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Chasing Bono: One Fan's Near Misses
By Jen Chaney
Special to The Washington Post
Monday, March 24, 2003; Page C10
He stands 50 feet from me behind a crystal-clear lectern, wearing a pinstriped suit and a pair of tinted glasses. I could walk up a set of stairs onto the stage and be beside him, basking in his rock star presence.
But because he's speaking at a gala in front of hundreds of people, I decide to wait. There is a possibility -- a slim one, but a possibility nonetheless -- that on this night, after his speech ends, I will meet my hero. There is a chance that I will finally come face-to-face with Bono.
Each one of us has an idol, someone whose image has inspired our spirits since childhood. For some, that person is a gifted athlete like Michael Jordan, or a fearless poet like Maya Angelou. For me, that person is Bono, the larger-than-life frontman for the rock band U2.
I first fell in love with Bono and U2 -- who performed at last night's Academy Awards ceremony -- in high school, when "The Joshua Tree" became every teenager's favorite album. But my obsession really blossomed in college. U2's "Achtung Baby" CD was the soundtrack to my university years, the background music for all-night studying sessions and the sonic solvent I poured upon the wounds of my first major breakup. A huge black-and-white poster of Bono, which I hung in every one of my dorm rooms, accompanied me on my scholarly journey, a graven image of my messiah stuck to cinder block walls.
As the years passed, my obsession with Bono would become a tragic tale of near misses.
In 1992, my college boyfriend promised that a friend with connections could hook us up with prime seats and backstage access for U2's "Zoo TV" tour. I instantly put all of the band's singles into heavy rotation on my car stereo and counted the seconds until I'd meet Bono. The morning of the concert, my boyfriend called with some news -- not only would I not meet U2, but I might want to visit a Ticketmaster outlet. The so-called connected friend had no backstage passes and no tickets.
I cried hysterically into the phone receiver -- "What do you mean we have no tickets?!" -- and eventually spent too much cash on a pair of last-minute seats. But it was worth it. During the song "Bad," Edge's soaring guitar and Bono's impassioned vocals -- combined with the sting from a day-long fight with my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend -- made me weep. Since then, I have never seen U2 in concert without shedding a tear. The only thing that could inspire me more would be meeting the band, and Bono, in person.
As a journalist, I nearly had my chance. Last year, I contributed to a profile of Bono for People magazine and interviewed numerous Washington politicians who know the singer because of his work on AIDS and debt relief in Africa. The genuine admiration for Bono expressed by people like then-Treasury Secretary Paul O'Neill and Sen. Patrick Leahy (D-Vt.) made me respect him all the more. As a result of that story, I was invited by members of O'Neill's staff to join the secretary and Bono on their now-famous trip to Africa. I was thrilled. A visit to this beautiful, besieged continent would be an unforgettable and life-altering experience. Plus, I'd get to meet Bono, the man whose voice had been my touchstone. But that was not meant to be either. The magazine did not send me.
Because I had come so close -- as a U2 song says, "Faraway, so close" -- I made "meeting Bono" the No. 1 item on my list of things to do before I die. And last week, when I attended the American Ireland Fund's Annual Gala, where its Humanitarian Award was presented to Bono, I seemed poised to check it off.
Early that evening, I spoke with a guy named Seth who works with DATA, Bono's "Debt, AIDS, Trade in Africa" organization. In desperation, I explained my situation.
"All I want to do is shake his hand," I told Seth, painting my most pathetic and pleading expression across my face. "Do you think that's possible?"
"It might be," Seth said. "I'll see what I can do."
My heartbeat quickened. There was hope again, the kind I had experienced before the "Zoo TV" fiasco.
Bono later came to the lectern to speak. Fifty feet away, my eyes kept floating to the telescreen as he spoke. Even though he was right there, I resorted to old habits, staring at him through projected images.
After the program ended, Bono walked offstage on the side opposite from where I stood. Of course, I had no idea where Seth was; I figured he had probably left for the evening or, at the very least, forgotten our previous conversation.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Jen, come on." It was Seth, and he was beckoning me to come with him. Dear God, it was happening. And I had no idea what to say.
"Hi, Bono. I, um, think you're, like, really cool and stuff."
"You already have a wife, and I already have a husband, but will you marry me?"
"It's such an honor to meet you. Your music and passion for human rights have touched my life deeply."
Option 3 was corny, but it was all I had at that moment. We dashed to the other side of the stage, and suddenly there I was, caught in a swarm of people mobbing Bono, all probably trying to cross this moment off their own "Things to Do Before I Die" lists.
"You'll have to force your way in," Seth warned, and I tried. But security guards surrounded Bono, sticking their arms out like elementary school safety patrols striving for gold badges.
I headed toward an open space in Bono's path, thinking I could greet him as if he were a bridegroom heading down a receiving line. Within seconds he was right next to me, a foot away, but there was too much noise to make myself heard. So I moved by instinct: I reached out my hand, and touched his forearm. For a second, I felt the rich texture of his blazer. Then he walked away, and I tried to follow. But he was gone.
I had blown it. Another near -- nearer than ever before -- miss.
I revisited that moment repeatedly for the next 24 hours, and ultimately concluded that I hadn't been more aggressive because I didn't want to meet him under those circumstances. I didn't want to be some random fan forcing my way into his face while he was trying to exit a room. Of course, that might mean I'll never have a conversation with him. But perhaps that's what happens with our heroes. Maybe we're always destined to keep them at arm's length.
Faraway, so close.
