Junior, was traveling across the country on a Harley -- pretentious). They were about to start the Actung Baby Tour.
Before I ever met anyone in the band, I found another reason to hate Bono -- I met his wife, Alison. If only it was another life, one where I was a rock star, had millions of dollars and had married Allie. The woman was beautiful -- that salt of the earth -- Irish Spring type, “…and I like it, too”, kind of beauty, with one of those lilting Irish voices that make you fall in love the first time she says your name, she also seemed to be very real and honest, she could’ve been one of those heroines from a Dickens novel ( Little Allie - I’d read it). Bono met her in high school and married her. I was really hating on him!!! She was at the villa pool with their kids, all of them perfect, in an Irish-like way (they were like little well-behaved leprechauns).
After meeting Allie and the kids at the pool, I not only hated Bono but I was obsessively jealous of him. Why did he get the life I put in for? I’m sure if Saint Peter had said, who wants to be a rock star, travel the world with your best friends, make millions of dollars, marry a hot and wonderful woman, have awesome kids together, be Irish and not wrecked by alcohol or drugs…. I’m sure I would put hand right up.
The first time I met Bono, he was very nice -- good try, Mr. Paul Hewson (that’s his real name). In the three years that I worked at the Sunset Marquis about three guests actually introduced themselves to me -- Bono was one of them. I arrived at his villa and I found him alone, Allie and the kids had gone out. He was sitting on the couch in all his Bono-ness, talking on the telephone. I entered and started setting up his lunch on a coffee table in front of him. When he hung up the phone, he stood up and offered me his hand, “I’m Bono,” he said. It totally threw me (at first I thought he was patronizing me and then I got the feeling that he might have ESP and knew I was lusting for his wife… and or, at the most, lusting for his whole life). I got stuck between returning the handshake and handing him the food bill to sign. Finally, I was able to come through with a weak hand shake. Bono thanked me for the meal, tipped me and signed the check. Crap, this was when I realized it was going to be harder to hate him than I thought.
As I left his villa, I pledged to continue to hate him -- he wasn’t going to change my mind with that weak Irish gentleman act. I went home to listen to the Rattle and Hum album that my ex-girlfriend (now just my friend) had given me, to open me up to their “evocative sound.” Usually, all I need is the line, “Charles Manson stole this from the Beatles, so now we’re stealing it back” to get rekindle my disgust, but that night I had to play the whole introduction to In The Name of Love to finally right myself.
The next few weeks at the hotel were very busy with U2 staying with us. The real problem seemed to be that they all were very nice, the band, the crew, the staff… you name it. But I was still determined to hate Bono. Then he made his move -- I was just finishing up setting out another lunch for him (again, Allie and the kids had gone out) when he asked, “Bill, are you going to see the show? It’s really good.” I told him that I wasn’t able to get tickets (mostly, because I didn’t try). Bono started eating his lunch and said, “I’ll leave a pair for you tomorrow, down at the front desk.” I thanked him and left. Nicely played, my friend -- there is no way I can hate you if I take up your invitation. Even in my wildest hypocrisy, how could I say that you were Satan I if took those tickets… I would certainly check to see if he left them… but I felt that it was just another empty promise from a rock and roller (you know, like, “we’re gonna play all the songs you want to hear,” but they only play the new album and a few old hits). I was getting anxious; it was going
Before I ever met anyone in the band, I found another reason to hate Bono -- I met his wife, Alison. If only it was another life, one where I was a rock star, had millions of dollars and had married Allie. The woman was beautiful -- that salt of the earth -- Irish Spring type, “…and I like it, too”, kind of beauty, with one of those lilting Irish voices that make you fall in love the first time she says your name, she also seemed to be very real and honest, she could’ve been one of those heroines from a Dickens novel ( Little Allie - I’d read it). Bono met her in high school and married her. I was really hating on him!!! She was at the villa pool with their kids, all of them perfect, in an Irish-like way (they were like little well-behaved leprechauns).
After meeting Allie and the kids at the pool, I not only hated Bono but I was obsessively jealous of him. Why did he get the life I put in for? I’m sure if Saint Peter had said, who wants to be a rock star, travel the world with your best friends, make millions of dollars, marry a hot and wonderful woman, have awesome kids together, be Irish and not wrecked by alcohol or drugs…. I’m sure I would put hand right up.
The first time I met Bono, he was very nice -- good try, Mr. Paul Hewson (that’s his real name). In the three years that I worked at the Sunset Marquis about three guests actually introduced themselves to me -- Bono was one of them. I arrived at his villa and I found him alone, Allie and the kids had gone out. He was sitting on the couch in all his Bono-ness, talking on the telephone. I entered and started setting up his lunch on a coffee table in front of him. When he hung up the phone, he stood up and offered me his hand, “I’m Bono,” he said. It totally threw me (at first I thought he was patronizing me and then I got the feeling that he might have ESP and knew I was lusting for his wife… and or, at the most, lusting for his whole life). I got stuck between returning the handshake and handing him the food bill to sign. Finally, I was able to come through with a weak hand shake. Bono thanked me for the meal, tipped me and signed the check. Crap, this was when I realized it was going to be harder to hate him than I thought.
As I left his villa, I pledged to continue to hate him -- he wasn’t going to change my mind with that weak Irish gentleman act. I went home to listen to the Rattle and Hum album that my ex-girlfriend (now just my friend) had given me, to open me up to their “evocative sound.” Usually, all I need is the line, “Charles Manson stole this from the Beatles, so now we’re stealing it back” to get rekindle my disgust, but that night I had to play the whole introduction to In The Name of Love to finally right myself.
The next few weeks at the hotel were very busy with U2 staying with us. The real problem seemed to be that they all were very nice, the band, the crew, the staff… you name it. But I was still determined to hate Bono. Then he made his move -- I was just finishing up setting out another lunch for him (again, Allie and the kids had gone out) when he asked, “Bill, are you going to see the show? It’s really good.” I told him that I wasn’t able to get tickets (mostly, because I didn’t try). Bono started eating his lunch and said, “I’ll leave a pair for you tomorrow, down at the front desk.” I thanked him and left. Nicely played, my friend -- there is no way I can hate you if I take up your invitation. Even in my wildest hypocrisy, how could I say that you were Satan I if took those tickets… I would certainly check to see if he left them… but I felt that it was just another empty promise from a rock and roller (you know, like, “we’re gonna play all the songs you want to hear,” but they only play the new album and a few old hits). I was getting anxious; it was going
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