Two continents, one girl
Things you should never believe:
The bank when they tell you your mortgage commitment letter will arrive any minute now, and me when I tell you I’m done traveling for a while.
Admittedly, I’m a hermit. A recluse. An enigmatic Howard Hughes-type without the money, fame, success, or fleet of Hollywood arm candy. No mystery either, for that matter.
The only thing that can still get me out of my house (sorry, apartment, STILL) these days is beautiful people playing pretty instruments while singing lovely songs.
It was announced this week that the band Crowded House will be embarking on a European tour next year, their first tour in a decade.
Before last year, I was not a fan of Crowded House so this announcement wouldn’t have registered on my radar.
Now, since his recruitment into that-band-I-swear-I-will-not-reference-in-this-post-but-rhymes-with-Meetwood-Flac in 2018, I have a greater-than-slight crush on Crowded House’s lead singer and guitarist, Neil Finn.
Exhibit A, Your Honor:
And touring next year in the states is Mike Campbell with his band The Dirty Knobs.
I adore this guy. I’ve had a greater-than-slight crush on him and his guitars since his recruitment into…that band in 2018.
Exhibit B, Your Honor:
This last tour by… you know who really took it out of me. I've been home for a month now and I’m still recovering from it emotionally.
Just last week I declared dramatically to my cat that I will not be going anywhere for a long while. Please. Don’t even look at me. I am not ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.
Right now I’m wondering how best to juggle two tours on two different continents.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Cover photo by Element5 Digital from Pexels.
Meeting Mike Campbell (When rock stars conspire)
March 20, 2019
The plan was for Fleetwood Mac’s tour photographer Justin to pick me and my sister Stephanie up at our seats at 7:20 and take us backstage to Mike Campbell's dressing room.
By 7:15, my blood pressure had plummeted from sheer anxiety, and I was starting to see spots. Just like in the cartoons. It’s no small thing for me to know I will soon be backstage at a Fleetwood Mac show, and breathing became a voluntary act. I was running the real risk of passing out before Justin even arrived, so I focused on inhaling and exhaling, deeply and slowly, and hoped for the best.
And the best, I got.
Everyone who knows me and anyone else unfortunate enough to come across my Twitter account in April through June of last year knows how crushed I was when Fleetwood Mac fired Lindsey Buckingham and replaced him with Mike Campbell of Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers and Neil Finn from Crowded House and Split Enz.
CRUSHED.
It was an unholy occurrence in my world, and, when the news broke, I quickly declared I was finished with the band.
(I could write a complete dissertation on why I believed and still believe Lindsey deserved better from his four bandmates and friends—the entire situation made even more tragic by the news that Lindsey underwent emergency open heart surgery last month that resulted in damage to his vocal chords that may or may not be permanent—but I will spare you that here.)
Justin arrived a little after 7:20 and off we were to Mike’s dressing room, so, yeah, things have changed pretty significantly for me over the past year. I’ve come to truly adore the new guys in the band, not only as men and musicians, but also as members of Fleetwood Mac.
Breathing was a challenge but my eyesight was perfectly fine. My eyes miss nothing in this kind of heightened emotional state, and as we arrived outside Mike’s room (labeled simply “MC”) I saw the door directly next to it was labeled “NF” and realized that it was Neil Finn’s dressing room.
Okay. Maintain, Krissy…
Mike’s door was closed but Neil’s was slightly ajar. Justin was explaining that Mike was finishing up with a vocal warm-up and would be out soon when I heard Neil’s voice from inside his dressing room.
Neil is from New Zealand. Men with adorable accents get me anyhow, but men with adorable accents who sing and play guitar, and do those things in Fleetwood Mac? That’s... well, it’s very nice.
Once I heard Neil’s Kiwi accent in person, I really, really had to keep mindful about the breathing thing to avoid passing out right there on the dingy concrete floor inside the Times Union Center in Albany.
It was at this point that Mike’s beautiful wife, Marcie Campbell, emerged from his dressing room to greet us. She was so lovely and offered us both warm and welcoming hugs and my anxiety finally began to dissipate, which was a good thing because here’s where the night really started getting good.
Earlier in the evening, I’d checked in with Leilani from Tazzy Fund, Marcie and Mike’s animal rescue. The meet and greet experience came courtesy of Tazzy Fund, and Leilani was the one who coordinated the meeting. She is such a sweetheart. I’d called her once we got to Albany to get last minute details on where to be and at what time. She’d told me on the phone that when she told Marcie that I was their meet and greet for the night, Marcie exclaimed, “I know her!”
Cut to me blinking spastically…
I’ve become a fairly vocal supporter of both Mike and Neil as members of Fleetwood Mac on Instagram. In order to reconcile the loss of Lindsey from the band and accept Mike and Neil as a part of it, I’ve taken to referring to the latter as “the stepdads” on social media. And, as it turns out, the Campbells are, not only aware of my Instagram page, but appreciative of the support I’ve given to the men there.
As we waited for Mike, Marcie told me how they loved the whole stepdads thing and thought it was a really great way to look at the situation. As we were talking about this, as my mind was grappling with the fact that these people actually know of me, Neil appeared in the doorway of his dressing room, just off Marcie’s shoulder. He was completely stage-ready except for his suit jacket, which was hanging by the door, and the reason for him appearing before me. (Yes, just me. The rest of the world fell away for a moment.)
As Neil threw the jacket on, he glanced out the door and spotted me and did sort of a double take, as if he recognized me but wasn’t exactly sure how or why.
Could be a good sign, could be a bad sign when you're known for following musicians around the world...
I’d talked to Neil on Twitter a couple times previous to this night. A song he wrote with his son called “Ghosts” is featured in my short film, Murder Creek, and I’d used Twitter to reach out and ask for permission to use it. He also responded to an open letter I wrote to Mick Fleetwood and posted to Twitter last summer. (So when I said I could write an entire dissertation on the Firing of Lindsey BuckinghamTM, I meant I already had…)
Neil’s message to me was so kind and thoughtful. It touched me deeply. When nobody else in “my” band seemed to care about my pain, or even my existence, Neil took the time to, not only read my letter, but respond to it with empathy. His response to that letter is why I ultimately decided it was time to give him a chance, and I’m so grateful. He’s one of the greatest singer/songwriters in the world, and a true gentleman. In an ironic twist, his music further helped me through the Lindsey SituationTM.
Also, he is adorable:
And there he was in the doorway of his dressing room. Looking at me.
