Monday, February 16, 2009
The paparazzo who couldn't get past his F-stop
There was a time when I couldn't even spell paparazzo, till I became one.
Latin was a bitch until I learned enough to descipher some ancient graffiti on a Pompeii washroom and found things to be the same as in the Fifties washrooms of my Hamilton Ontario town. I swear that in my National Geographic examination of Pompeii, someone had scrawled, in a graffito, "Tibulsus eats it." Had things changed in 1900 years? And graffiti to honour gladiators much the same way we would tout the Hamilton Tiger Cats. Yeah," the Montreal Alouettes eat it!"
But I digress.
It was fun being a paparazzo, though I was a real klutz when it came to operating a camera.
Chased Sylvia Tyson of Ian and Sylvia fame, ran her down, was struck by her personal beauty and somehow couldn't get past my F-stop.
I finally had to get to her publicist to get a photo of her that night in the club....And in any event, she was friendly and was glad of the publicity.
So many stars actually welcomed paparazzi in the Seventies.
I had one of the cast of Gidget almost bedded down until I realized that I was then a married man.
O baby, it you'd only come around now.
But I am no longer an entertainment editor, not even a working writer... From Ivan the Great (at least, in my own head) to just plain Ivan. Blogger. Flogger. Holding my own.
I suppose one could still seduce a woman with his writing. But of late, all I've picked up is a corpulent Ukrainian dude dressed in black tights
who said I had seduced him with my book. Jeez, not only do I get dick for my writing these days, I almost got dick!
Oh old Odysseus with his paper army.
Oh how I'd like to outfit that old boat again and go off hunting
Lorelis under sparkling glass.... And in the Seventies, there were the lotus eaters, or, say it on--stoners-- who'd stick a chellum in my mouth and fire it up for me with a Bic butane that was more like a blowtorch.
Did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree.
My editor warned me not to try LSD, since I was a crazy bastard already. "You'll never come back."
Ah, back in the Sixties on Yorkville, Canada's Haight-Ahbury, people stumbling up and down the streets, yelling "I'm all fucked up, I'm all fucked up."
I tried snorting what he had been snorting, and for a long time, I too was "all fucked up."
Being married provided some stablility, or I'd have gone the way of itinerant hippies. I'd seen some of those in Mexico, "all f*cked up". The Mexicans called them Verduras, or vegetables. Some sought sorcerers to apptentice themselves to, looking for some Yaqui dude name Don Juan. I think I saw Carlos Castaneda.
How did people ever survived the Sixties and early Seventies? Stoned out on heroin on a Sunday morning with the kids underfoot. Well Jesus, I for one had to get a life.
So I got a wife. Stabilizing influence during that crazy time.
And getting a straight job, even though it was paparazzo.
Ah, the excesses of those days, the incredible energy, the shoe leather it took.
Flock! Give me back my craziness. Give me back my youth, even though misspent.
And gimme back my groupies.