"Heaven On Earth Will Have To Do," Part Three - When Words Suffice: Lingering Over Alan's Journal Entries

I've been thinking more about words lately than about photos, Alan's words in particular. So this entry is about those words, about my own response to Alan's most recent journal entries - Europe, parts 1 and 2.

Alan Doyle, August 31 Journal Entry

In an effort to travel light through the “one bag limit” Heathrow, and the many planes, train, and automobiles that carried us around Europe on the recent GBS Tour, I left my computer at home.  No laptop on the road, so I’m just getting to compiling a few thoughts and remembrances of our romp that took us to Halifax,  Edinburgh, Inverness, Exeter, Bath, London, Hamburg, Tonder, and finally home in St John’s…all in ten days.

Air Canada has cancelled many or all of its direct flights to Heathrow from St. John’s, so many of us had to travel to Halifax around supper time to get the transatlantic flight late Thursday evening.  We arrived in Heathrow shortly after dawn, cleared UK Customs, and dashed across the airport, got on several escalators, staircases, moving sidewalks, then cleared customs again, for some reason, and secondary security and jumped aboard two different buses and a sub terminal train, to arrive at our connecting flight to Scotland which I’m certain was only three gates away from where we started.  I love England.  I really do.  I also have a fondness for London.  Heathrow, however, could very well be Hell on Earth.  I’m serious.  Fire and Brimstone could not possibly be as hellish and claustrophobic as this self confessed dangerously out of date and over run facility.  You guys know I hate airports, and Heathrow is the worst of the lot.

Enough whining.

Ah, but when the whining is charmingly well-written, there's no need to forego it. Whine at will, Dear Author.

No need to forego the laptop either, not to my way of thinking. We thumbed our noses at AC's perpetual shafting of Newfoundlanders and left on the 12th out of St. John's via Astraeus Airlines to Gatwick - I've still never been to Heathrow, but I can now say that Gatwick leaves much to be desired, chaotic and claustrophobic in its own right - and had that same one-carryon-limit to contend with, probably at least as many planes, trains, and automobiles along the way as well. I managed to get camera, computer, batteries, cords and cables, photo cards, USB sticks, passport, and a few "too irreplaceable to risk checking" items (no way any airline gets their grubby, luggage-losing hands on my Habs toque or my Oz Day hat, same for my battered-but-beloved Canada sweatshirt) into my laptop bag...all the rest of the necessities for the next 18 days were crammed in laws-of-physics-defying fashion into a pack on my back.  I did do a bit of whining about the weight of said pack, less charmingly so than Alan's whining, I am sure.

The backpack worked out better than my best hopes. I'm a wuss when it comes to carrying the rolling suitcases up and down stairs - of which there were an abundance in the train stations and at the hotels - and I am an even bigger wuss when it comes to hopping across the gap between station platform and train car, especially when trying to negotiate a suitcase along the same path. I still had my packed-to-the-gills laptop bag to contend with, but at least even a wuss can carry that for short distances. We managed to negotiate three flights, three train rides, two rental vehicles (one of them a tremendously cool camper van), and numerous taxis and shuttles while going to London, Newcastle, Edinburgh, Inverness, Ottery-St.-Mary, Salisbury, Hamburg, and Tønder, a few of those locales visited/passed through multiple times.

The crew guys and Bob headed for Inverness while Sean, Murray, Kris and I made it to Edinburgh by lunch time on Friday and the sun began to shine the moment we stepped onto the sidewalk of the hotel which affords a perfect view of the Famous Royal Mile and Edinburgh Castle.  I nipped over the Edinburgh from Glasgow a few years back when GBS was playing the Celtic Connections Festival.  The train ride between the two cities is very short and I got the chance for a quick glance at what I now consider to be the loveliest city in the UK.  The Fringe Festival was in full swing when we arrived.  The Fringe is one of the greatest collections of extroverts you’ll ever witness.  Actors, dancers, musicians, comedians, painters, sculptors, and buskers from all nations descend on Edinburgh to flaunt their wares in this Orgy of the Arts.  I have a soft spot for any one willing to stand in front of me or a group that I’m in, and do something exclusively for my or our entertainment.  I think the world is a better place because of this Company of Fools, and I am a card carrying member to prove it.

A momentary pause for writer's appreciation. This is a beautifully crafted paragraph: it succinctly describes actions in both past and present, it makes me almost (but not quite) regret my own choice of Hadrian's Wall over an Edinburgh visit (next time, the "loveliest city in the UK" for sure), and it paints a perceptive self-portrait of the consummate-performer-turned-thoughtful-observer...all this in only 200 or so well-chosen words. Exquisite.

