The part you’ve all been waiting for! Me too.

I’ll skip the boring part about being in line thirty minutes or more, which wasn’t bad, and didn’t matter. I could’ve sat till morning if I had to. And I still hadn’t decided what to say. But as we waited a deep sense of calm came over me. Everything was fine.

It was real, it was happening, it would soon be over.

And if I’m up to it, I may write up a Part IV for someone’s suggestion box should the Downtown Independent or Amoeba Records ever host another signing. If I were not an author, I would not have noticed everything just plain off-kilter with the organization of the line, the logistics, the placement of the tables in the space available (at very least, the sales and signing tables should have been reversed, and photographer’s lighting brought in so we could take good photos without flash), and so on—and frankly, some of that didn’t hit me until I got home—but there were a number of better ways to run it than the way they ran it. If I was the featured author, it would have stressed me to be there. The staff as they were stressed me. I find myself very curious whether any of them had experience with such an event before, or if it was just freaking them out. And I wondered that the same signing staff didn’t just tour with them, being such a large name on board—although that’s not usually necessary, really. But I digress.

Almost before we knew it, it was my turn. Danielle passed buying a copy of her own, for now, and settled in to take pictures. I lamented earlier on my lack of a decent camera in tow for this, and am still suffering somewhat of a nuclear meltdown I don’t have anything at all crisp, clean, and hi-res to show for it. Don’t talk to me about the photo quality.

The staff seemed to be all about rushing people through, and it felt they’d snap their fingers at us if they could’ve gotten away with it. Of course there is great need to move the line along. And prevent anyone from overstaying their moment. But I’ve seen better, kinder, more polite people at such events—and heard reports of better from others attending this same event in other cities. Is it just LA? I don’t know.

One of the staff gals took my copy to the table, and I was standing in front of Brian: eye contact. I hope I said Hi. I’m not even sure. By this point pieces of my brain have gone completely blank.

“Who’s it to?”

(Note here, experienced authors and booksigning attendees, the absence of sticky notes pre-spelling names: Can you believe that?)

“Linda.”

In the photo—while blurry due to light levels and cell phone camera and the request not to use a flash—you can see the kind wonderfulness in his eyes as he asks my name. This is a genuine good soul.  One who remains interested in the moment, the person before him.

Brian signing my name with an "I"

Then, stupidly, rather than saying anything at all from the long list of things I ever thought of saying, I stand there silent and use up three insanely valuable seconds of this precious time to watch and make sure he spells it with an “I” and not a “Y.”

That would have been beyond aggravating. And yes indeedy, you bet I would have corrected him. I don’t care who you are, my name is LINDA. And if it was ruined, do I have to buy another $60 book, does just he scribble out the tail on the Y with an apology, or what happens then? Panic!  

But could I just say cheerfully, “Linda with an I?” and move on to something useful? Nope. Would not come out. I just watched. And felt a wash of internal relief when he dotted that I.

Granted he himself spells his name with an I instead of Y, so that’s probably his default, but I couldn’t process that idea in the moment. And seriously: if I’d just cracked a joke about it, like I might have any other day of the week, it would have broken the ice maybe.

I’m not sure what order things went in next, because my brain seems insistent on misfiring the details and confusing me on the exact sequence. No matter how I try. I know what I said—yet not clear what he said back. I know I meant to make eye contact, but I can’t remember whether I succeeded except for that first initial moment. The photos look like I did, at least. I wish I’d thought of something funny. He has a great sense of humor.  

I realized at the last possible moment I didn’t know which thing, of all the zillion things I’d thought of all week, to say. Something current fell out, something important to me, something he’s not hearing enough praise for. I said, “Thank you for all your work with Save Me.” (I’ll write up something about that later, it’s a great work he’s involved in helping animals, and funding with his own money.)

And he said… I don’t know what. Thanks, you’re welcome, a shrug? It’s a complete blank.

And he hadn’t immediately offered me a handshake, as his hand was ready to write when I came up–but by gum, I wasn’t going to get this close and not at least ask. So I carefully held out my hand and asked, “May I?” to which he said, “Sure.”

 Whew! If he’d said no I may have busted into tears, which would have slain me on the spot. Oh how I hate breaking down in public. And yes it’s rude to refuse a handshake, but still, he’s a star, it’s his call. I wouldn’t have been offended, just sad.

