I just realized I have a large enough collection of “Awkward Celebrity Encounters” to create a new blog category just for them.
Here’s another one:
In 1984, I was twenty and won tickets to see a Paul Young concert at the Kabuki Theater in San Francisco. I wasn’t necessarily a huge fan of Paul Young; I mean, I liked his songs. But mostly I was a huge fan of winning stuff off the radio. So my friend Dayna and I got all decked out in our lace tights, studded belts, bangles and big hair and went to the concert.
During the show, we were happy enough lost in the middle of the concert crowd when two of the theater’s security guards said to Dayna and me, “Hey, follow us. We’ll get you better spots.” They led us to an area right near the stage. “Cool,” I thought. “We’re close enough to see Paul sweat.” And we were happy to be there and had no plans to get closer.
Once the show ended, the security guards again said, “Follow us.” We did. And they took us backstage… no, actually, they pushed us backstage. Once there, I thought, Now what? I didn’t particularly care to be back there. And Dayna, always way more cool than I was, cared even less. But once we were back there, with the security guards no where in sight, we started feeling mischievous. So we quietly walked down the hallway, covering our mouths as we tried not to laugh too loudly.
Then we poked our heads into an opened door, and there, all covered in sweat, stood Paul Young with his band.
Paul didn’t say anything, but his band or crew members started shouting, “Get out of here, you bitches!”
Yow! Now that wasn’t the reaction I expected, I thought. “We’re not bitches,” I think I squeaked, just before running behind Dayna in fear.
Dayna and I stumbled out of there and looked at each other. “Well that was weird,” Dayna said. “Yeah, quite an experience,” I agreed. And that was the end that - except that every time I’d hear a Paul Young song from then on, I’d get a little queasy.
Years later, one night in the early to mid 1990s, I went to pick my husband up at the recording studio he was working at in North Hollywood. When I arrived, he stood on the street in the dark talking to our songwriter/producer friend John Capek and some other man. It was too dark to see the other person well. I approached the group.
“Oh, this is my wife, Michele,” my husband said to the mystery man.
As I reached out to shake the guy’s hand, my husband said, “Michele, this is Paul. Paul Young.”
I wonder if Paul thought it was weird that I laughed as I shook his hand?