The breathing thing became an issue again as I contorted my face into what I hoped was a smile. Only beginning to now grapple with Neil being right there, while still coming to terms with the fact that the Campbells knew of me, Mike’s door opened and out walked Mike-freaking-Campbell in the slickest suit I’ve ever seen any man wear. He, too, was completely stage-ready, which, of course, made sense since it was about 7:35 and show time is 8:00
Mike shook both our hands and kissed the tops of each one (omg) and escorted us into his dressing room.
This next 30 second stretch plays out in slow motion in my mind and will forevermore. With my hand inside Mike’s, being led into his dressing room, Marcie turned and poked her head into Neil’s room and I heard, “Hey, stepdad two, you want to join us?”
Join me in freaking out, won’t you?
It became clear that these beautiful people had conspired to make this the absolute most perfect evening for me by giving me the opportunity to meet, not just one of the stepdads, but both of them.
Inside, Mike offered us a drink “water or wine or whatever you want?” and I did my best to ignore the fangirl in me who was smacking me and squealing, “Ask him if he can turn the water INTO wine!”
I said yes to the wine and Mike got really excited. I might be paraphrasing, but he said, “My kind of girl! You didn’t even hesitate on the wine!” and set about pouring us each a glass.
Steph was drawn right away to Mike and Marcie’s little dog, India, who was chilling on the couch. This is the first time in my life I didn’t immediately seek out the pet in the room during a social gathering.
Mike handed the glasses around and we gathered in this sort of semi-circle around the coffee table in the room and, just as I took my first sip, in walked Neil Finn and completed our circle.
Neil Finn, with his eyes and the accent and the hair.
My first instinct was to chug the wine. This is too much. Chug it!
But I refrained. Instead, I set the glass down and smiled and extended my hand to Neil as I introduced myself and he said, with that voice and in that accent, “Oh, how about a hug?”
Well, IF YOU INSIST, MR. FINN.
Since I had already had my arm extended to shake his hand, I ended up hugging him under his arms, around his chest and torso and...sigh. That was really nice. As we withdrew, I managed to gesture to Steph and, I think, introduce her. I said something about her, anyhow. Steph can probably tell you better than me what was said by me here.
After intros, we edged back out into our circle: Steph, Neil Finn, the Campbells, and I, and Neil said, still with that voice and in that accent, “I thought that was you out in the hallway but I wasn’t positive.”
He had recognized me out in the hall. Neil Finn had recognized me.
Fangirl me was absolutely pummeling me at this point: “OMG ASK HIM IF YOU CAN TOUCH HIS HAIR!!!!”
Neil’s hair is a genuine work of art. That night, it was sticking out in every feasible direction as if he’d just rolled out of bed and called it stage-ready. The hair only adds to his boyish charm that is almost overwhelming and rivaled only by his obvious shyness.
Both men, in fact, were shy. It was the first time I didn’t feel insecure about my own shyness because I felt it from them too. Steph can back me up on this: it almost felt like we were the famous ones in the room. They acted as if they couldn’t believe we were there to meet them. Thank god for Marcie controlling the conversation or we might have just stood around blushing at each other and playing with India.
I’m not going to go into too much detail about the next few minutes because the things they said were so special and mean so much to me that I want to keep them for myself (and Steph and a handful of fellow fangirl friends I’ve already told every single detail of this to). Suffice it to say, they went out of their way to show their appreciation for the support I’ve given them and their gratitude for giving them a chance.
It was such a dream and time wasn’t really a thing I was aware of in the room. Part of me will always be in that room. But Neil stayed for about ten minutes and then he had to go because it was nearly show time. He held out his hand as he was leaving and so then I said, “How about a hug?” and he laughed and I laughed and we hugged and now we’re best friends.
Mike was in no rush at all. I’d gathered from his social media that Fireball whiskey was his drink of choice (if you’re in Fleetwood Mac, I’m going to know everything about you eventually, so just roll with it…) and so I’d snuck some tiny bottles of it through security with the thought that he might do a shot with me. I hate the stuff but obviously some things are worth the sacrifice.
When he saw I had Fireball he got really excited again and said, “How did you know??” I asked if he wanted to a shot but that I understood if he didn’t since it was so close to show time and he waved his hand dismissively at that and said, “Hell yeah, let’s do one!”
So, empty belly full of Mike’s wine and with the scent of Neil Finn still in the room, I did a shot of Fireball with Mike Campbell. It was right after this that Justin snapped this photo, as we washed the whiskey down with the wine like completely responsible adults.
After giving us the rest of the bottle of wine in Solo cups so that we could carry them with us out on to the floor, Mike took us to the stage to look at his guitars. On the walk, I told him I’d been waiting 20 years to get backstage at a Fleetwood Mac show and he laughed and gestured around the drab hall and dark rafters and said, “Glamorous, isn’t it??” I also had a wonderful conversation with him about writing along the way and I’ll cherish that always.
Literally in the back of the stage now, with an arena full of fans waiting for Fleetwood Mac to start, Mike showed me Neil’s guitars first. I asked if Neil’s red vintage Gretsch FireBird was nearby, because I love it, but figured it was probably up on stage by then because Neil uses it in the opening number. But it was still there, right there, perched alone on its stand at the base of the stairs, like a king, and I touched it.
Mike was very excited to show off his guitars. (Mike talking about his guitars is exactly like me talking about Fleetwood Mac.) I’d told him earlier that I had an affinity for his Gretsch guitars and so he made sure to show me those. When he got to “the white Gretsch” as I so ignorantly referred to it because I haven’t learned all the names of his guitars yet, I told him I loved that one and he says, he goes, wait for it: “Here! Wear it!” and he PUT IT ON ME.
(Research since tells me it’s a 59’ FALCON and MAN, I wish I had known that when I was in front of him. What a cool name.)
Fangirl me had passed out shortly after Neil walked into the dressing room so she was quiet, thankfully. Alone with my thoughts, I struggled to remember a chord to play, any chord, so I didn’t look like a complete fraud in front of Mike Campbell, and my fingers quickly found the D chord. Whew.
I wish I remember more of the conversation at this point, but I was just so excited to be in those moments. Mike told me something about the tab markers on the neck of the Falcon. He’s got tiny stripes of black electrical tape on them for some damn reason that my mind isn’t allowing me to remember right now. It was something about the stage lights.