And so I took his hand in mine, not a little startled by the delicateness of the personal touch: I had assumed he’d offer, maybe not an iron grip, but a firm, typical handshake, yet it wasn’t. I hesitate to use that “fish” comparison, because it didn’t strike me as dead or clammy, or unfeeling; but when he didn’t grip my hand, I didn’t quite know what to do, and didn’t squeeze with the firmness I typically offer when shaking hands. Instead I matched it. It was very soft. Warm. It felt almost as though he held my hand for those two seconds, rather than shook it.

Mercy me.

(Note also here, Elena rocks life as a lefty! Yeah!)

But the photos show—although blurry—it was a proper looking handshake!

And I said, somewhere in this interchange, “I’ve posted on your Save Me forum a little. Just a little bit.” (Note my continued interest in not coming across torturously obsessed. Note my inability to just chatter away like normal. My half-frozenness in nerves.)

He seemed interested in this and tilted his head. “What’s your name?”

Gulp! You’re asking me? Oh my. What a rush. “Linda Adams,” I said, clear and distinct, and he seemed to listen. Not that I expect he’ll remember me two days later, but it felt so awfully nice that he asked. And then the book pusher stuffed another book in his way and I felt nonverbally, nonphysically shoved, but shoved nonetheless, and it was time for me to meet Elena.

A million more things I wish I could’ve talked about… even more about Save Me if possible… all lost, gone, fini.

And I utterly failed to say I can’t wait for Anthems to come out, the album he’s produced for Kerry Ellis.

Or drum up the nerve to say I wish I could be the next Kerry Ellis he works with.

Psssh, pipe dream.

Of course. But would it have killed me to say so?

A few random thoughts on the handshake before I move on, because it so moved me. I spent a little time on the Internet looking up any other blogs mentioning it, and I found this girl’s quote:

“We then shook hands, and I was surprised at how gentle his handshake was. Then he got to autographing my book, and all I could see was his Sharpie writing his big, loopy “B”, and the rest of his first name…” – Ariana on a Fender forum

Gentle. That’s it. That’s exactly the right word. Alive, warm, exquisitely gentle, kind. It was one of those types of touch you keep feeling the phantom ghost of hours later. Wow. Thank you. Hello.

I may still be a little dizzy.

But surprised I didn’t feel muscle tone in the hand that shreds out “Tie Your Mother Down” and “Keep Yourself Alive.”

I may go back and watch footage of his hands play, with more attention to detail. Is that same gentility the key to his incredible tone? It occurs to me today, too, that he could be protecting a seriously valuable investment by saying without words, don’t squeeze the Charmin. Nobody better crush those talented bones by a handshake. And I wondered about hand pain too, how long that lingers these days.

Well—onward. I went over two steps to greet Elena, who already had her hand out to me: thank you! She offered me a fingertip-shake, which I took in kind, and was firm and pleasant. She has small hands, delicate fingers, no nail polish. I asked, “Where are you from?” No one had mentioned that in introductions, but she had that lovely accent that was very nice to listen to, and I figured it was a good place to start.

“Spain.”

I smiled. “I thought Spain,” I said, and she smiled back, apparently pleased.

I felt a little proud of myself I had guessed okay. However, back at home, I read she’s actually Basque, and smacked my forehead just a bit. But she could have said Basque. There’s no way little ol’ untraveled me would ever know the difference between the Spain and Basque accent… but I knew it was Spanish without being Latin American, which is still pretty amazing I got that far on my own. Anyway.

Then I told her I appreciated all her work on the book so much, which I truly did by the end of the lecture, and was quite sincere in my gratitude. It’s such a history worth preserving. And for a second with all the pushy pushy staff people after me to keep moving, I thought it was time to go—until Danielle, behind me somewhere, said, “You didn’t get a picture.”

And they were taking pictures with people. It was perfectly fine. Major problem #3 or so: it was just plain disorganized with no routine for people to go behind the table for their photo op. No space next to the table for photos, and not much space to get around it, either. (Again: let me reiterate, things like this are NOT the authors’ fault whatsoever, EVER. Logistics and arrangements are the responsibility of the venue and/or organization or store running the book sales.)

So I realize I’m going to have to get around the table in this small space provided on her side, and that I don’t want my purse banging around in the picture and whacking either of them (that would be just great…), so I go to take it off and wind up knocking half the store’s little promo buttons off the signing table—which are all set out loose right in front of Elena, cluttering things up, not in a basket or anything useful, just loose. Great. Pick up all the stupid buttons, put them back, feel like I couldn’t be more in the way.

