“Give it a rest, I’m almost there!”
Once again I was interrupted. This was the second time I’d had to leave mid-composition. I almost had this song down; it was almost how I wanted it. But, alas, the doorbell had rung. Last time it was the guitar shop, calling to let me know that my guitar was fixed again. That I didn’t mind too much. But this second interruption had caught me off guard.
I reluctantly opened the door. Standing there, looking nervous and a little anxious was a girl, I don’t know, about 15 or so, wearing a blue Hawaiian Billabong shirt and shorts. She looked at me and giggled a little, trying to flirt with her vapid young eyes.
“Hi Dan!”
What was this? Who is this chick? Why is she interrupting me?
"Hi, who are you?"
“Oh, god I’m stupid! I’m Sandy, I live down the street. I just wanted to tell you that I’m a huge huge fan! I mean, Ana’s Song was so beautiful! I thought it was great that you could reach out to people like that!”
Okay, here’s what I’d like to say to this girl: “Hi, yes, I am Daniel Johns. No, you don’t know me. Please, go away and leave me alone. If you little teenies want me to “reach out” more, which, by the way, I wasn’t doing, leave me the fuck alone, so I can get some fucking writing done.” Here’s what I actually say: "Oh, thanks." ,p> “Anyway,” god will this girl ever shut up, “I was wondering if maybe you’d be interested in coming to my family’s barbecue tomorrow night. I was worried about you, because you are here all day all alone, and I don’t want you becoming crazy all over again,” and then she giggles.
This girl just doesn’t get it. I didn’t write any of those songs for her, I wrote them for me. Why don’t these people fucking understand? "Well, I don’t know, I think I have plans." Yeah, plans, that sounds good. She’ll think I live this big rock-and-roll lifestyle.
“Oh, yeah, I should have guessed. Out partying with Ben and Chris I bet.” Another stupid giggle. “You’re so lucky, being a rock star and all. You know, now that we’re neighbors, maybe I could talk some backstage passes out of you when you start playing again, and we could hang out backstage! That would be fun!”
What, so you can see just how stupid things really are back there? Run off, go to the mall and tell all your little friends that you know Daniel Johns and that he lives just down the street, and that maybe you can start sleeping on my lawn here, too.
"Yeah, well, I’m kind of in the middle of something right now, talking with Ben and Chris, band conference call, and then we’re going to call Eddie Vedder and fly ourselves on our jet up to the States and party hardy there and then get wasted on the plane home, fuck some groupies, drop some acid, and write songs that ‘reach out’. Later." Thank god, I said it.
I’ll get a call from Watto tomorrow, if this chick does something, but I just can’t take it. I cannot stand it, these stupid people coming up to me and pretending they know all about me, pretending I live this life I don’t. Or worse that I live it for them. It makes me regret writing that whole record. I don’t understand why these people do this. I mean, don’t they listen to me in interviews, don’t they actually listen to the music? I mean, I’m glad the music could help all these people, but it makes me wonder, did I help them, or was it just because MTV got in on the gig. Was it just because MTV decided the next “poor Johnny” story was me? I don’t get it at all.
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