He showed me his Gibson SG next and mentioned it’s the same model that Angus Young plays, and my unfiltered mouth blurted out, “That guy is so little!” and Mike and Marcie both laughed. Belly laughs. Like we were actually friends and I had made a real funny.
I told them that when I was a kid, I thought Angus played some sort of giant custom guitar because it looked so big on him but eventually realized he was just a little guy. Mike nodded and said, “Yeah he comes up to about here!” and held his hand up to his midsection.
Last came Mike’s Rickenbacker. Oh, it’s so pretty. Again, he put it on me and said I could “play it if you want.”
Again, I wish I could remember more of what he said in this moment but... oh well. Someday it will return to me. Probably at the worst possible moment, and I’ll blurt it out to whoever is unfortunate enough to be near me at the time.
By this time, it was well past 8 o’clock and the arena was full and Mike is still playing guitars with me. Someone came and told he really had to go now, and Mike seemed almost apologetic that he had to leave us. We took one last photo as a group, and then he thanked me again and KISSED MY CHEEK AND SAID I WAS BEAUTIFUL and then he was gone.
I’ve never felt beautiful for even a day in my life, but Mike Campbell said I’m beautiful, so I guess I’m beautiful now.
And that is the story of meeting Mike Campbell that, thanks to conspiring rock stars and a beautiful woman named Marcie, became meeting Mike Campbell and Neil Finn and playing with their guitars.
It was quite possibly the greatest night of my life.
Lindsey Buckingham at the Riviera Theatre
Originally posted to my Patreon page on November 29, 2019.
The night started with a snowstorm and ended after a blizzard of energy, excitement, and emotion.
Lindsey Buckingham, and it kills me to have to type this next part, former guitarist, singer/songwriter, and musical architect for the legendary rock band, Fleetwood Mac, came to the historic Riviera Theatre in North Tonawanda last night on a solo trek backing his newly released solo compilation, Solo Anthology: The Best of Lindsey Buckingham. It was his first trip to the Buffalo area as a solo artist; the first time I’ve gone to see him and gotten to sleep in my own bed afterward.
I should add a disclaimer here that it would be difficult for me to say that anything Lindsey Buckingham sings and plays is anything less than perfect. I simply adore him. That said, damn near everything Lindsey Buckingham sings and plays is perfect. It just is. Period. He is a musical force.
It isn't just what he plays either. It's how he plays. The finger-picking style of playing guitar is most often seen used by folk or country artists. Somehow Buckingham uses this style, adapted by him to include all five fingers of his right hand, to unleash rock and roll fire from his favored Turner model electric guitar, as well as the army of other guitars he uses throughout his set. He is both rhythm and lead guitarist, simultaneously. I’ve been watching him play now for 21 years and his playing never ceases to amaze me. It never will. I will never not appreciate how hard his guitar tech, Stanley LaMendola, a phenomenal guitarist in his own right, works just off stage to keep those guitars in tune and supplied to Buckingham on cue.
Buckingham didn’t mention Fleetwood Mac by name. The closest he got was when he explained how he’s someone who has always preferred to look forward instead of behind and how that’s what they were doing with this tour. His sincere appreciation for our support for him and the new record was palpable.
In the wake of his dismissal from the band that he helped steer into rock and roll infamy, much has been said in the media and the Fleetwood Mac fandom about Buckingham’s perfectionist nature as an artist and the sometimes abrasive temperament that rears its head because of it. Of course, it's a very different thing to be his fan than it is to be his band mate, but I had the great pleasure to meet him last night (and last month in Pittsburgh) and Lindsey Buckingham, the man, comes across as a soft-spoken, gentle sweetheart.
I interrupt this professional review by Writer Kristen for a few words from Fangirl Kristen:
I went into the meet & greet this time without thinking about what I was going to say to Lindsey. I beat my anxiety back for weeks and made a conscious effort to not examine to death what I would say to him and how I would say it. I was just going to be myself.
And it worked!
I explained to him that I was so excited to meet him in Pittsburgh that I acted like a moron and forgot to introduce myself, and he chuckled and told me he didn't think that makes me a moron. I finally told him that my name is Kristen. As we shook hands, he noticed his pick that I was wearing on a leather cord around my neck, which he gave me on my birthday down in Nashville in 2012. His eyes lit up and he tapped it, telling me he "liked that very much!"
We took our picture and then, noticing how out of place his healthy southern Californian glow was in a room full of pasty Buffalonians, I asked him if he was enjoying our weather. (It was a blizzard outside.) He rolled his eyes and grumbled and said sarcastically, "Yeah, it's really cool." I laughed and elbowed him gently and said, "Ha ha, cool, right?" and he did that dorky laugh thing that he does that was so endearing it would have made me cry if I wasn't this new and improved Kristen. I indeed held it together though and wished him a good show and that was that.
See, this is what happens when I don't agonize over what I'm going to say and just be myself. Good things!
Back to Writer Kristen...
Aside from a slightly overzealous fan in the crowd who shouted “F*ck the Mac when we got you, kid!” near the end of the night, transforming this Buffalo suburb briefly into Boston, apparently, Fleetwood Mac wasn’t mentioned at all.
It was on all our minds though. At least, it was on mine.
Fleetwood Mac is my forever favorite band. I will always love them. Their music is deeply ingrained in me. It’s a crucial element of my soul. They are my soul.
I made the decision to see them with their new lineup in Cleveland last month, and I’m glad I did. I still love them. Even after this. It’s impossible for me to not. I tried and I can’t do it. But it’s been a painful eight months coming to terms with the fact that Buckingham is no longer a part of them.
If it’s this way for me, I can only imagine how difficult this has been for Buckingham himself.
His quiet defiance while playing through the Mac song “Never Going Back Again” hit me hard. As was the case last month in Pittsburgh, it felt very final. The song that was once about a lost love is now about a lost band and lost friends. Four friends with whom he experienced and survived things that nobody else in his life ever can or ever will be able to understand.
It must be so isolating. His defiance during "Never Going Back Again" was clear and strong but it was also forced. He has no choice but to look forward. He has no choice but to never go back again. It was palpable on his face, as we cheered him through the final parts of the song, how much he needs us, and I think, I hope, our cheers let him know how very much we still need him.
His final song hit me the hardest. He chose the aptly-named ditty “Treason” off his brilliant 2008 solo album, Gift of Screws. “Deep down there’s freedom. Deep down there will be a reason. At the end of the season, we will rise from this treason.”