And I remember: the chocolate!! I very nearly forgot.

“Oh! I brought something for you!” I told Elena as I fished the bars out of my purse and handed them to her. “I know signings are long and can be kind of a pain.”

In the picture with the candy, she looks truly happy—either about the gift or about talking to me, most likely the chocolate—which I was glad to see.

It was too much of a blur, too many nerves firing at all ends, that I didn’t catch her reaction in the moment, but the pictures show it. I was too worried about getting around the table to notice whether she liked it or not, see the look on her face. And/or having a staff member yell my turn was over already and get out. Even though they didn’t actually say that to anyone, not that I heard, it was a perception (which may be flawed on my end) more than anything else, an attitude of stress that did not contribute well to the feel in the room. It felt like being herded like cattle onto a slaughterhouse truck. And in all honesty: there were about 150 attending, not all of them stayed for the signing, and these authors have been doing, easily, two hour signings everywhere they go. It would have been all right to give everyone 60 seconds instead of 10 and still wrapped up in plenty of time.

“Oh, what do you write?” she asked.

“Science fiction,” I said with a shrug, brushing it off. She said “Oh” or something equivalent, and I finally crawled around behind the table for the picture, thankfully without knocking anything else over. We snap two, and the second one is good.

The first is blurry and I’m clearly saying something to Brian and he’s looking more at Elena than me, and I have no idea what on earth I must have said. Gone. Memory, all gone.

I remember saying, “Thank you, Brian,” either after the picture or after talking to him or as we left, but I can’t place when.

It’s almost funny in the photos though, that I have my arms folded behind my back. I don’t remember doing that or why. But it was maybe that “museum response:” don’t walk past the velvet rope and do not touch the exhibit!

Even so, I said thanks to Elena after the photo and I remember reaching out to briefly tap her shoulder as I said it, before crawling my way back to the front of the table–then hoped that was okay, kicking myself slightly and wondering why I did that. But she didn’t seem to mind, thank goodness.

Then we were out the door, walking to the car, me tightly holding the treasured book and hoping my breath caught up with me someday.

If it hadn’t felt so tense in there, or the spacing been so inconvenient between tables and the crowd, I’d have liked to collapse somewhere in view and just watch everything unfold, listened in to all the patter and chatter and left last, after everyone had left the building. (Part of me wonders if I should have tried for the end of the line instead of the middle.) But there was nowhere to do that without getting seriously in the way, in this tiny lobby, plus I felt sure the staff would have run us off. Or made us buy another book and got in line again. Which would have felt redundant and silly: Hi, it’s me again, like the little kid who keeps cutting in line for the slide because it’s just too much fun.

No, by that time, all I could think about was the doorway: I did it! I didn’t run off home, I stayed, I did what I came to do and now I could go home happy.

The next morning I went online to look up a few things about T. R. Williams I was curious about, and discovered they were giving a second presentation Thursday at the Griffith Observatory, ticketed but first-come first-serve for seats, and thought about extending my stay for half a minute to go again. Plus there was the added draw Brian would be signing his first book, Bang! as well, which I don’t yet own.

I took a deep breath and decided, No. I’m not that type.

Why start now?

I’ve seen him; time to let others have the opportunity. No need to take that from someone who may not get in, if I stay and snag that ticket.

And besides, I only have one sequined blouse.

So we begin.

Brian arrives in a button-down white shirt and this very cool long black suit jacket reaching nearly to the knee. There’s probably a specific name for this thing, this fabulous article of clothing, but not being a fashionista, I don’t know it–I’ve never seen one before. All I know is: it’s so cool. Perfect. He bears a pleasant countenance as he introduces the book, glowing with radiant excitement for his work, his hobbies, and an eloquent passion for the topic at hand—the photographic work of one T. R. Williams, and his historic record of a bygone day. 

Elena stands right in front of us. She has dark straight hair, deep brown eyes, and wears a classy black tank. If she’s wearing makeup, it’s invisible, and not needed. She also radiates a quiet confidence and elegance, and I like her already. 

Brian dons a pair of reading glasses as he prepares his note cards, and I have to smile. A measure of reality, that.

As he speaks ever so fondly of the photographs, his journey collecting them, and his specialization in T. R. Williams, he looks and sounds precisely the role of the quintessential British professor. It becomes, even, hard to imagine this quiet being before me is the same man who wows the crowds with his famous “Brighton Rock” solo, whose thunderous volume is always set to 10 on every dial, whether in practice or on stage. 