We saw some street music and performances, all of which were worth a listen and a look. We sat in a street side café and watched folks come and go. Tom Hanks walked by at one point. I assume he must be working in the area or just an Edinburgh lover like us. The whole city was consumed by the festival. Every ten steps we bumped into someone handing out pamphlets or cards for their show or performance. Many of them were in full costume. A very sexy Little Red Riding Hood invited me to the park at 7 pm while the ever present Peruvian pan flute players played “Bridge Over Troubled Waters”.

More excellent description, especially the juxtaposition of Little Red and S & G on pan flute; it deftly captures a sense of the surreal wonder of a beautiful city "consumed by the festival". I'm not sure how hard or how long Alan worked on this passage, but the final result of his efforts is some of his most evocative prose writing so far. Effective, as well. Absolutely and most definitely... Edinburgh next time.

In the evening we saw a few standup comedians.  This has to be the hardest gig in show business.  I watched some fairly gifted gal from London die a thousand deaths during her ill-received performance in the back of one of the zillion venues offering Fringe acts.  Like I said, she was OK, and OK can work just fine for a lot of gigs, say you’re an Irish pub singer, or the rhythm guitar player in a rock cover band, the drummer in Beatle mania,  the shaker player in Santana, the fourth sax player in a big band, …you get the picture.  There are many performance gigs where OK will get the job done and you can learn to hide behind your friends talents to mask your own shortcomings.  Trust me; I’ve done it for years.  Stand up comics may as well be naked on stage.  No help from anywhere in sight and nothing short of outbursts of uncontrollable laughter is considered a success.  In music terms, it would be like requiring a standing ovation three times a song. Almost impossible to succeed.  Can’t believe anyone would do it for a living.

I first read this journal entry more than a week ago, and since that first reading, this passage has been on my mind. There is so much to consider in Alan's words here. Context, subtext, the heart of the matter - call it whatever you will, there's a compelling portion of sincerity in these words, even if Alan's honesty about the issue of hiding could be called into question. Honesty and truth aren't necessarily cut from the same cloth...never let the facts get in the way of the good story, after all. These words are true and the story is indeed a good one.  Again, the self-portrait is vivid and alive; Alan's words make me see him at that comedy gig, keen eyes watching the ill-received performance thoughtfully, restless mind making the connections, empathy blending with self-awareness, resulting in understanding, as well as in skillful writing.

I tend to shy away from stand-up comics - especially live, but even on television - because of that same wide-open vulnerability that Alan describes; I find it difficult not to die those thousand deaths right along with the comic whose gig has gone bad. With musicians, I have at times felt torn...irresistibly drawn to those who lay bare their souls on stage, yet fearfully reluctant to become a helpless witness to their being devoured by the ever-present sharks in the water. I've done my own wondering about how they could do what they do for a living as well. But there comes the time when attraction totally overwhelms reluctance.

What Alan wrote about being "naked on stage" has been haunting my mind for days now, and not only for the most obvious reason (no sense even trying to pretend that bit of literal-level wishful thinking isn't front and centre, and, yes, there is a smile on my face as I type these words). Lingering for a few moments on the level of the metaphorical, however, I'll say that Alan Doyle is one of the most stage-naked performers I have ever seen in my life, right at the top of the list of those artists whose passion and desire, as well as whose vulnerability and need, are clearly evident to all but the most willfully blind.

I won't say there have never been those shows where Alan got the job done by being OK - if I tried to say that, he'd be the first to tell me I was being neither honest nor truthful; what I will say, however, is that I have never seen a show where Alan Doyle has not clearly shown how dissatisfied he is with "OK" and how deeply his heart longs for "superb". As spectacular as he is all of the many times he achieves those highest performance levels, he is as consistently beautiful in that ever-present metaphorical stage-nakedness as he would be on a literal level. Which is very high praise indeed.

We ate some of the best Italian food I’ve ever tasted at the Patio, and went to a headline comedy show featuring ex-Saturday Night Live cast member, Rich Hall.  His first half was one of the funniest, most bold performances I’ve ever seen.  Isn’t it funny how comics are often the only ones unafraid to call it like it is.  Their funniest material is the stuff that is closest to the God honest Truth.  Interesting.

Another comment of Alan's that's been teasing my brain for the past week, teasing and challenging. It sounds as if the Writer himself is feeling a bit teased and challenged. If so, good for him; it's excellent timing to be teased and challenged while working on a new CD, equally so when writing a book. Perfect timing for the God's Honest Truth and calling it like it is. I'd be fibbing if I tried to pretend I wasn't thinking about Where I Belong right now, though for sure that song's got no convenient humour to hide behind...it's the God's Honest Truth served up without qualification or apology, more so than any comic's act too. Straight To Hell does better at calling it like it is with a wink and a smile.