Written and released years ago, the song has never been more appropriate to play than now. Buckingham has been a prophetic writer for most of his career, starting way back on the highly-underappreciated in its time but now cult classic 1973 album, Buckingham Nicks. It’s almost as if he’s always known, deep down, that it would all come to this.
Apologies to Mr. Buckingham for standing right in front of him and sobbing as he played through this one last night. But it was like watching one-fifth of my soul floundering while it took special care to reassure me that everything would be okay, in the end.
Highlights of the show for me (if I can't choose the entire show) were the album versions of “Slow Dancing,” “Holiday Road” (off the National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation soundtrack), “Go Insane,” and the crushingly beautiful gems, "Not Too Late" "Down on Rodeo" and “Shut Us Down,” the last of which came from his 2006 solo record, Under The Skin.
This is another song that has new meaning now. “Oh, you and I we sure can dream of conversations that might have been... And even after all these years, I can't even see you clear... Oh, I won't shut us down. No, I will stay around. As long as I can. As long as I can…”
Two weeks ago during his set, after a long and thoughtful pause, Buckingham dedicated this song to Stevie Nicks, his childhood friend, former girlfriend, and now former band mate; the woman rumored to be responsible for his ouster from Fleetwood Mac, after allegedly declaring that she never wanted to share a stage with him again.
That dedication might be all that needs to be said about Lindsey Buckingham, the man.
Fleetwood Mac in Cleveland 10-26-18
Originally posted to my Patreon page on October 27, 2018.
Disclaimer: This is a conspiracy free review. To those who insist that the positive reviews coming out of these shows are somehow tainted, I received no money from Irving Azoff, Fleetwood Mac or anybody else to write this. In fact, I forked over approximately a shit ton of money in order to be at this show, to witness for myself what this new line-up has to offer. This is my honest review as someone who has attended a show.
And, to quote their closing song last night, I’d do it all over again.
As soon as I bought my ticket last week, I knew that I had made the right decision. I knew going to a show was the right thing for me. The black pit that had been anchoring me to angst for the last six months disappeared. I had to see John and Christine again. I couldn’t not, no matter what had happened with Lindsey. They’re too important to me. I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t go, no matter what other feelings I might end up having about the other people on stage with them, I knew that I had to go, at least for The McVies.
So, let me wrangle up and escort the elephant from the room: Topping my list of trepidations going in was how I would feel about Mike Campbell and Neil Finn once I was at the show. I have become a pretty big fan of both these men over these last six months, somehow, despite their new gig replacing one of the most important men of my life, in the most important band of my life, after it had been viciously torn apart without warning. (Dramatic enough?) It’s one thing for me to dig Neil’s music or enjoy Mike with the Heartbreakers, but witnessing them in the flesh on stage where Lindsey once stood, playing and singing the songs Lindsey once played and sang, his songs? I honestly wasn’t sure, man...
But those crickets.
As soon as the lights dimmed and the crickets ramped up, I felt that overwhelming rush of magic. It’s like Pavlov’s dogs. Fleetwood’s dogs? Maybe Mick’s just got subliminal messages hidden in those damn cricket sounds (loooove uuus buuuy moooore stufff), I don’t know, but my heart swelled and every feeling of apprehension I had going into the arena disappeared. Just like that. I saw their silhouettes appear in the darkness against the backdrop, six silhouettes, and I felt nothing but love. There was a time and a place for the anger and hurt and pain that came from the disbandment of the Rumours 5 but it wasn’t last night in Cleveland, Ohio. Because The Mac were back, and I was lucky enough to be there to witness it again.
And I'll fight anyone who claims Mike Campbell can't play the guitar.
These six tore through a set list that, on paper, hadn’t made much sense to me at first. When the set list appeared on social media after opening night, I thought it was a bit of a mess, to be honest. I couldn’t see how the show would flow smoothly with those songs in that order. Part of me thinks I was just being petty and looking for things to pick on. Actually, I know I was being petty, because I was disturbed by the fact that I wasn’t hating what was coming out in the videos of those first shows. In fact, I liked some of it.
And the show flowed just fine because it was over far too soon for my liking.
I was in section 3, row 1, seat 1, so I was closest to Mike and Neil. Yep. Smack dab between the stepdads.
I’ve made no secret lately that I’ve come to quite adore Neil Finn. I think he is just the cutest - always seemingly happy, always smiling, funny, and his music is beautiful. All signs indicate that this man is genetically incapable of writing a bad song.
I know that now. In April, I did not. I knew Don’t Dream It’s Over and knew of Crowded House, but I didn’t know Neil by name. So to go from angrily shouting, “Who the FUCK is Neil Finn?” six months ago when it was announced he was joining up in place of Lindsey to going without food (not really) in order to stand within reaching (and “woo hoo Neil!”’ing) distance of him last night? I’ve got a serious case of emotional whiplash. (Shout out to my friend Tracy for inventing, “You Make Loving Finn”.)
Neil has emerged as a leader in this group. As a new fan, it makes me proud to see him step up for these people that I've loved for so long. His voice is strong and his confidence is apparent. The crowd welcomed his Don't Dream It's Over, which was rivaled only by Landslide in crowd participation. His vocals on Danny Kirwan's Tell Me All The Things You Do were stellar. He and Christine teamed up for that one, and what a nice McFinn lovers treat. His I Got You, a duet with Stevie, was one of my favorite songs of the night.
Neil has a unique and spontaneous energy and style, he's down right bouncy at times, even stealing Stevie's signature twirl from time to time. That brought a genuine smile to my face. He reminded me a lot of Paul McCartney, especially with that floppy head of hair. I got a laughy-smile and a nod from him when he caught me watching him and I waved to him like a moron.
Not even Second Hand News, Monday Morning, or Go Your Own Way pissed me off. I thought for sure I would have some sort of a meltdown during those songs. But I didn’t. I thought Neil did a more than fine job on them. We can argue ad nauseum about the impact of him singing these songs with Stevie, as they don’t have the romantic history together or any history together, and those arguments have some validity.
But there seems to be a genuine chemistry developing between these two: band mates who appreciate each other. There will never be that intense, biting chemistry between them, no. But, hot damn, sometimes that tension was too much. It certainly was in 2015. It took seeing the freshness and freedom this new lineup enjoys together to really realize how much tension there was on that last tour. There were times when it was clear Stevie would rather have been anywhere but on that stage with Lindsey. We know now that was exactly true. And so yes the argument can be made that it should have been her to exit Fleetwood Mac. I’ve made the argument myself, more than once.