He disappears into his topic and walks us through the images on the screen: a series of larger-than-life, hand-colorized 3-D portraits of an idyllic village life.

At first the screen is mono, flat, and he asks us to put on our 3-D glasses, which we are allowed to keep as a memento of the evening. Then he laughs and comments how he loves this part—looking out at us in our glasses: “It’s great.” We laugh with him.

–And it’s the Classic Brian ”Great.” He has a certain way of saying that word which turns up on recordings, in interviews. It really is you: recognition strikes once more.

He gives a brief introduction into how and why we see in perspective, how our left and right eye align scientifically to offer us the sensation of depth, and switches the title screen to its 3-D counterpart. There’s a collective jump and “Oooh” as it first comes up.

Brian laughs. “I love that,” he says. “Here, let me do it again.” And flips back to mono, then into 3-D once more.

We reward him with a big, overblown, “OooOOOooOh, AhhHHhhhhh,” this time, and everyone laughs.

Many of the details, as we go, I was already familiar with from visiting the London Stereoscopic website. A stereo card, basically, is a set of  two near-identical images placed side-by-side on postcard-sized paper. They’re hard to find now. Collectors have snapped them all up. And even he doesn’t own the entire series of 59 displayed in the book, a fact that causes a collective chuckle from the audience. But early on, Brian reports, “they were easy to pick up in junk shops,” –and my mind briefly pictures Brian May of Queen in 1979 wandering a thrift store like Napoleon Dynamite, which is such a juxtaposition to my brain I almost giggle out loud.

(Warning: Don't try this image with your OWL 3-D viewer... ouch)

What I hadn’t experienced before this evening was the breathtaking three dimensionality of the scenes—it does feel like you could step into the village, as though the screen itself were a time machine. I could walk right up to the stone fence and have a chat with these people. Find out what was in the kettle for dinner, how the harvest was going this year, and whether Peter had yet proposed to Mary, or she was still waiting with a nervous blush for his continued courtship.

For these were real people.

Hinton Waldrist was a real village, literally lost to public knowledge for near a hundred and fifty years. For many of these years, collectors of Williams’ work wondered if he had staged the shots on sets with actors. Or, if the images were real, were they of one village, or a composite of many?

This book is the result of years of research, study and compilation after Brian’s discovery the village was real, as he had supposed, and learned its location. Thanks to the technology of the internet, he posted a photo of one of the main landmarks in the series, the church, and within 36 hours had six correct answers to where the church was—a mere two hours’ drive from his home. (Three answers were from Italians who had never been to England, which also makes us all laugh.) He drove down immediately, and there after a years-long search, the exact building stood before his eyes.

image linked through http://www.londonstereo.com

That must have been a magical moment.

The village is still small: population 333. And they still love to gossip.

From there, he, Elena, and many other researchers and volunteers helped pinpoint the exact locations of the 59 photographs. In some cases, buildings were no longer standing—but in others, they stood nearly untouched by time.

He explains the stereoscopic viewer which comes with the book, so that at home we can see the 3-D effect from the printed page. There wasn’t one available that folded flat, he says, “So I invented it.” He shows us a photo of the prototype and mentions taking the specs over to the local plastics maker. With a shrug, a ‘no problem,’ a cake walk. If you haven’t yet got a feel for the sheer volume of intelligence at work in this brain–as I have–you should.

Brian lovingly reports how they worked hard to reproduce some of the shots T. R. created, using some of the same difficult processes—and laughs about the silver salts of the wet colloidal process permanently staining their hands. We oooh and ahhh as we see both the 1850 view, and the modern view—and see how unchanged it is.

We laugh as Brian points out how T. R. Williams liked to hide himself in his own photos, posing upstage (his back to the camera), with tails and a top hat as a partial disguise.

In one modern-day shot, Brian is posed in a group wearing a top hat like T. R.’s, and he gives out my favorite joke of the evening: “I don’t know who that is there in the middle, maybe it’s Slash, do you think?” 

Partway through, he turns the time over to Elena to describe the photos, and I am initially surprised, then enthralled, by her lovely accent and speaking voice, which is as mellifluous as Brian’s. After she discusses the image on the screen, Brian takes a moment to read aloud the verse found on the back of the corresponding stereo card, brief poems thought to be penned by Williams himself to describe his images.

