being shattered on that trip.