Actually, GBS in particular and Newfoundlanders in general already use humour a good deal to call it like it is. But that humour often tends to be too carefully subtle to penetrate perceptions formed by the bigoted stereotypes and willful delusions of many. The God's Honest Truth might be getting told, but it's not always being heard as such. And sometimes that is as much caused by the truth-teller's wanting to hold onto a protective shred of plausible deniability (Aw, it was just me foolin' around, missus, there's no need be gettin' pissed off!) as it is caused by those who are too stunned or too stubborn to hear that truth. Because comics lack the luxury of plausible deniability, bold and unafraid being part of the job description, there's a decent chance of artistic truth happening during their act. Artistic truth tends to tease and challenge, as well as to tempt and inspire, most creative people, be they musicians, authors, songwriters, or all of the above. Again, excellent timing.

Although I kept checking Italian-restaurant menus for my favourite dish - cannelloni, apparently more easily found in Europe than in the States - I wound up eating and drinking mostly local fare. Who would have thought haggis could be so tasty and lamb stews so rich and thick? Or Cumberland sausages so sensual? Even the Tuborg Classic was great, and good Guinness was far more common than not.  The pasties and meat pies reminded me of Australia, and cranachan is a bowl of pure heavenly bliss...warm toasted oatmeal, cream, heather honey, rasperries and as much whiskey as I wanted, to which I invariably replied, "Just put in however much you'd have for yourself." Delightful. I did make a bit of an ass of myself asking in Newcastle if they had any Earl Grey tea ("Have you been to the monument just down the street yet, dear?") but I somewhat redeemed myself by virtue drinking my cup of Earl Grey tea the "right" way, black. Which is how I drink all tea, but it still seemed to count anyway.

I wanted to continue late into the night, but the fact that I’d not been asleep in nearly forty hours coupled with my desire to not suck at the Runrig gig sent me to an early bed.

Edinburgh is spectacular.

I can't think of a better recommendation for the value of a good night's sleep - Alan was himself spectacular at the Runrig gig. Perhaps next time he can be spectacular in Edinburgh.

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Alan Doyle, September 1st Journal Entry

We woke early and jumped aboard the train in Edinburgh Station that would carry us to Inverness.  I love traveling on trains.  It seems so civilized and romantic.  We steadily wove our way through the Scottish Coast and took a sharp left turn after an hour or so and headed directly up to the Highlands.  Rolling green hills all around.

Our first British train ride - from London's King's Cross station to Newcastle - might have been civilised, but it lacked romanticism since I wound up having to sit facing backwards, not at all a happy outcome. But I distracted myself with logging onto the onboard online service (yes, definitely civilised) and got through it. The next train ride - from Newcastle to Edinburgh (all I saw of this lovely city was the train station, sad to say) and then the same ride Alan describes from Edinburgh to Inverness - was a vast improvement on the first, forward-facing and filled with gorgeous scenery...sparkling waves crashing against a rocky coastline, and then that sharp turn toward rolling hills and stony cliffs, all of it bathed in golden sunlight. I'd be recalling that lovely sunlight while waiting in a soggy line for the Runrig show to begin.

Could be worser.

Did I ever tell you about that saying?  “Could be worser”.  An old Skipper in Petty Harbour used to say that all the time.  I always thought it sounded cooler and made more sense than the proper grammar of “could be worse”.  It has an innocence and naivety that I find charming and honest.  Could be worser.

Excellent ear, Alan. "Could be worser" could scarce be any better. The same can be said for your writing voice, which is continuing to show an impressive growth in confidence and deftness.

We arrived in Inverness and the sky opened up.  The threatening rain of the forecast had kept its promise and dumped on the highlands just in time for the start of Runrig’s ‘Beat the Drum” Festival.  The Festival was actually a few kilometers outside of Inverness in the town of Drumnadrochit on the shores of Loch Ness.  The drive down the winding lake side, or loch side highway was slow, slow, as the concert goers made their way down the only access to the big gig.

There's more to be said about the Drumnadrochit show later when I finally get the photos done. For now, suffice to say I now call it the "Rainrig show at Loch Mess". I've lived in the Seattle area for 10 or so years and have travelled all across Canada in every season, but I never knew what it was like to stand in a constant stream of rain for more than 15 hours until this show. Or what such a steady stream of rain could create in terms of an entire landscape comprised solely of mud. Awesome, in its own sodden way.

The concert was a much bigger affair than I imagined.  With a Sold Out crowd of almost 20,000, the venue featured a massive stage, audio and light rig, video production, the whole lot.  We’ve toured with Runrig before and it seems they are still growing in popularity, despite being well into their fourth decade as a band.  That is quite an accomplishment and the lads deserve congratulations.

I'm fascinated by Runrig, still not at all sure I've got a solid understanding of what their music and their draw - not to mention their fans - are all about. Bruce Guthro seemed to have changed from how I'd seen him as Runrig Front Man back in 2004, at this show and at the Tønder Runrig gig I saw, enough so to make me think all the more about how different an artist he is in his solo work compared to his role with Runrig. And my attention kept being caught by one of the founding brothers of the band, Rory MacDonald, who even after all these years in the same band still plays his show as if it's the most important thing he could possibly be doing, which kept reminding me of someone else. This was indeed a Big Gig, a CD-release show and DVD-filming too. It seemed as if every Runrig fan from all across Europe might be there.