I can’t even tell you how lovely this is.

The poems themselves are whimsical, comical, or even breath from heaven in their beauty and observation.

image linked through http://www.londonstereo.com

For example:

The Church Seen Through the Trees.

There is a silence in the hour,

The bee’s sweet hum is scarcely heard,

No zephyr fans the fragrant flower,

And not a timid warbling bird

Is there to break the sacred charm,

That binds my heart to thoughts of Thee.

To hear this lyrical British voice read them aloud with emphasis and feeling… is such an unexpected pleasure.

Looking over in the dim light as he reads, I feel transported back in time. Suddenly, I am sitting in a stone cottage on a quiet evening, listening to an old friend read before the fireplace. I can almost see myself in a cotton dress and cap. I’m rocking in a hand-built chair, my embroidery on my knee, and the family dog nestles up at my feet. The house is quiet but for the pleasant voice washing over me.

And all too soon, the time is gone, the last images have flown by, and it’s time for a remarkable thing: Question and Answer. Brian opens up the floor for our “comments, and/or criticisms,” and I can’t think of a single criticism anyone might have for this presentation. It was thoroughly lovely.

I’ve also learned how to pronounce “Daguerreotype” correctly–at least with a British accent.

Little Polly, image linked via londonstereo.com

The first question is simple: “What’s your favorite of the series?” and Brian replies almost exactly as I would have: “It’s awfully hard to choose, but Little Polly’s becoming a favorite, I think,” with a nod also to “The Church Seen Through the Trees.” Those two were the most memorable to me, having just seen them for the first time.  

The remaining questions launch into photographic technicalities that go mainly over my head, and I sit wanting badly to ask a question and failing to come up with anything at all, even the mundane, even anything asinine which I’d want to avoid. It’s only later, after I’m home, that I realize I did have a good one: Once you take the left and right photos, how do you align them in Photoshop exactly to produce the effect? (Brian is clearly as in love with Photoshop as he is with music, and he’s right—Adobe should offer him an endorsement package, as he jokes.)

But too soon the opportunity is gone, and it’s time to “sign a few books and maybe have a little chat,” Brian says as he leaves the podium.

I’m still swirling with that pulled-out-of-time feeling, as though everyone from bygone days of Hinton Waldrist had descended quietly on the room, extending their love for Brian, Elena, and their work to pull their little village forth out of nameless obscurity. I think about the short life of this brilliant artsist, Williams, who died at 47 of a strange illness. It’s listed on his death certificate as diabetes, but Brian explained they think it may have had to do with the mercury vapors and other chemicals he worked with so extensively.

Later, at home, I discover T. R. left behind a wife and eight surviving children (out of a dozen), and wonder what legacy he left his family, and how they got on without him after that. What happened? Where did they go? Did Little Polly grow up? Who did she marry? Were they happy? Wait–wait! I don’t know the ending!

And as excited as I am to go stand in line, part of me is already content: it is enough. This was a fascinating evening and opportunity, something I would have thoroughly enjoyed even if Dr. Brian May were an unknown professor somewhere with a simple hobby to speak about.

Something about him, as I observe his mannerisms and countenance during the ninety-minute presentation, seems idyllic and lost in a timeless, nameless space. I find myself thinking about the fictional, beloved Middle-Earth created by Tolkein, and how–with the exception of his over six-foot frame–this fellow might have been a perfect fit in the Shire. It’s just too easy to picture him having a pint at Bree, arguing with the locals about the hay yield or the spring lambing, casting a suspicious eye on one Strider lurking over in the shadows.

He once wrote, “Now I’m old, I puff my pipe but no one’s there to see/.… Take care of those you call your own/And keep good company.”  (“Good Company,” Brian May, © 1975  A Night At the Opera) Lines like these only emphasize the point.

Thank you, Brian and Elena, for a wonderful evening. Truly, you were good company.

Part I: The Preliminaries.

Here we go. I give you my experience, looking out my own eyes at Dr. Brian May, CBE, fabulous guitarist of Queen, king of all guitar tone and harmony, in the flesh.

I’ve read a number of descriptions of Brian and Elena’s presentation on their book, A Village Lost and Found, on the web already; enough to know that it’s been a long tour for these two (the book appeared around Christmas), and by comparing notes I know even the jokes are mostly scripted. Although they work well, and we all laugh easily during the presentation. I’m just happy I found and took the opportunity to be there and learn more about this fascinating, fabulous thing called stereoscopic photography, and the brilliant artistic mind of the man who was T. R. Williams. [Visit http://www.londonstereo.com for the lowdown on this art medium.]