? 2003 The Washington Post Company
Chasing Bono: One Fan's Near Misses
By Jen Chaney
Special to The Washington Post
Monday, March 24, 2003; Page C10
He stands 50 feet from me behind a crystal-clear lectern, wearing a pinstriped suit and a pair of tinted glasses. I could walk up a set of stairs onto the stage and be beside him, basking in his rock star presence.
But because he's speaking at a gala in front of hundreds of people, I decide to wait. There is a possibility -- a slim one, but a possibility nonetheless -- that on this night, after his speech ends, I will meet my hero. There is a chance that I will finally come face-to-face with Bono.
Each one of us has an idol, someone whose image has inspired our spirits since childhood. For some, that person is a gifted athlete like Michael Jordan, or a fearless poet like Maya Angelou. For me, that person is Bono, the larger-than-life frontman for the rock band U2.
I first fell in love with Bono and U2 -- who performed at last night's Academy Awards ceremony -- in high school, when "The Joshua Tree" became every teenager's favorite album. But my obsession really blossomed in college. U2's "Achtung Baby" CD was the soundtrack to my university years, the background music for all-night studying sessions and the sonic solvent I poured upon the wounds of my first major breakup. A huge black-and-white poster of Bono, which I hung in every one of my dorm rooms, accompanied me on my scholarly journey, a graven image of my messiah stuck to cinder block walls.
As the years passed, my obsession with Bono would become a tragic tale of near misses.
In 1992, my college boyfriend promised that a friend with connections could hook us up with prime seats and backstage access for U2's "Zoo TV" tour. I instantly put all of the band's singles into heavy rotation on my car stereo and counted the seconds until I'd meet Bono. The morning of the concert, my boyfriend called with some news -- not only would I not meet U2, but I might want to visit a Ticketmaster outlet. The so-called connected friend had no backstage passes and no tickets.
I cried hysterically into the phone receiver -- "What do you mean we have no tickets?!" -- and eventually spent too much cash on a pair of last-minute seats. But it was worth it. During the song "Bad," Edge's soaring guitar and Bono's impassioned vocals -- combined with the sting from a day-long fight with my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend -- made me weep. Since then, I have never seen U2 in concert without shedding a tear. The only thing that could inspire me more would be meeting the band, and Bono, in person.
As a journalist, I nearly had my chance. Last year, I contributed to a profile of Bono for People magazine and interviewed numerous Washington politicians who know the singer because of his work on AIDS and debt relief in Africa. The genuine admiration for Bono expressed by people like then-Treasury Secretary Paul O'Neill and Sen. Patrick Leahy (D-Vt.) made me respect him all the more. As a result of that story, I was invited by members of O'Neill's staff to join the secretary and Bono on their now-famous trip to Africa. I was thrilled. A visit to this beautiful, besieged continent would be an unforgettable and life-altering experience. Plus, I'd get to meet Bono, the man whose voice had been my touchstone. But that was not meant to be either. The magazine did not send me.
Because I had come so close -- as a U2 song says, "Faraway, so close" -- I made "meeting Bono" the No. 1 item on my list of things to do before I die. And last week, when I attended the American Ireland Fund's Annual Gala, where its Humanitarian Award was presented to Bono, I seemed poised to check it off.
Early that evening, I spoke with a guy named Seth who works with DATA, Bono's "Debt, AIDS, Trade in Africa" organization. In desperation, I explained my situation.
"All I want to do is shake his hand," I told Seth, painting my most pathetic and pleading expression across my face. "Do you think that's possible?"
"It might be," Seth said. "I'll see what I can do."
My heartbeat quickened. There was hope again, the kind I had experienced before the "Zoo TV" fiasco.
Bono later came to the lectern to speak. Fifty feet away, my eyes kept floating to the telescreen as he spoke. Even though he was right there, I resorted to old habits, staring at him through projected images.
After the program ended, Bono walked offstage on the side opposite from where I stood. Of course, I had no idea where Seth was; I figured he had probably left for the evening or, at the very least, forgotten our previous conversation.
Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Jen, come on." It was Seth, and he was beckoning me to come with him. Dear God, it was happening. And I had no idea what to say.
"Hi, Bono. I, um, think you're, like, really cool and stuff."
"You already have a wife, and I already have a husband, but will you marry me?"
"It's such an honor to meet you. Your music and passion for human rights have touched my life deeply."
Option 3 was corny, but it was all I had at that moment. We dashed to the other side of the stage, and suddenly there I was, caught in a swarm of people mobbing Bono, all probably trying to cross this moment off their own "Things to Do Before I Die" lists.
"You'll have to force your way in," Seth warned, and I tried. But security guards surrounded Bono, sticking their arms out like elementary school safety patrols striving for gold badges.
I headed toward an open space in Bono's path, thinking I could greet him as if he were a bridegroom heading down a receiving line. Within seconds he was right next to me, a foot away, but there was too much noise to make myself heard. So I moved by instinct: I reached out my hand, and touched his forearm. For a second, I felt the rich texture of his blazer. Then he walked away, and I tried to follow. But he was gone.
I had blown it. Another near -- nearer than ever before -- miss.
I revisited that moment repeatedly for the next 24 hours, and ultimately concluded that I hadn't been more aggressive because I didn't want to meet him under those circumstances. I didn't want to be some random fan forcing my way into his face while he was trying to exit a room. Of course, that might mean I'll never have a conversation with him. But perhaps that's what happens with our heroes. Maybe we're always destined to keep them at arm's length.
Faraway, so close.
? 2003 The Washington Post Company
