It happened as fast as I’ve heard people die from a bullet.
Walking down the street where a concert was schedule, there was an old 1950 Ford sedan stranded next to the road. Approaching it I saw it was full of four gorgeous women. One was waving for someone to help. Quickly, I assessed it was the star of the concert playing in town tonight – Taylor Swift.
Walking up to the car I looked at the face. She’s even more gorgeous without all the stage makeup we all see her wear. She was a “skinny Minnie” but what a gorgeous, angelic face. Much better than any photo of her.
Also in the car was Gigi Hadid. Zayn is one lucky guy.
Swift and her crew already had the gray car hood up. I walked up, asked what was wrong. She said it had just quit running as they were stuck in the concert going traffic. No limo for this girl?
I pulled out a handkerchief I always carry in case of emergencies like this. I pulled her distributor cap, wiped the inside and put it back on. “Try it now.” The car cranked and purred.
“Are you an auto mechanic,” Swift squealed? “How did you know how to do that? You didn’t even try anything else.”
“When I was a kid, I had a friend who had a ’49 Ford. Same car as your ’50. He had that problem all the time.”
“Are you coming to my show?”
“I saw you once. Ended up in front row thanks to your extended stage at the time. I’m on my way to pay for a Jimmie Vaughan show I bought online but need to pay cash for.”
“Who’s Jimmie Vaughan,” Swift quizzed. By this point it was obvious this was an extremely flirtatious woman. The entire crew were. Swift reminded me of a song I heard somewhere, “She’s an actress.” Oh well, better than revenge I thought to myself.
“One of the greatest guitarists ever. You probably heard of his brother, Stevie Ray Vaughan. Jimmie is playing in Los Angeles with Eric Clapton. I’ve got to get my ticket.”
By this time Swift had left her car with her troop, realizing it was faster joining me walking to the concert site. As we approached the site, Swift got swept up by fans. It was nice while it lasted.
Just before my turn to pay for my ticket, Swift ran up; grabbing my elbow. “You said ‘ticket’ not tickets. Can I go with you?”
Suddenly a $1,500 purchase became three grand.
Just as suddenly, Swift pushed the person selling tickets out of the way and was taking my order.
“So that’s two tickets to Jimmie Vaughan in Los Angeles. Anything else?”
“I have a list. I need an Ariana Grande ticket.”
Swift grabbed my list.
“Ace Frehley, Daya, Andrew McMahon, Dua Lipa. Where’s Bon Jovi? They play Los Angeles March 8. I’d really like to see Bon Jovi.”
“I’ve seen them. They were pigs. Roadies lined all these Heather Locklear looking blonds up in front of my front row seat and the band pointed to which ones were going to their rooms after the concert.”
“I REALLY want to see Bon Jovi,” Swift gave me a look that would melt steel.
“Okay Ms. Ticket-seller. Two tickets to Bon Jovi.” Another $3,000 instantly evaporated.
“How do I get in touch with you? Where do I pick you up for the show?” I quizzed Swift.
“I don’t give my number to anyone. What’s your number? I’ll call you.”
Houston, we have a problem. “I’m Marketing Sociologist on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. Does Instagram give gorgeous porcelain faced celebrities the capacity to message? I don’t think I can direct message from that platform. As for phone, don’t have one.”
“Yes, they do,” Swift said as she ran to perform.
The day before the Clapton-Vaughan show I got a direct message. It was Swift’s address and what time to pick her up. She was even providing my clothes. I was to pick them up in a downtown Los Angeles shop. It is true what they say about her being a perfectionist.
During the show, a Vaughan representative ran up to me.
“You’re the Billboard writer who talked to The Fabulous Thunderbirds in Denver, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Jimmie’s having a private show (gave the name of a local Los Angeles venue) with Eric afterwards. We’re putting your’s and Ms. Swift’s name on the guest list. See you there.”
I looked at Swift who was texting.
She saw me giving a quizzical look.
“I just texted to have my private jet pick up one of my Nashville friends, Brad Paisley. I’m going to have him join us at the club.”
“He is a hell of a guitar player,” I told Swift.
My head thought: and he has Demi Lovato’s phone number. If I can date Swift, maybe I have a chance with Lovato. What a voice she has.