I had about a week to prepare after discovering it was within my range to get to the lecture in Los Angeles last Tuesday (July 27).

During this week I can’t even count the thoughts that went through my mind. The autograph I’ll come home with isn’t remotely important. It barely hits my radar.

It’s meeting him. The chance to say hi. Smile. Look in his eyes for real, in person. Connect.

And I panic. What to wear? What to say? I’ll have maybe 10 seconds not to be shy, not come off stupid or obsessed, and clearly—can never possibly express everything I wish I could talk to him about. That would take an actual friendship. And I offer real prayers of gratitude for the chance not only to see him, but maybe to shake his hand and say thank you. Thanks for what? Too much to list—even here, in a blog he’ll never read, which would bore even those of you who are.

Saying “You’re my hero” seems too trite, too chic, too pat… and definitely too often repeated. No, skip that. Do I remind him he printed my poem a couple of years ago on his site? No, that seems merely self-aggrandizing, and psssh, it was just a poem, previously published at that, and something I doubt he remembers. Still, it was a sweet red-letter day—he liked my writing. There’s a switch. And deigned to speak to me by email, a few words.

I content myself with the facts: into my lap has fallen a rare opportunity to meet someone very cool, whose work has reached out and struck a chord in my heart, a lifeline even at times, who is also–from all I can gather, a very kind, rare and considerate human being.

Internally I gain further knowledge that there is a God, and that He knows and loves me in enough detail to say, “Go—I know how important his music is to you—here, you can meet him this Tuesday.” Go ahead and un-infer that, say it’s not God at the helm if you like, blame coincidence, serendipity, or chance: I like to give credit where it’s due.

The odd thing is, outside of personal friends and the Quorum of the Twelve, I just don’t get like that about very many people—wanting to meet them, I mean. Where I care. I’m the type to stand back askance, arms folded, saying, “I dare you to impress me.” And even if your art manages to impress me, I’m sure and certain everything you stand for won’t—the chances are quite slim. I double-dog-dare you.

Yet he does impress me, on all counts. Wherever I look, he’s anxiously engaged in a good cause.

Blast. It’s unfair.

I knew about this book, A Village Lost and Found, from reading his website [http://www.brianmay.com]and casually—I refrain from stalking the site—maintaining an interest in what he’s working on. I knew he’d published another book, Bang! (not about rock exploits, but the origin of the Universe—he holds a PhD in Astronomy) and did many signings in England. I read all this wistfully, realizing he was making himself accessible, but not in any location I could get to. Suddenly, here it is: they’re coming to LA! Five hour drive? I can do that!

Because while I have yet to hear the Red Special played live (sigh…), the chance to look in his eyes and say “Thank you” means so much more. All else being equal, if I could choose the front row at Wembley or the O2, or hear him speak in a tiny theater seating 200 about something he loves, with a little signing afterward? Oh yeah. I choose this.

And I got to thinking about Elena.

There is a co-author here. A woman who has sure and certain worked equally as hard on this labor of love as Brian has, restoring the photographs and writing and researching and making terrific contributions. A woman equally as deserving of equal recognition.

A woman who probably sits through all these lengthy signings more than half-ignored, or if not ignored, mainly asked about Brian or how she knows him—forget the work or why she’s here: Queen fans can be especially rabid. I’ve met some of them, online and elsewhere. No offense intended, but I try not to fit that bill.

I make it my goal to be sure to listen to her equally, and at the signing table give her also my full and equal attention. Even though without Brian and this book I’d have never heard of her, this is her life’s work. God being no respecter of persons, he doesn’t draw that line: why should I?

And I’ve been on the other side of that table. Granted, my lines don’t run out the door—yet—but I know it can be long and hot and tiring and while you enjoy meeting people (I do, quite honestly: I’d rather meet fans than celebrities any day of the week), it has to be just a little bit weird to be the non-famous one at the table. Sure: I’d be thrilled beyond compare to be in her shoes, co-writing a book with Brian May (I’ll stop there before I drool) and just deal with it. But still. That has to be weird in its own way.

I followed an impression that day and stopped in at Trader Joe’s before getting ready for the evening, and bought her both a Milk and Dark Truffle bar. She can share if she wants (or not!), and as I don’t know whether either one prefers milk or dark chocolate I got one of each. The stuff is divine. Should help anyone get through a long signing if need be. I wasn’t sure if gifts would be allowed, or it was a good or bad move or whatever, but it felt like the right thing to do.