But this is where we’re at now. And as much as that woman can piss me off, she did her Gold Dust Woman dance right in front of me last night and I’ll be damned if I didn’t cheer for her. I didn’t think I did but I just watched the video and I sure did. At 70 years old, that woman is sexier than I ever have been or ever will be, and there’s something undeniably amazing about watching her that up close cast her spells on the crowd.
Props where they’re due but, you know...whatever.
Mick did his drum solo during World Turning, including coming out front of the stage with his bongo. So, there was that.
Stevie dedicated Landslide to the service dog of a woman she’d met recently at a hand doctor’s appointment. Neil finger-picked Landslide and sang along to himself, smiling every time the crowd’s singing roared. At the end of the song, the duo came together, arms outstretched toward each other. A roadie stepped right into my line of sight at this moment (grrr) but I think Neil kissed her on the cheek. Maybe they just squeezed hands but there appeared to be a leaning in. I wonder what it’s like to be these people whose every actions we scrutinize like this?
I’ve known of Mike Campbell for as long as I can remember, and I’ve never had anything but nice thoughts for him, but my focus was always on Tom Petty in that world. I knew Mike was a talented guitarist but I didn’t really appreciate it until he started playing “my” Fleetwood Mac’s songs. And come to find out, he’s an absolute sweetheart too. Halfway through Dreams last night, early on in the show, he handed me the pick he was playing with. He leaned over and held it out, waiting for me to reach up and take it from him.
Looking up at him as I took it, through his sunglasses, I could see that he was looking me right in the eyes. I can’t imagine he knew how much I adore Lindsey (unless he recognized Lindsey’s pick around my neck, heh) or how much I fought attending a show, but it sure did seem like a gesture of appreciation from him to me for giving him a chance. It was so touching. Later on in the show, he tossed picks out to other people but, as far as I could see, I was the only one he handed one to directly. I’ll remember that moment always. It was yet another moment in a long line of magical moments care of Fleetwood Mac.
This is going to be the hardest part for me. I’ve been saying since (reluctantly) getting on board with the new guys that, no, they aren’t Lindsey, but that doesn’t have to mean they’re bad. It’s just a different sound than with Lindsey but it’s... okay. I say now: Mike and Neil are good. Very good. Period. On their own and when they’re playing together. They deserve to be talked about in their own right without comparisons to Lindsey, but of course those comparisons are inevitable and understandable given the situation. In any case, they were a dynamic team and there's a genuine warmth between them. They seem to truly like each other and their roles in the band.
It felt like a Fleetwood Mac show to me. And I would suspect the capacity crowd felt much the same, judging from the cheers and applause they received. Cleveland brought the house down for all of Fleetwood Mac. I never quite understood what they were going for with the “new band” thing. I thought it was a slap in the face, frankly. But I get it now: Love us or hate us but do it because of what we are, not because of what was. I find myself hoping these six manage to make new music together so that we’re given a genuine opportunity to do just that.
Lastly: Was it a technically perfect show? No. I’m going back through the videos I recorded: Christine’s voice isn’t what it used to be. Stevie’s voice is strong but her range is kaput. Mick has Taku to supplement his sound. An amp blocked him from my view for most of the night, but I think John is still over there be-bopping away all on his own but he’s John. He's got this. He was even smiling last night?
But here’s the thing: These imperfections make it that much more special. And these imperfections would exist even if Lindsey was still in the band. And for this fan, that's okay.
I wasn’t even alive yet when Fleetwood Mac was in their heyday. I don’t recognize that Fleetwood Mac as my Fleetwood Mac. I’ve only ever known and loved an aging Fleetwood Mac. And like the Skin Horse tells the Velveteen Rabbit: “When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real...Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.”
I understand. I heard none of these imperfections while I was in that arena. I felt only magic. Fleetwood Mac will never be ugly to me because they have become Real. I have loved them for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loved. I will adore them always. I will love them long after their eyes drop out and they become very shabby. I will choose to see Christine sing Everywhere, and Little Lies, and You Make Loving Fun with an imperfect voice over a perfect voice that is not Real.
So maybe it’s the music itself, in the end. I thought Fleetwood Mac meant Lindsey, Stevie, Christine, Mick & John to me. To the lost girl who discovered this band 21 years ago, it will always mean those five to me.
But grown up me gets lost too. It gets a bit chaotic in here at times and Fleetwood Mac has always been able to calm me down. It did it again last night. I had nothing but soul-cleansing tears left for them by the time they got to Free Fallin’ and that’s not even a Fleetwood Mac song. But it was Fleetwood Mac playing it, a Fleetwood Mac that now includes Tom Petty’s lifelong friend and musical partner. And with Tom’s image throughout the years flashing on the screen, a story high behind them, it was a glaring reminder that none of this will last forever.
So I’ll appreciate it. I’ll appreciate them, the five and the six, for as long as we are these energies here in this life together.
Nothing else really matters for me, in the end.
Lindsey Buckingham living is best life in Pittsburgh
Originally posted to my Patreon page on October 20, 2018.
I have to get the fangirl part of this out of the way. Apologies for those who only came here to read about Lindsey Buckingham’s show. I’ll try to be brief.
GUYS. I met Lindsey Buckingham! I’ve been waiting 21 years and it finally happened and it was everything I dreamed it would be.
To be perfectly honest, I was terrified to meet him. I’ve had a nasty habit of putting people on pedestals throughout my life and just about every one of them has come tumbling down in fiery ruins by now. In a Landslide, even. Ahem.
I was afraid I would finally come face to face with Lindsey and he wouldn’t live up to the ridiculously high standards I’ve held him to for two decades and a year (and two months but who’s counting?). What if he was cranky? I’d be cranky having to meet and greet that many people who have invested so much of their hearts and souls in me. How exhausting. What if he was cranky and it completely shattered my illusion (ahem) of him?
No need to worry. He couldn’t have been sweeter. He hugged me as I approached him and as we hugged, I told him I’d been waiting 21 years to meet him. We were cheek to cheek here. This is important. As we withdrew from the hug, he said, bless him, “well it’s so great to finally meet you,” in that beautiful voice. And as we situated ourselves for the photo op, he thanked me for coming and I think I thanked him for coming and then:
I wished him a good show and then retreated to the door, keeping it together just long enough to get out of his line of sight before I started sobbing.