I guess it seemed that way to a Scottish television station too. While we were standing huddled up against the barrier in the relentless rain during the early opening acts, a fellow came along and asked me if I had come to see Runrig all the way from Australia. For a moment, I thought him daft, but then recalled I was wearing my Oz Day hat beneath the hood of my raincoat so its brim would keep my glasses somewhat dry. When I told him I was only from Seattle, he still seemed impressed and said he'd be back later for a radio interview. Yeah, sure.

More of the show went by, then GBS came on and I pretty much forgot about buddy the moment Alan walked out onto the big stage with an even-bigger smile on his face. Wolfstone played afterwards, and then it was nearly time for Runrig. I was just about as soggy and bedraggled as I've ever been, and here comes buddy again, walking up with a frigging cameraman in tow. Now he wants to do a film interview for Scottish television, one all about how far Runrig fans will travel to see their favourite band. I wonder if the camera was already rolling when I gave it that initial baleful look.

But this was a great PR opportunity, so I took a deep breath and tried to stop my teeth from chattering long enough to sound coherent saying that I found out about Runrig because of Great Big Sea playing with them at Tønder, that we were going to go see both bands again there too. Christina got in some good comments about being from GBS's home in Newfoundland, how it is right next to Bruce Guthro's own home province. Buddy asked how long we'd been standing out in the rain, and when he asked if it would be worth it, there was only one answer to be made: It's already worth it. And so it was.

We played our set and managed to get through it with no massive mistakes.  I think we were fairly well received.  With a long travel day ahead and rain coming down in buckets, we packed the gear and made our way back to Inverness.

Since I was still standing back at Borlum Farm in those buckets of rain as Alan made his way to Inverness, I can say that Runrig put on a very good show, though it must have been a challenge to keep a wet and weary crowd responding so enthusiastically. It should make for quite an interesting DVD.

While most of the other opening acts at Beat The Drum had been quite good - Julie Fowlis in particular - it was Great Big Sea who lit a warming fire in the midst of that cold and shivering crowd; this is not my opinion alone...it's what I heard people saying over and over again, as well as what I felt in the crowd. They brought enough electricity to give the crowd a much-needed jolt. As well as Wolfstone played after them, it really wasn't the kind of music for somehow perusading you into believing that your feet were not too wet, nor was your body too cold, for dancing, which is exactly what GBS managed to pull off. Another one of the many times when they make it so easy to be proud of them, and even more important, one of the needs-to-be-more-frequent times when it looked as if they were enjoying themselves as much as the crowd was enjoying them.

A drive, a flight, and a drive got us to the Beautiful Days Festival near Exeter, England. Ever see those photos from Glastonbury?  You know, the ones with people covered in mud, looking kind of Druidish?   That was the vibe at the Beautiful Days Festival.  British festival fans are completely unhindered by mud.  Not only do they happily stroll through it, oblivious to the dirt and muck that they would normally avoid, but they also look very cool doing so.  Dare I say, the gals actually manage to make it look sexy!  Yes British gals in Festival Wellies are sexy.  There, I said it.  Sexy Wellies.  Maybe it’s my Petty Harbour wharf days coming back.

Our escape from Inverness was a bit more challenging. By the time the show ended - with a massive diversion of those thousands of people out a single exit since the other entryway into the festival grounds (a not-very-well-thought-out bridge crossing that had been built specifically for this show) had been flooded out, the lazy little creek of the morning now turned into a raging torrent - we returned to an absolute mud hole of a pasture-pretending-to-be-a-parking-lot. Walking was difficult enough (I went down on my arse in the mud, but managed to keep the sausages safe), driving was impossible. Everyone was getting stuck in the mud, with rescue attempts good-natured but utterly haphazard. A drunk fellow pushed us out of one quagmire, then staggered on his merry way; we promptly got stuck again in the next quagmire.  A group of drunk teens cheerfully pushed us out of that one...they staggered away and we got stuck, all over again. The lineup to the main exit gate was hundreds of cars long, all of them just as stuck as we were, with no help in sight (they eventually brought in a tractor and pulled people out one by one, taking hours to clear all the vehicles out, or so we were later told).

We had a 7 am flight out of the Inverness airport, and I was growing weary of being stuck in the mud, so we chose not to wait God knows how long for outside assistance. We decided to take a shot at the now-deserted back entrance, with nobody but yours truly to push the rental car out of its current quagmire. I got behind the car, planted my feet ankle deep in the muck, put my hands on the bumper and shouted out for Christina to go for it; then I pushed as hard as I could while my feet were sliding out from under me and the wheels spun madly. Damned if the blasted car didn't break loose and shoot forward, nearly leaving me on my face in the mud. We made it out of the sodden pasture and onto the pavement, shouting in giddy victory.