The presentation itself deserves its own space, so I’ll tackle that in Part II, and the signing in Part III. I think.

I’ll just journal this all out. After all, it’s not likely to happen again, and I want to remember it in detail.

I was a complete mess the entire day. Neurotic. I can’t even describe the nerves. Food wouldn’t go down. (In fact, two days later, food still isn’t going down. Explain that. Anyone?) My brain could not, would not decide on the best thing to say. I didn’t want to sound scripted. Or trite. Or dumb. Or scary. I can’t say everything, so which thing should I pick? What’s most important, right now, today?

When I woke up Tuesday morning I could have thrown up. Backed out. I said to myself, I’m not going. I’m not doing this. I just won’t show up. It’ll be easier that way. Never MIND. This is NOT happening! Goodbye, I’m driving home. Forget about it. I can’t.

Holy cats, I wasn’t this freaked out the day of my own wedding! (Then again, I was very, very secure about that wedding, and still am—so maybe that’s why, on that point.) What was wrong with me? I still don’t know. Man.

Maybe it’s because I didn’t go through anything like this as a teenager—following a band, meeting anyone famous? Is this some delayed time-warp thing denied when I was fifteen? Maybe I should make my kids get out and meet people when they’re young.

So they can avoid these more than half-queasy butterflies and just deal when the time comes.

I did shake Mary Stuart Masterson’s hand when she was in Nine on Broadway, with only a slight flurry of nerves, not potent enough to stop me. But I didn’t have a week to think about it, it happened all at once because it was Broadway Gives Back night, and there she was standing right in front of us with her donation bucket. And–her work hasn’t hit me the same way, emotional, right in the gut–though I do think she’s cool.

I’m a little proud of myself I never did actually throw up.

The stupid thing is, I’m more aware than some that celebrities are just people. Human beings like the rest of us, who get hungry and tired and have bad days and just happen to be in the limelight, generally, due to some freak cosmic accident of luck more than anything else. There are a billion talented people out there who never become famous. It’s such an oddity, an unpredictability. And an ugly thing to live with a lot of the time, buying back lost privacy, blasted on one side by those who love you far too much and up-and-down the other by those who utterly hate the fact that you still breathe.

As I said, I’ve been on the other side of the table. I’ve bumped into people in bookstores who recognized me and had that eye-widening look of awe come over their faces—and when I see that, I feel unworthy. I don’t deserve that. From time to time I get gushy fan letters telling me things about my writing that while it’s wonderful to hear, is probably better if I don’t internalize and believe, such as, “Your book is as great as To Kill A Mockingbird!” (Yes, someone told me that: thanks, you’re a gem! But really? Hmmm….)

Granted, it’s been a few years since I’ve done a little tour of signings and my writing is stuck in the mud and blocked beyond all reason lately.

But those experiences taught me, whoa. Wait a minute. I am just a normal, ordinary person here and people are looking at me funny because of something I did. At least it’s a good funny. I have yet to attract the attention of the real oddballs, the possessed, the obsessed beyond hope.

Which all teaches me that no matter my opinion about his work, Brian is also a normal, ordinary person who has been at least a month away from home, many months out doing this same presentation and signing, may be tired and hungry by the time I see him somewhere in a  long long line of faces, and it’s going to be late at night and he’s been very giving of his time to do this—it would be nice to leave a positive impression with the man, but please, don’t let me leave a dent.

I gave myself the best treat I could during the day and attended a session in the Los Angeles Temple, where I hadn’t been before. It was completely gorgeous and resplendent on the interior, and offered a modicum of peace to my rattled nerves.

I snapped a photo of the spire which I hope to turn into a 3-D shot, thinking of the evening’s presentation.

These may not ever line up right; I have yet to figure out the Photoshop end of it. But if they do it will be COOL.

Soon enough it was time to primp and go. My hair turned out. Hallelujah. Not that it mattered, really: but I didn’t want to show up looking bad. I put on my flowy pink blouse with sequined front, and black slacks. I chose the blouse, maybe a little stupidly, because it reminded me of something Freddie might have worn in the old days. That, and I just plain like it, and it helps me look a little slimmer than I am.