I’ve yammered on ad nauseum why he is so special to me. I’ll spare you now. But this was...just incredible. And in the light of the current Fleetwood Mac drama, it was exactly what I needed to see and feel from him in order for me to move on. It was like dad telling me it’s okay to still love mom even if they couldn’t be together anymore. Now, I’m 38. I realize how silly that sounds, but it’s a good analogy, nonetheless. He’s doing fine. He’s happy. He’s at peace. Heartbroken, yes, but he has no hate in his heart for the other four. He’s genuinely happy to be moving forward as he is, and grateful to those of us who support him. And I feel like I can finally breathe again after six months.
Opening act J.S. Ondara did about six of his songs and it was only him and his acoustic guitar. He did one song a cappella and it was beautiful. He was a delight. Snappy dresser. Humble and quietly funny. Before each song, he’d tell us the name of it and then say, “You’ve never heard it”. It was a slow start to a rock show, something Ondara noted by saying it was his job to depress us so that Lindsey could cheer us back up, but his music is very pretty. He’s a talented guy, and how special to be given this opportunity to open for a man like Lindsey Buckingham?
Okay! On to Lindsey’s show. After a brief intermission after Ondara finished, Lindsey’s band walked out on stage, followed soon after by Lindsey himself. He was greeted to thunderous applause and cheers and about half of the theatre stood for him. Me included. Obviously.
The set list was perfect and they moved through the songs one after the other, with Lindsey pausing to speak here and there between the songs. What struck me most was how many times he thanked us for being there. He must have thanked us ten times throughout the show. His sincerity shown through and touched my heart and I’m so glad I was there to experience it.
ALSO, he barks. Yep. Literally. He literally barks along with the dog at the end of “Holiday Road” and he is such a nerd I can hardly even stand it. I love him. “Bark bark, BARK. Bark bark, BARK! Bark like a dog!” And of course I did. Duh. And then he did this, not even semi-erotic, but full-on-erotic moan at the end of the song and...let’s just say it was nice. He threw us one of those nerdy smile/laugh things as the song ended before he retrieved his next guitar for the next song.
Shout out to Lindsey’s guitar tech, Stanley, by the way, who was working his ass off keeping all those guitars in order and in tune and passing them off to Lindsey in time. I think Lindsey switched guitars for just about every song, save his three song acoustic set. But he might have even switched guitars then. I can’t remember. I’m still thinking about the barking. In any case, Stan is an unsung hero in Buckingham’s world.
I was worried how the acoustics would be in a theatre setting, but there was no need. The sound was incredible. The band was incredible. These guys were beasts. And Lindsey had an absolute blast. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him that free and relaxed and, dare I say it, spontaneous? It was so special. He received huge applause after every song and many people stood for him as well. The ones who didn’t stand, I attribute to the tightened security. Seriously. These guys were strict. I know they were just doing their jobs but... what do you mean I can’t stand? I get the no pictures thing but, really? We can’t stand? Honestly, these guys looked like they would toss you out if you sneezed. Who doesn’t let people go to the stage during Go Your Own Way?? You know Lindsey wants us to strum his guitar during it... right?
What stood out most to me was this performance of Never Going Back Again. Of course we were all thinking of Fleetwood Mac during it. Lindsey too, clearly. I’ve never seen such a passionate performance of that song. His final “I’m never going back again” was powerful, resolute, and it felt very final. Of course that made me cry. I needed a Gatorade after the show to replenish my fluids. Never say never, of course, especially with those five people, but this change feels permanent.
I noticed something during the guitar outro for I’m So Afraid, and I realize now that it was there throughout the entire show: A genuine happiness from Lindsey to be there performing for us. I have always, always felt angst and pain from him during his performances, like a palpable pain resided just underneath that unending jittery energy of his, and his performances were his only way to release it, if only temporarily.
Thursday night there was something different there. I think it was contentment. A full-circle completion that he is proud of, perhaps. The knowledge that he did everything he could to preserve the legacy Fleetwood Mac created over those 43 years together, and generate a different outcome for them and for their fans. A hopefulness, because he still has so much more to share with us, and a delight that we are still here for him, waiting patiently for whatever it is he has to share.
I’ll finish with this: Watching Lindsey Buckingham play guitar the way he does, watching him belt out songs and stomp around the stage with the energy of a man less than half his age, is the closest thing to what is called God that I’ll ever experience. That’s not hyperbolic fangirl nonsense. It’s truth. There is something wholly divine about that man’s talent. I am not a religious person. I believe in the Universe above all else. But if what is called God means awe and if it means love and peace and if God is the knowledge that there is something greater than me out there that can save my soul, this is as close to God as I will get. And I’m here for it, amen.
"The Godfather" screening at Tribeca Film Festival
April 29, 2017
(You can read about Al Pacino walking into my life two hours before this event here.)
There’s something special about watching a movie you adore with six thousand other avid fans. My favorite mode of watching a flick is alone and pantsless on my couch with my cat and a snack of some sort, but inside Radio City Music Hall (pants on) with thousands of other people who are as passionate about the film as me is pretty great too. When it’s two of the greatest films ever made, The Godfather and The Godfather Part II, and the director and cast—who have all long since become legends of their craft, each of us in the crowd with our own favorites and reasons for being there—are also in the house, the excitement is profound. It was as if the excitement became its own entity, and when the lights went down, it was released, floating around the room and leaving us awash with exhilaration in its wake.
First came Paramount’s logo, and then cheers from the crowd when Francis Ford Coppola’s name appeared on screen. More cheers for Mario Puzo and his novel (on which The Godfather is based) when his named appeared, and then–and then–the haunting, single horn of The Godfather theme. When, from within the black, Bonasera tells Vito, “I believe in America,” I got choked up. That line struck me, reaching out to us from four and a half decades ago at this time in this country, or maybe it was just the excitement of the day catching up to me. Four seconds into the film, and I was already having irrational emotional reactions, and that is why I prefer to watch movies at home by myself.
Each character (and the actor portraying him or her) received a round of applause from the crowd as he or she appeared on screen for the first time, starting with Brando on through Sterling Hayden and Al Letteiri, who played McCluskey and Sollozzo, respectively, RIP. In a normal movie theatre setting, the clapping would have irked me. The actors aren’t here, guys, calm down. But this was obviously something special. Many of the actors were there, and this was The Godfather. Clap away, and I’ll join you. We clapped, we laughed at what might seem like inappropriate times, almost giddily. But this movie is so great, and it was such a unique setting, that it was impossible not to react to the iconic scenes that contributed to its greatness. And just about every scene in The Godfather is iconic.
