Dreams of Taylor

The term ‘generation gap’ was coined during the tumultuous years following World War 2 as the focus of the American media swung from the conquerors of the Axis Powers to their spawn, the Baby Boomers. Big Crosby gave way to Elvis and the King was deposed by the Beatles. Each succeeding wave of teenagers have attempted to assassinate the influence of the previous generation and I now find myself adrift in a sea of ignorance when it comes to popular culture.

My last landfall was Nirvana.

The year was 1991.

Almost twenty years ago so when my nephew called from U Penn this summer, his request to aid him in meeting Taylor Swift seemed as hopeless as a homo sapiens asking a Neanderthal to drive a Lexus.

“Huh?” It’s the only Neanderthal word to survive their extinction.

“Uncle Bubba, don’t tell me you have no idea who Taylor Swift is?” His voice was rimed with pity. He called me by that name, as all my nieces and nephews have since they were babies. It sounded so cute back then.

“Let me guess.” She didn’t sound like a go-go dancer or porno starlet. Those names are tattooed on memory like hieroglyphics on the pyramids. Taylor Swift formed a face and then a career. Her cherubic features had graced the cover of People at the 7/11 check-out counter. “She’s pretty.”

“Is there any way you can help me meet her?”

I had known Franka all his life. He was genuine. I was the uncle with the connections. There was only one answer.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Throughout the hot season I called my contacts in the music industry. They were powerless or worse regarded my story as a thin veil to meet the skinny blonde country singer. My friends know my type. Franka was resigned to his fate.

“I’ll never meet her.”

I had felt the same about Francoise Hardy. Her PREMIERE BONNE DU JOUR remains a French classic along with LE TEMP D’AMOUR. We met at a dinner in the 13e arrondisement. At 40 she was ravisssant. Her husband, Jacques, smoked a cigar. He thought he was a genius. Selling a couple of million records can blow up your head.

A trip to Thailand and I forgot about Taylor Swift. My wife is my only vixen. Chicken bone thin. Mem is my ideal.

Back in New York I worked selling diamonds. Somedays success. Others complete failure.

My cell phone rang in late-October.

“Uncle Bubba.” It was Franka. He had not forgotten my pledge. “You have a friend a Saturday Night Live.”

“The art director.” We went back to a softball victory over the Upper West Side’s best team in 1987. He was ten years younger than me. His latest award was an Emmy. Franka was supposed to be study medicine. His interest in the country western singer would have been spooky in any other person, but my nephew was too cool to be a stalker.

“Can you get us tickets to next week’s show? Taylor Swift is the host.”

I’ll see what I can do.” The art director was a friend. One of us had driven in the winning run of that game two decades ago. Neither of us could remember who that was.

Getting tickets to the show was tough. Taylor Swift was in demand. Kanye West almost shouted her off the stage of the MTV awards. White outrage translated into sales. She was everyone’s girl.

“You don’t really want to watch the show.” The art director realized I was happy to sit backstage.

“Only certain sections. Like the opening.” It was the best part of the show. If it sucked, then the rest of the show sucked too.

His job granted me wandering rights to SNL. My nephew was happy with this option, since the odds of his meeting Taylor Swift were greater in the working area than the third seat on the farthest right.

“What should I say when I meet her?” Franka actually believed this was a star-crossed rendezvous.

“Just be natural.” This was good advice. Not great. Only good.

I mentioned the show to my older brother. He was not too happy about Franka’s coming to see me. It was parents’ weekend at Penn. Tuition was 30K.

“Franka should be studying.”

I agreed with my older brother, but left the decision to see the show with Franka. His mother called to say ‘don’t disappoint my son’. She knew how much seeing Taylor Swift meant to Franka. I was beginning to feel the pressure.

The night of the show Franka took the bus up from Phillie. We met at my apartment in Fort Greene. I explained to him about being back stage. “Be there but don’t be in anyone’s way. Don’t say nothing to anyone, unless they say something first.”

We were waved through the barriers at 30 Rock. Our names were on a list. The art director’s son was waited for us at the elevator. I introduced him to my nephew. Franka blurted out his desire. Austin understood the situation. He was 18. They were of the same generation. Nothing they said made any sense and I wondered if they had been abducted by aliens. I retreated inside the offices for the opening.

Franka needed this moment alone and I was giving it to him as long as he was with Austin. He found me backstage with a glass in my hand. Austin’s father was familiar with my needs.

“How was it?”

“It was awesome. You made my year. I might not have met her, but she walked a foot away from me.” He grinned like a paparazzi finally capturing a photo of a reclusive celebrity. “She was so cool. She even smiled at me.”

“Good.” I had watched most of the show on a monitor. Taylor Swift smiled a lot. She had a pretty smile. Most 20 year-old beautiful country-western sensations are lucky that way. Austin’s father proposed that we head over to the after-show party at Oceania, a restaurant not far from 30 Rock.

“Can we go?” Franka was enthused by the possibility of seeing his obsession another time. He also had a schoolmate in SNL. Jenny Slate. She had been funny that night.

It was past my bed hour. I had less than $20 in my pocket. There was only one answer.

“Sure.”

The party was filled with show members, guests, and friends of the crew. I only knew Austin’s father. He was speaking with the music director of MTV. I had nothing to add to their conversation and wandered out back to the table farthest from the action. A beer in my hand. Franka had one too. Austin wasn’t drinking. We sat down and Franka recapped his evening to Austin. I was more than ready for bed, then saw the two boys’ eyes light up like they were having an epiphany.

Taylor Swift was coming our way. She sat down at the table next to us. She was right next to me. She was speaking with Jenny Slate. The trial member of the cast waved to Franka. She remembered him from Milton Academy. Taylor was having trouble with her cell phone. This was his chance. I gave him the green light. So did Austin. Franka to the rescue. He fixed the problem and spoke with Taylor for two seconds. I heard him ask for a photo. I had my camera in my pocket. I took it out fast. Her security saw it in my hand. I had to act fast. The first shot was with fast. The second was perfect.

“I loved your show. Best wishes for your success.” I told the star as her bodyguards assume their protective shield. She really was pretty. Her smile wasn’t fake and I had liked her performance. Franka was in heaven. We went to find Austin’s father. His conversation was over and he was ready to head back to Brooklyn.

Franka was good to go too.

He had accomplished his mission.

In the morning I made him breakfast.

“I don’t know how I can go back to Penn and lead a normal life after last night.”

“I don’t know either, but you will find a way.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bubba.”

“No problem.” I was only doing what men nicknamed Uncle Bubba are supposed to do.

Coming through with the impossible.