We arrived an hour ahead to find it’s a strange little place, tucked into the squalor of downtown LA right on Main Street, a bit run down and seedy… but not to the point of frightening. Before dark. More the tiny type of venue that might be booked for me than a superstar named Brian May.

The line outside wasn’t long yet, and we were excited–that meant we could sit way down in front like I hoped. And all the Queen merch on all the people: I stood there and looked and was so glad I didn’t do that.

And it occurs to me that if we’re going to be honest, I’d much rather front a band than follow one around. Wearing stuff with logos to the show… not important, never has been. Does it prove loyalty? Or simply obsession?

image linked from brianmayguitars.co.uk

Some brought their guitars along, and I scratched my head. First of all, he’s not going to sign it. All the signs, all the promo, everything printed everywhere says PLEASE BE CONSIDERATE. They are ONLY here to sign the book: don’t ask for more than that! Second, we’re not having a little jam session after the lecture, are we? Or during. And even if you own a Brian May guitar—which I hope to, someday, in lefty and solid white with gold (which they don’t yet make)—what’s the point of bringing it with you? It’s not like he’ll care if you learned to play from listening to him or that owning the guitar proves anything about your axe skills or that you can’t just tell him you bought from his guitar line. Or that he’ll even care you play, whether it’s three chords or three hundred. These aren’t auditions. Hello. This is a photography exhibit. Anyway… oy.

We sat down in terrific seats third row back, right in front of the podium where Elena would soon speak. And the gal next to us asked, “Are you here for Brian, or for photography?”

“Both,” I said. In honesty. Although really, Danielle was there pretty much just for me. Moral support. She stayed on the fence whether to buy the book all night.

“We saw him in Philly,” the girl added with a smile.

“Cool,” I said. And thought: Oh. One of those.

I know they exist, fans that follow around to every venue. I just had never met one before. She went on for a minute about how they had friends here in LA and were able to come. I mentioned I drove from Northern California. They flew. She explains how Brian will come out and stand at the left podium and Elena will be in front of us on the right. I should mention—inside, this is a small, narrow, independent movie theater complete with old, weird black starry-print carpet, specializing in 3-D with stadium seating, and a podium for each speaker set up on either side of the screen.

They were even selling hot dogs and popcorn. And beer.

Odd.

Then the kid just in front of us, replete in a Jazz album logo jacket, asked me, “What’s your favorite album?”

“Day at the Races,” I said, not missing a beat.

He shook my hand. “Me too!” Great kid. Even if he is one of the ones who brought a guitar.

“’Teo Torriatte’ is maybe the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard,” I gush. “Of course Night at the Opera was awesome too.” And I feel sort of all right that I can carry on this conversation with intelligence, and a little justified that I’m actually not the only American who knows these things. It just feels like it, most days.

“And Innuendo was amazing,” the other gal interjected.

Of course, I nodded.

“What’s your least favorite?” he asked next.

I thought a little. “The Miracle.”

He smiled and seemed to agree, and we both agreed it wasn’t Hot Space.

“Oh, but ‘Breakthru’ was great,” the girl interrupted, next to us, disagreeing with our album choice.

I agree with her on the song, but don’t feel it’s wise to justify my choice any further in her presence. Then without warning, she and he launched into a conversation about, “He looked so good in the ‘Breakthru’ video, even though he was already so sick,” and suddenly Brian vanishes nameless into the ether and everything is all about Freddie; a wistful sadness descends upon the little group as they think about his illness and death and patently felt absence.

Freddie

At this point I let them talk and stayed out of it.

And wondered halfway if Brian ever felt like Elena must, in Freddie’s presence.

A moment later, I looked up to realize they’re both gone—different people inhabit those seats. “What happened?”

“They went over to the Brian Side,” Danielle said.

I looked. Ah.

I thought about that for a minute, and realized that at three rows back the view is excellent no matter where on the row we sit, and figured I’m glad to be here on this side, supporting Elena rather than deserting her like that.

Then a brief introduction by the president of the LA 3-D club which meets at this venue every month–ah, so that explains it–and the two authors walk down the aisle on our right, just a few feet away, and the room is electrified with excitement. It became a surreal, exotic feeling of “Wow. There he is.” Right in front of my eyes. Brian May.

It felt a little, I suppose, like spotting the rare shy wildlife creature that appears only just at dusk in secreted faraway places, if you know where to look.

And if one is patient, and doesn’t scare him off into hiding, one might just snap a flash photo before the lecture starts.

Part II still ahead: the lecture and book.