Then we drove to the Inverness airport, thinking we could clean up and catch a few hours sleep some place warm and dry. And discovered the airport did not open for three more hours. Ever sleep in a Ford Focus while in the Rental Car Return Lane, still wearing your soaking wet muddy clothes?

We cleaned up as best we could in the airport bathroom before getting on the flight back to London, where we picked up another rental car and drove straight to the Beautiful Days Festival in Ottery-St.-Mary, just outside of Exeter. Once we arrived, we realised our efforts to clean off the accumulated mud had been as pointless as they were futile. I was beginning to comprehend that Mud is an intergral component of British Festivals, even before Alan pointed it out. As slippery as the footing was walking around the Festival grounds, still I took my chances of landing on my arse yet again and wandered around the entire circuit, fascinated to the point of being transfixed by all I saw. This was my first experience with British Festivals, though I hope nowhere near my last.

And I learned a great deal, chief lesson being that hiking boots do not cut it. Next time, I won't be caught without my wellies, and not just because Alan thinks them sexy, though that certainly adds yet more motivation for making room for those rubber boots in my pack. ("And when she had her wellies on, she could dance as well as anyone".)

Only saw one other act at the Festival.  Comedian Bill Bailey is a huge draw in the UK and I can see why.  His parody songs are both hilarious and poignant.  More evidence that the funny guys are the ones with the truest words.  He is a great player as well and he wowed the packed tent of a few thousand fans.

Bill Bailey wowed me right along with the rest in that tent. He was introduced as the performer who had been most requested by festival-goers, and I can see why. Some of his parody songs are so perfect that they stand only inches inside parody's boundary, and his wit cuts clean and sharp and deep. It was interesting to see so many young audience members catching every nuance of even the most subtle jokes. I think Alan's showing his perceptiveness again with his "poignant" assessment of Bailey; there's something about the man that makes you wonder what it is he might have started out wanting to do before he became so successful at what he's doing now, something that reaches out and touches you even when he's also making you howl with laughter.

We played our set to a hearty crowd of close to a thousand people and we sold a bunch of discs to newly converted fans. 

I liked the crowd in that silly pink tent for GBS's show. There were a few Canada transplants and some local fans from earlier tours, but there were also a whole lot of people who stuck around after the preceding acts (Bill Bailey and several straight-up rock bands before him, all of which made the rockier GBS set list a great call) or who wandered in because they liked what they heard.

I'm not surprised the intrepid GBS merch man sold lots of CDs at Beautiful Days...as best I could tell, it's a Festival designed for the well-heeled music lover (It's an expensive festival, but every penny paid was worth it to me for those few moments after the GBS set alone) to wallow cheerfully in an abundance of both good music and mud, to play Hippie/Stoner/Druid/Free Spirit for a few days and then come back home with a slew of CDs and a pile of tie-dye, maybe even with a few hazily indiscreet memories, as souvenirs of a grand time had before heading off back to the office on Monday morning. In other words, a great place for GBS to play. Perhaps everyone can do it again next year.

We bolted after the show to Exeter, where Sean, Murray, Kris and I stayed for the evening.  We thought about hitting the hay early after a long day on the road.  We dropped our bags in the room and went directly to the pub instead.

We briefly considered staying for the Levellers' festival-closing performance, but it had been a godawful long day for us too. We also briefly considered Exeter, but since we were travelling to Stonehenge th next day, we decided to head up to Salisbury and see if we could find a place to stay there. After ineffectually wandering around that town for a bit, we resorted to my tried-and-true tactic for finding a good place in any town - we asked at the busiest pub we could find. Sure enough, buddy there directed us to the Red Lion Hotel, aptly named and veritably awash in history and romance, where we spent a delightful evening, one that included our own pub venture, as well as a bed kept warm by a sweetly accommodating little lion, who also had his own gorgeously furry belly. I am an utter pushover for a sexy belly.

That catches me up to where Alan is, though paths are going to diverge once again, since I spent the next day pondering the enigmatic remoteness of Stonehenge and he headed for yet another one of our alternate destinations. But after that day, all paths converge again in London, at the crime scene that then became the scene of a great show, though I'm also thinking of it as the place where I very nearly asked Alan the question I've been carrying around for such a long time, adding to it and then editing it, re-wording it more times than I can count. A question that went still-unasked in London, as well as in Tønder, but only just barely so. At least I'm finally to the point where it's a matter of when I ask it, no longer one of if.

Could be worser.

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With any discipline at all, next up should be some photos, maybe of Loch Ness or even Tønder first. I'm still not sure where to begin, especially since I realised last night that I never did anything with most of the Ridgefield/Cape Cod/Lowell show photos either. I'm thinking about just starting with the shows that made me the happiest, which are invariably the shows where Alan looks the happiest. Sequential order is somewhat overrated, after all; much easier to order and rank by Alan-smile.

