Yesterday morning, I was in an elevator with Billy Martin, guitarist for Good Charlotte. Of course this was at the happiest place on earth... The Borgata. Now, mind you, I didn't realize it was him until after I let him go ahead of me with his rolling carry-on and he said, 'thanks.'
I thought he was probably a member of the band or a roadie, since I knew they were there from their concert the night before. But I'm not one to bother people in elevators or in public, 'oh are you .xx.x..x.?' I was sure of who he was when a small child approached him outside the doors to The Living Room, and timidly asked him for his autograph.
Now, BM was all dragged up in full complete black from head to toe, black belt with metal studs, hollow earrings stretching out his earlobes so they now have almost-fuckable holes, dark and foreboding, looking like the world should leave him alone, is it any wonder I didn't say hello. First thing, all I could think was, somebody get that boy a sandwich! When he stepped off the elevator first, I got that all-important rear view. Chile, let me tell you, that boy is a Buttless Wonder. But you know what? He's still adorable, even with his attempts at dark mood, his layering on of black and metal and punk drag, the thick layers of 'leave me alone' that I bet most notable people wear in public. And I was left with that all-important realization: I could do that.
See, I've been thinking I kinda want my next boyfriend to be an East Village punk dude with a pouty face, too many pieces of black clothing, metal-studs on leather belt, bracelet, (collar?), and heck, when I look at Billy Joe Armstrong, I think, yeah, even if he wears mascara.
See, you thought I was posting something about celebrity, Good Charlotte, etc., and in the end, nope, it's all about me. Billy Joe, call me.