Page 107 of Kind of Famous
A couple of weeks ago, I took a walk through an area of Brooklyn where the band Theater of the Absurd rehearses, trying to get some pics of Noah Kennedy after his girlfriend left him for front man/guitarist Samuel Tucker of Whiplash.
I noticed this girl (see photo #1 below) heading into the rehearsal with Shane. I pegged her for management, agent, sister, groupie, or girlfriend.
No big deal and not noteworthy.
Except.
Curious, I staked out Shane’s apartment, and guess who should emerge? (See photo #2).
But what really sparked my interest was the discovery of a couple of photos an anonymous source sent me from Boston Calling last week. That same redhead can be seen fraternizing with Noah Kennedy. (See photo #3 and #4).
Draw your own conclusions about the relationship status of this apparent groupie, but I can confirm that the redhead in all of these pictures is a certain Layla Beckett of theRock Paperand newly admitted fan forum admin at a prominent Walking Disaster fan site.
I’d never had to defend my own relationships online, and I understood now why Eden had been so thankful for my protection of her. Objectively, I knew this was just par for the course when dealing with adjacent fame. But Jim Bone—his actual name—had stalked me and exposed me. It made me feel vulnerable, and it hurt. He’d gotten close to the truth, but I hated that everyone always immediately assumed I’d been using Shane, just like he feared.
I thought about my parents reading that, or what few friends I had, or the forum denizens. With no recourse to fight back and deny it, a story like this should have reduced me to tears. Fortunately, I did have experience. I knew that almost nobody paid attention to fan forums except the hardcore fans themselves. I thanked my lucky stars I only had to deal with this backwater bullshit.
Plus, I did have recourse. I had an army at my disposal. And a blog which gave me a voice. I could have fought back if I wanted to. I could have asked my posters to flood thisFan Bloggerwith angry comments and force him to take it down. I could have contacted him myself and worked out a deal. I could have even run a blog series about a certain stalker who hung out spying on the apartments of private citizens instead of providing anything useful.
None of it seemed worth the trouble. So what if my identity was blown? The only person that information could hurt had already assumed the worst. What more damage could be done?
We still had rules on my site, though. I texted Ash.Could you go into the forum and remind the posters not to bring over gossip even if it’s about me. Thanks.
Everything was under control, but it left me with a low-grade depression. I remembered how cavalier I’d been about Gabriel’s reaction to the attacks from my posters and felt a pang of remorse. Who was I to decide how someone else should feel about being targeted online?
I leaned back in my chair and swiveled around. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Gabriel standing right in front of me, like I’d conjured him.
“Shit, Gabriel. Sidle much? You gave me a heart attack.”
He held a mug of coffee in a way that made him look like he was at a cocktail party, mingling. “I read your article on Friday.”
“Yeah, I can guess your reaction. My enthusiasm has no place in a serious magazine. Yadda yadda yadda.” I spun back toward my laptop. “We’ve had this conversation already, Gabe.”
“Actually, I came to apologize. I was wrong.”
Interesting. I faced him again. “Do tell.”
“After I saw you here with that drummer—”
“Shane.”
“—Shane, right. I thought you’d written a puff piece based merely on your infatuation with him. In my own writing, I have to search for the good and the bad, so I was holding you to the same standard.”
“This is starting to feel like a back-handed compliment.”
He shook his head. “Not at all. I’m trying to contextualize.”
“You’re pointing out the lack of critical thinking in my article.”
He held up a hand. “Stop. I’m telling you that I understand now what Lars is after. What you wrote about the Walking Disaster—”
“Walking Disaster.”
“What?”
“It’s just... Never mind. Go on.”
“What you wrote reminded me of how I felt when I used to actually love a band, back when I first started writing.” He looked behind him and hooked a chair with his foot, rolling it over. He settled in with his elbows on his knees and started back in, hands moving, reminiscent of Shane. “When I was about fifteen, I heard Metallica for the first time. Do you remember when you first heard them?”