I'd still like to make a few comments about Bob's Festival Deconstruction too, and maybe even tell the tale of the giant Eastern European London club bouncer who became so inexplicably fond of me that he waived the cover charges each time we went to sample the most excellent Guinness there. The B&B proprietor who found out too late that normal and innocent appearances can be quite deceiving. The shit-faced would-be suitor in the pub who kept mistaking "Seattle" for "Slainte" and repeatedly offered up toasts to the State Of Washington. Other tales for the telling as well, but they will have to wait. For now, it's a gorgeous afternoon and I am going for a nice long walk.

Comments

[Stephen]

Poke, poke, poke. You like to piss off people? Crazy people?

Heh, I'd like to see that TV interview. Did you get a chance to see it yourself? I've seen what you look like after a few hours in the rain but not 15. Gad!

I was going ot say your perspective of fans is warped because you're always in the front for shows but it occurs to me it's the same perspective the band has too. They don't see the fans further back any better than you do and you all see the shit that goes on up front best of all.

I never thought of that before today. You're as warped as they are, kiddo.

I still think you should write about the fan insanity you've seen. It's powerful stuff.

[lynda]

You're responding to two different entries again? You know how easily I get confused.

First up, I don't see it as poking, not really - even less so as pissing off the crazy people. By definition, the crazy people don't think anything they do is ever wrong. That's part of being crazy. You know that better than I do.

As for the others, the only ones who get pissed off when I go on about attention-predators are the ones who know that they are...attention-predators.

Think about it: If somebody accuses you of not understanding how people's minds work, you laugh, because you know beyond doubt that's not true about you. But if they accuse you of being a shitty basketball player (sorry, buddy, I need it for the analogy), that hits home, right?

Same with me. If somebody says I'm too taciturn, I'll laugh. Loudly. That's akin to saying I'm too tall. But say I can't find my way out of my own living room, and there's no way I can deny the truth in that one.

Same again with fans who act like needy/greedy assholes: The people who would never behave that way know what I said has got nothing to do with them. So who gets pissed? The ones who know how badly they behave.

Call me an idealist, but I do believe most people realise it when they act like jerks, they just don't let that stop them from those actions. The fact that they realise it - even more so the fact that they get pissed when called on it - means there's still some tiny little hope they'll quit behaving that way some day. It's the ones who should but can't even begin to see themselves in the description who are truly hopeless. Or truly nuts, take your pick.

Then there are the ones who know the shoe fits but don't get pissed because they're proud to be wearing what they think are Cinderella's slippers. Don't think for a moment that type doesn't exist, the ones who glory in seeing others as existing solely for their own benefit. Proud predators, perched at the top of the food chain, always using more than they are used. Usually deeply envied by the lower levels of attention-predators, the ones who do get pissed, maybe mostly because of that envy.

Nope, didn't see the interview and really do not want to. I was way beyond how bedraggled you've seen me. Did you know that if you are in the rain long enough, you start to shrivel up just like when you spend too much time in the tub? Did you know you can get blisters on your toes from your feet being wet for hours on end? That one really sucked - drove me nuts for several days after Loch Ness. I've never had any bothers at all with my feet, had no clue how miserable it can be. Definitely making room for the wellies next time.

Oh yes, and if you are out in the rain long enough, your hair colour begins to run. I have some lovely reddish stains in the lavender hood of my rain coat. No, I really do not want to see that interview, thanks much.

I don't really think of it as being "warped," you know. "Damaged" is the word that continually comes to my mind instead. And though I'll admit to my own share of damage, I doubt that I am even close to where they are at. I've only splashed around in the shallow end of the pool, facing pesky little piranhas, mostly; they're the ones who have to confront the big sharks who dwell in the deep and murky end of that pool.

The Desperate Souls, Nasty Bitches, and Bouncing Bimbos I typically encounter aren't even in the same league as the top-of-the-food-chain predators they have to deal with. Plus, they are the primary target; all I have ever been to anyone is collateral damage. No comparison at all.

What amazes me the most is how they cope with it all, especially Alan. There are times he leaves me in awe of how well he deals with even the most disgusting displays of bad behaviour, such as when some poor excuse for a mother is clearly pushing her often-bewildered child forward so she can push herself forward too ("There he is!...quick, go run up and hug that man...the one with the long hair, you dummy!...hurry or he'll get away!" - verbatim quote, said as the confused child was given a hard push between the shoulders toward Alan.)

There's no way on God's earth Alan isn't seeing this repulsive behaviour for what it is, but never once have I seen him pull away from or otherwise reject the innocent victim in all this, the child. He tolerates the mother for the sake of the child very admirably too, way the hell better than I would ever be able to do in his situation, no matter how much I wanted to be kind to that child. Maybe way the hell better than Sean and Bob have come to believe they can do too.

