As you have of course noticed (my assumption is that,
because I’m endlessly fascinated by me, you are too), I very often pretend to
have taken those clickbait quizzes on Facebook that propose to identify which
province in Luxembourg one should be living in on based on his or her responses
to questions like, “Would you rather have been the young Brigitte Bardot’s
lover, or Claudia Cardinale’s?”
I invariably assert, to the limitless amusement of all, that
the quiz revealed that I should be living in Joe Strummer, Joe having been one
of the possible answers to the quiz question Which punk rock star are you? Ever since resisting the temptation
to take that test (and join in the fun!), I have amused myself by using poor
Joe — may he rest in peace! — as my all-purpose answer, even though I must
admit that on the two occasions I met the great man, I didn’t much care for
him.
The first time was in Manchester, Lancashire, UK. I had been
hired to be the compere (host, if you prefer) of a music documentary being made
for Australian television. I and The Clash confronted each other in the foyer
of the Manchester Apollo, where they would perform later that evening. We all
shook hands, they limply. There was a lot of sneering, all of it theirs. I was
to understand that they disdained me because I was American, and had long hair
(though not much longer than the lovely and talented Mick Jones’s), and was
probably a fan of Fleetwood Mac, the living embodiment of uncool. As the
cameras began a-rolling, I posed an inoffensive question to break the proverbial
ice. Paul, the bass player, snorted, “Boring!” and stormed away. Take that, longhaired American Fleetwood Mac
fan! My intuition was that it was a ritual our heroes, fervent disdainers
of all show-biz artifice, had enacted many times before. But I suppose I could
have taken some small solace in the knowledge that phony Beatlemania had bitten
the dust.
I later chatted with Mr. Strummer after the Jones-less 1984
clash performed in Santa Barbara, California. On his own, he was slightly less
obnoxious, albeit still pompous and self-inflated. In my view, his group at both shows was a musical trainwreck,
and one I derived no pleasure whatever from witnessing.
But back, as ever, to me, glorious me! I have realized, with
the help of the clickbait quizzes, that I’m not at all sure who I really am, as
there are and have been so many versions of me. Am I the kind, generous old guy
who until a few weeks ago delighted in tutoring for no pay persons hoping to improve
their English, or the one who, when a hungry homeless person on the street asks
for money, either pretends he doesn’t hear or mumbles, “Sorry, no cash,” and
keeps right on walking? Am I the person of vast, vast love who raised Brigitte
Mendelssohn (on weekends and holidays after her mother and I divorced) to the
age of 17, or the hateful, entitled little bastard who treated his parents so awfully
in their last years in retaliation for their having been something other than
perfect during his own childhood? Am I the friend who wishes the very best for
all those who love (or can abide) him, or the one who, behind closed doors, absolutely
can’t bear seeing a peer do much better than he? I don't know if we hate it when our friends become successful. I know I do.
Can you see the real me, doctor? Damned if I can. And there
haven’t been 30 seconds in my life when I could have been described accurately as a fan of Fleetwood Mac.
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