I could go on and on and on about just about every moment in both films (“You broke my heart, Fredo. You broke my heart.” G’ah!), but I’ll spare you. As great as the films are, the behind the scenes stories from the director and cast are even better, so I’ll get right (ish) to that.
The Godfather is two hours and forty-five minutes long, and Part II is three hours and twenty minutes long, so with the first film starting around 1:30PM and including a generous intermission between it and Part II, it was well after 8:00PM by the time the panel discussion commenced. That’s a long time for six thousand strangers to be crammed in a room together, but there were no complaints, except maybe from my numb ass.
After the second film, a mock set popped up from beneath the stage, complete with a mantel, bookshelves, eight leather chairs, and a framed photo of Marlon Brando as Don Vito Corleone. Tribeca co-founder, Jane Rosenthal, came out to announce the cast and Coppola, and panel moderator, director, Taylor Hackford. Hackford, De Niro, Shire, DuVall, Coppola, Pacino, Keaton, and Caan made their way out as their names were called and everyone greeted each other with a hug. I got the feeling that they had been busy catching up with each other backstage, because it took them a few seconds to make it out after their names were called, and they seemed a little discombobulated. Like, oh, shit, that’s right, we’re here to do this thing, aren’t we? I had visions of them telling stories and jokes and teasing each other around a giant vat of spaghetti and basket of garlic bread, like the good Italian family they are, if only for the silver screen.
I paid special attention to Mr. Pacino’s introduction, because he’s the main reason I came to the reunion. He shuffled/bounded out on stage with a big smile on his face, waving to the crowd, half Michael Corleone, half mischievous child. It’s well known by now that Paramount hadn’t wanted Al Pacino to play the part of Michael Corleone. Taylor Hackford said that the head of Paramount at the time, Bob Evans, felt Al was “quote, too short” to play the part, and Al interjected, sitting in his chair like a little kid, fiddling with his microphone, “That’s sorta true…” and then shrugged, throwing a smile to those in the front rows. I love that self-depreciating style, particularly regarding his height, because it seems he really couldn’t care less about it. He’s so powerful an actor that it doesn’t matter that he’s short. He’s also fairly shy and slightly awkward, which I thought was adorable. It makes me wonder, had I had managed to speak more than two syllables to him out on the street, if I would have been the less awkward one for once in my life. He mentioned how it’s often hard for him to speak, especially in situations like that, and he told us, “you’ll get used to it.” He can say and do anything on camera with power and precision, when he’s playing a part, but when he’s just being Al Pacino he’s a bit awkward and has trouble putting things into words. I like that. I think he’s also got allergies, because he kept rubbing his eyes and blinking, and I recognize that on a cosmic level (or maybe he doesn’t have allergies and I’m just desperate to relate to Al Pacino on a human level).
Good god. I should have just called this, “Hey Guys, I Love Al Pacino!”
But seriously. He’s great.
In very Tom Hagen fashion, Mr. DuVall didn’t have much to say unless asked directly. He shared a story about the constant moonings that took place between him, James Caan and Marlon Brandon on set. “An extra said (about his ass), ‘Mr. Duvall, you are fine,” and then she turned to her friend and said, ‘but did you catch the balls on that Brando?’” James Caan has no use for a microphone, and seemed to forget at times that he was on stage in front of thousands of people. Not in an old man kind of way, but in a, I’m-just-here-with-my-friends-having-a-chat-so-screw-your-microphone kind of way. “I don’t do this,” he said at one point after forgetting about his mic again—his wise-guy accent as strong as it was when he played Sonny. And his voice is so deep and scratchy, he makes Pacino’s rough voice sound velvety. And an interesting (if you’re me) side note: of the entire cast, Mr. Caan is the only one who isn’t an Italian. But Coppola said he has long been an honorary one.
(I have a confession: The first James Caan film I saw was Elf. I know. I know! But it’s true. When I watched The Godfather for the first time back in February, and Sonny first appeared on screen, I squinted at my television and said to myself, “Is that Buddy’s dad?” Oh, god. I’m so sorry, Mr. Caan. It’s like when a someone, probably a millennial, speaks the blasphemous words, “I love that song “Landslide” by The Dixie Chicks.” Now, of course, I understand that one should never refer to James Caan as Buddy’s dad. James Caan is Sonny Corleone. Bada bing!)
Coppola said that Paramount wanted someone who looked like Robert Redford or Ryan O’Neal to play Michael, but he, Coppola, wanted someone who looked more like him, and that got a big laugh. Al nodded and said something like, well, yeah, we could be twins. Coppola clarified, saying he meant he had wanted someone who looked authentically Sicilian. And although there are blond and red-headed Sicilians, his vision of Michael was of a handsome young man with black hair (cheers from the crowd), and as he read the novel, particularly the part where Michael walks through Corleone with the shepherds, he saw only Al Pacino’s face. (Fun fact: Pacino’s grandparents emigrated to the United States from Corleone, Sicily.)
When Al told us that “me and Diane got loaded” after filming the wedding scene in Part I, because there were so many problems on set, and this was early on, when Paramount still wasn’t on board with Al playing Michael, and weren’t shy about telling everyone that, Diane shook her head and mouthed the word “no” to the crowd, but in a cheeky kind of way, kind of like, I did no such thing, but yeah, we totally did. Ms. Keaton looked phenomenal, by the way.
When he found out one week during filming that he was going to be fired as director on that Friday, Coppola said he fired basically everyone around him except his actors, figuring with everyone but him gone, there was no way Paramount could then fire him, and it worked. Coppola is a testament to what a great director can accomplish if he or she is willing to fight for his vision, and boy, did Coppola fight. Paramount fought him every, single step of the way while shooting and editing The Godfather. They didn’t want Brando or Pacino, but Coppola fought hard for them both and got them, and look what happened. Magic.
There was more. Much more. But I'm beat, and I'm annoying myself at this point. If you’ve read this far, I sincerely thank you, because I know I can be quite insufferable when I get going about these things. So, thanks.
The day Al Pacino walked into my life
April 29, 2017
PHOTOGRAPH BY JUSTIN BISHOP
There are times in my life (more and more lately) when I question the decisions I make for myself. This is an old story but one that bears repeating because sometimes it's hard for me to believe it actually happened.
Last April, I was on the subway in New York City with my mom. We were on our way back to our hotel from the 9/11 Memorial when my phone pinged at me.