When I see the expression on a small face go from being confused to smiling, I think the fellow who caused that smile is about as special as can be. I still wish I could kick the worthless mother in the arse, but I want even more to hug that dear, sweet man and tell him that I think he is wonderful and amazing.

And then I wonder how he can still be who he is after so many years of dealing with just this kind of shit. It impresses me, and it makes me remember the need to focus on the smiles, and on the people who are decent and good, because the alternative is to start thinking that the bad and the selfish are all there is. I seem to need that reminder fairly often; I am grateful each time it comes.

I agree the fan stuff is powerful - though I have serious doubts as to how many people really want their own fan fantasies troubled by hearing about it - but I still say that I lack the compassion and empathy I'd need to write about that kind of fan behaviour. Power without compassion and empathy is not enough.

And what sort of a kindness would it be to Alan or to GBS if I write about how much I think of him/them, and now here's a laundry list of all the crazy/shitty things I have witnessed happening among their fans? Context, perspective, yes, but not a laundry list. And not at all without compassion and empathy.

Hey, did you see that lead the Angels have over the M's? When the heck did that happen? David is dancing in the streets.

[Elizabeth]

Why talk about bad behaving fans at all? Isn't ignoring them a better option?

I love haggis too. My husband can't say the word without gagging *lol*

[Lynda]

Hi Elizabeth - Ignoring bad behaviour is certainly an option, though I'm not sure if it's the better option. But it's what happens most of the time in the larger GBS fan group, where there is always a good deal of pressure against talking about anything other than How Happy GBS Makes Me, right along with How Happy GBS Are Themselves (and especially How Alan Always Makes Me Smile, with the ever-lurking implicit threat behind it of And He'd Better Keep Right On Doing Just That If He Knows What's Good For Him, Goddammit).

When a significant portion of your fan base comes to you as an escape from an often-unpleasant reality, it makes sense that anything outside of the parameters of escapism would tend to be considered off-limits. Actually, the same can be said for how many people view their own visits to Newfoundland. Such a happy place, such happy people, and don't you dare rock the boat with any unwanted realities that get in the way of my memory of all those fun times down on George Street.

It's a common enough tourist attitude; in some ways, GBS has more than a bit of a tourist fan base. Like the tourist who visits occasionally, the people who go to occasional shows probably find it easy enough to ignore bad and sometimes downright ugly fan behaviour, either refusing to acknowledge it outright or explaining it away as something that's "only happening this one time".

Then there are the otherwise-decent people who explain away their own petty little bad behaviours - pounding on the tour-bus door or interrupting band members during a meal - that same way, refusing to face up to the logical inevitability that whatever intrusive action they are committing "just this one time" is the same intrusive action that's been committed hundreds or even thousands of times before by all the otherwise-decent folks who came before them. Their own participation in that petty little level of rude and selfish behaviour gives some an incentive against wanting to hear about or even acknowledge anything at all about the next levels of bad behaviour.

Willful escapism and/or guilty "that could have been me acting that way, given the opportunity" conscience - either way, yes, there are arguments for just not talking about anything ugly or perturbing or negative. And lots of people who don't go to a pile of shows honestly never see much if any of the bad shit at all, especially those who come late, leave early, and really do have no purpose beyond enjoying the music. Yet another argument for not talking about something totally removed from the experience of that kind of fan, the very people who are, frankly, the kind of fan I earnestly wish GBS had many more of.

So why run the risk of scaring that kind of fan off with tales of how bad it can be? Especially on GBS's own official web site? - a very big mistake I am completely guilty of having made. It's sure taken me way too long to publicly admit to that, hasn't it? But better late than never, I suppose, though it would probably be more fitting to admit it some place more prominent than buried here in a wordy comment. One step at a time.

I go back and forth about what to say and where and when all the time, Elizabeth. For every tale I wind up telling, there are a dozen usually-worse ones that never see the light of day. With the tales I do tell, I invariably second-guess that telling. Over the past few years, I have sometimes found myself thinking about GBS not all that dissimilarly from how doctors think: If you can't help, at the very least do no harm.

It then becomes a struggle to determine how best to do no harm. Does silence do less damage than honesty? Or is it the other way around?

The answer to that depends, as most answers do, on the ultimate goal. If the ultimate goal is to bolster and strengthen the Myth Of Perpetual NewfoundDisneyland Happiness - a myth that sells them a shitload of CDs and concert tickets, as well as one that brings a lot of tourist dollars to folks in dire need of that money, because it's a myth plenty of people desperately want to believe in...though also a myth that constrains and limits artists and culture alike - then I should probably just shut the fuck up and let them play out their roles and wield their stereotypes howsoever they may choose. I do have my Shut The Fuck Up days, Elizabeth, days when I understand why it is the book I want so badly to write has not yet been written. The more deeply you care, the greater the motivation to do no harm.