It was a Google Alert.
This will come as absolutely no surprise to those who really know me (and probably even those who only know me a little bit) but I set up Google Alerts for my favorite actors and musicians.
A Google Alert is a lovely little gift, sent to us from the Google gods, that sends out all the up-to-date news and information that exists for whatever or whomever you've set up the Google Alert for. It's basically techno-stalking but I prefer to think of it as being a dedicated fan.
My current Google Alert list is fairly exclusive and includes: Al Pacino, Lindsey Buckingham, Gabriel Byrne, Stellan Skarsgard, and, for my sister, James Spader. (Updated for 2018: It now also includes Billy Bob Thornton and Hugh Laurie.)
Back to the subway: The alert I got that day was an article about a 45th anniversary screening of The Godfather films at Radio City Music Hall that was taking place the following weekend. The screening, the article informed me, would close the Tribeca Film Festival and would be followed by a panel discussion with the director of the films, Francis Ford Coppola, and The Godfather actors, Al Pacino, Robert De Niro, James Caan, Robert Duvall, Diane Lane, and Talia Shire.
Here's the thing: Once my brain grabs hold of something, it will not let it go. Until it convinces my body to do whatever the hell it is that my brain has decided it's going to do, it will not shut up.
For the rest of that night this was cycling through my mind: You have to come back next week. You have to go to that screening. Go. Find a ticket. You have to go. Go find a ticket. You have to go.
Me: Well, brain, that would be a pretty expensive trip for just one night.
So?
Me: What if the tickets are sold out?
They probably are. Use Stubhub.
Me: That will be even more expensive.
Yep.
Me: So, we’re just never going to save money ever again?
Basically.
Me: Cool.
So, I found a ticket (on Stubhub because yes, tickets were sold out), I booked a room for Saturday night, and set my alarm for 3AM Saturday morning.
It's worth mentioning here that I am not a morning person. At all. I can appreciate aspects of it. Yes, sunrise is lovely. But, I am not a morning person. When the alarm went off, I cursed at it and my brain.
Me: Is it really necessary to drive six hours to this thing today? Can’t we just stay in bed? I’m tired!
No. Get up. Yes, we really have to do this. Get the hell up and quit whining.
My brain is not a morning person either.
So, I got up. I threw some clothes in a bag, grabbed some Red Bull, and off we went to New York City, me and my brain. Again.
Short story made much longer by my rambling, I ended up running late. The screening started at 1PM. We were instructed to be at Radio City no later than noon, and it was already after 11.
Now, I’m okay with driving in New York City at this point, as long as I don't venture away from my normal route that I have memorized. How thrilled was I, then, that my usual route into the Theatre District that morning was blocked off coming out of the Lincoln Tunnel. Instead of going left into the city to 42nd Street, I was forced to go right and ended up on 34th. And it was like a whole different world back there. I felt the panic rise.
(Mind you, I have navigation in my car that rerouted me straight away and told me exactly where and when to turn to get to my hotel, but there was no time for rational thought. I was late.)
I got to my hotel about five minutes after I would have without the construction detour but it might as well have been an hour later. I checked in, changed quick, scratched out a thank you message in the inside cover of my book that I hoped to give to Mr. Pacino somehow. (Thank you for your work. You’re such an inspiration to me. Other embarrassing things. Blah, blah, blah, etc.) I stuffed the book into a gift bag and was back out on the street by 11:45, practically running to get to Radio City by noon.
I hit every intersection on the way to Radio City almost perfectly, with a “Walk” sign waiting for me at each one. Two blocks away, my luck ended. At 48th and 6th, I had to stop. Ugh. It was five minutes to noon, and I stood there, contemplating whether or not I could dash between the oncoming cars without getting run over. Only because my mother would never forgive me if that happened, I decided against it.
Impatient, I looked up and down the street, checking traffic and the clock on my phone. I glanced up 48th again and, walking toward me on the side of 48th, approaching from about fifteen yards away, was Al Pacino.
Alone. Just walking. He walked right up to me and stopped..
Picture it, if you will. There was me, starting to sweat because I hadn't bothered to check the weather report and I was wearing all black and my leather jacket. This is usually okay in the city in mid-April but that day was unseasonably warm, already close to 80 degrees. There was Al Pacino, also wearing all black (including black Converse sneakers, bless) literally strolling into my life and stopping to wait for the light, shoulder to shoulder with me.
My brain is usually pretty quick on its feet but in that moment it had nothing. It wasn't quite computing yet. I just sort of stood there. I was in that city on that day to attend a screening of two of the greatest movies of all time, starring this man. I was holding a gift for him in my hands. And he just...walked into my life.
At that point, I was wondering if that was the moment I’d completely lost touch with reality. It’s bound to happen someday with how much I live inside my mind. And I thought, well, today’s as good a day as any, I suppose.
So, here was me and Michael Corleone just hanging out in all black together in the 80 degree heat at 48th and 6th. I was sweating. He wasn't sweating at all because of course he wasn't. I side-eye
I side-eyed him for along moment. I was still wondering if he was only a figment of my fractured mind that had slipped between the cracks and out on to the street.
I lifted my hand and was quite relieved when my hand didn't just pass through him. I patted his shoulder lightly . I said, “Hey, Al.” At that, he turned and looked at me. I smiled. Not creepy at all, I'm sure. He straightened and replied, “Hey, man!”
And then he crossed 6th Avenue against the light.
For the second time in as many minutes, I contemplated throwing myself into oncoming traffic because of Al Pacino. But the traffic just kind of stopped for him. Each lane, one by one, as he crossed. I’m sure it was just because nobody wanted to mow a guy down but, for me, I was witnessing Al Pacino part 6th Avenue like Moses parting the Red Sea.
I crossed 6th too and made my way to Radio City with Al Pacino. No, I stayed back, not wanting to bother him (anymore) but if anyone asks you, I once walked with Al Pacino to Radio City Music Hall for a screening of The Godfather films.
He met up with a handler at Radio City. I remembered the gift bag then, still clutched in my hand, and asked the handler if I could please give it to him. She said sure. I did.
I continued to the first mezzanine and immediately bought a strong alcoholic beverage because my nerves were shot. And between getting up at 3AM, the traffic and construction issues on the way in to the city, and hanging out with Al Pacino on a street corner, I felt absolutely drained.
There you have it: The day Al Pacino literally walked into my life.
That was also the day I decided to never again question my brain. Ever. It knows exactly what it's doing.