And with those words, I am right back to the question of what exactly does the greater damage. At the end of the day, the men of Great Big Sea are who they are in the here and now because of all they have experienced - the hard and the easy, the cool and the shitty, the kindnesses and the cruelty - over the years. To choose to turn a blind eye, a deaf ear, and a silent tongue to some parts of that experience is a refusal to see them for who they really are now, which makes sense for those who don't like seeing them that way anyway, those who prefer the comfort and assurance of fantasy over the challenge and turbulence of reality.

But I like the challenge and the turbulence to be found in them as they are, as well as in the place from which they come. I like what I see when I try to see them in terms of both the wonderful and the terrible of their lives. I like them when they make me happy and I like them when they break my heart. Proud of them, pissed at them, worried for them, laughing with them...regardless, I like who they are.

I keep believing that others could feel the same way, that others could respond to the same truths with the same admiration and respect and affection. I keep believing that there is room and space for them - "them" being the men of GBS and the people of Newfoundland - to be whatever they choose to be, no limits to potential and no constraints on possibilities, the only pertinent expectations being the those they have of themselves.

And that is when Shut The Fuck Up seems a mistaken path to walk. That's how it seems today, at least. Tomorrow it might be a different story altogether.

Of course, those who do not have days where they believe it possible that being seen and known in the fullness of who and what they are could lead to admiration and respect and affection have every motivation to keep the myth going. There is safety and protection to be found in that myth; one man's prison might very well be another man's fortress.

To some, the very thought that any Outsiders could ever be capable of seeing them as they are, let alone of caring about them for who they are, is laughable and ridiculous. There are those who do not want to be known, those whose cynicism and contempt come from an historically well-founded fear of misunderstanding and mistreatment.

My heart belongs to the ones who hold onto courage and hope, those who have the confidence and the desire to let the world see all they are and all they are capable of creating and accomplishing, daring that world to be anything other than dazzled by their efforts, daring it still even after having been misunderstood and mistreated. Those who chafe and rebel against the pressure to Shut The Fuck Up, even when they're being told that all their chafing and rebelling is likely going to send them straight to hell.

But I have come to understand why the others choose their more-cautious paths; as sweet as the easy is, there is a hell of a lot of the hard to be found in this world. There are times when I have thought even the most prison-like fortress might be of great and eminently sensible value as a storm shelter. Then the storm passes, the sun comes out, the sharp salt scent of the sea floats on the breeze...and the safety of the fortress once again seems too high a price to pay, even though there's sure to be yet another storm blowing in on the horizon. Too high a price to me, that is, even if perhaps not to some others. Then again, I'm not much of a recommendation for "sensible".

Although I am learning, slowly and the hard way more often than not, and I am beginning to stake out a parcel of Middle Ground, a place to stand and a place from which to write. Still not a lot of solid ground, but at least there's one foundational support beneath tentative footing and wobbly knees: A hope for each person to be able to choose freely who it is he will be and what it is he will accomplish, and to be known as much or as little as he chooses, to be as hopeful or as cynical, as safe within the fortress or as free out on the wide open sea, as he chooses. And, pivotally, for as much as is possible of that individual freedom to somehow remain alive in face of the needs and demands of the community.

Sounds straightforward and simple enough, but still a tall order and a very optimistic hope, a heaven-on-earth kind of hope. Not to mention a challenge and a half to write.

As ever, I tend to wander, very far afield, especially when I am thinking about writing-related matters. I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I hope there's an acceptable response to your comment somewhere in all of that.

I had a bit of trepidation about trying haggis, given all the going on from some about how awful it is - not unlike the going on about cod tongues, which I've discovered that I also love - but was determined to try anyway. And I thought it was great, damn tasty and served up with lovely gravy and mashed potatoes ("tatties"). Then they served cranachan for dessert, and that was when I seriously fell in love with Scotland.

[Disgruntled Mariner Fan]

You still think there's way more logic than there is inside scrambled brains and that's not good. The happy horseshit type are the nastiest when you piss on their delusions so don't go out of your way to poke them. There's no one meaner than the happy people. It's why they need the delusions in the first place. What you said is reasonable but what they think isn't reasonable more often than it is. It doesn't have to make sense to them, less so to you. A lot of the time they like it better if it doesn't make sense.

You need to stop worrying about what to say or not. Trust yourself to say what you believe in your own time.

-End of pompous lecture and know it all advice-

One team wins, the other loses. What's bad timing for the M's is great timing for LA. They've still got a decent record, but the Angels are fighting it out for the best record in BB.

You ain't getting me to eat sheep innards and no fish tongues, either.

Stephen

[lynda]

Point taken. Both points taken. Thanks.

You've got me wondering if there's a Scottish restaurant in Seattle. Want to go out for supper when I get back?