The above picture was taken during the construction of my giant wall collage back when I was in teen-dream wonderland, featuring one Joey “Future Husband” Ramone.  You can see a black-and-white portrait of him towards the right, next to the HAIR poster; there’s Ramones stuff on the left concealed by the black chiffon scarf that hung from my fringed light fixture; and I would continue to add to this enormous piece of poster paper tacked to my wall.  I am so pleased that I somehow have a few photographs of this period of my adolescence.

“Gabba Gabba Hey” is the outro for the Ramones song Pinhead, which was taken from the 1932 Tod Browning movie Freaks, in which the midgets basically chant the intro for that song.  Listen to both; you’ll understand what I mean.  This is the unofficial cry call of every single Ramones fan that ever existed.  Naturally, it features in this conclusion to my last entry.  Depressingly, at that. 

(Spoiler: Joey Ramone and I did not, in fact, elope.)

Oh, teenage wasteland, Nadz!  It’s only teenage wasteland!

The big concert day at The Commodore Ballroom rolled around on October 6, 1992–a Tuesday night, a school night–and Allison and I were beyond hyper.  My parents were surprisingly lenient with me and my older brother when we were teenagers; so long as we called them from wherever we were and checked in once in a while, we could pretty much stay out all night (“There’s no point in imposing a curfew, you’ll just break it,” reasoned my mother, very intelligently).  

I’m sure we picked our outfits very carefully, and I’m sure I wore something baggy.  At that point I still wasn’t entirely confident about my budding body, while Allison was something of a compact Venus at nineteen years old.  Still, what mattered here was that I was going to see the only band that mattered to me–the only thing that mattered to me, hell–and I had a fake I.D. roughly the length and width of a brick that would allow me access to the man whom I desperately hoped would shower spittle on my face as he sang, seeing as I had every single intention of elbowing my way to the front of the crowd.

We took the 160 bus from Coquitlam to downtown Vancouver, the only way to go between the two places back then.  It took forever, about an hour, trundling down Johnson Street and winding around the Barnet Inlet in Port Moody, then shambling down Hastings Street from the North Burnaby top to the very East Hastings bottom.  And yes, East Hastings was still a shithole back then, but nowhere near–not even close, not even remotely approaching the same galaxy–the bleak, walking-dead condition that it is now.  

We walked up Granville Street from West Hastings, our excitement steadily increasing.  I’m fairly certain we were on the early side, and I can’t remember who the opening band was supposed to be.

“I wonder if they’ll play`Howling At The Moon.’”

“I wonder if they’ll play `Danny Says.’”

“I hope they play “`Bonzo.’”

“Me too!  And `Something To Believe In.’” [Great parody video, by the way]

“Those kinda sound the same, though.”

“Not really.  Well, maybe.”

“Do you think C.J. will have long hair or short?” (Dee Dee had long since departed the band for a very weird rap career)

“I dunno.  He looks good either way.”

The set list from that show was on point.  They indeed played “Bonzo Goes To Bitburg” that night.

When we approached The Commodore, which is just a few feet down from Robson Street on Granville, there was a crowd waiting outside who clearly didn’t have a means to get in.  The show had been long-sold out, and I felt privileged and smug to have scored a ticket almost as soon as the news broke that The Ramones were coming to town.  

“Are you ready?” asked Allison, smiling earnestly.  This was going to be the night of our lives.  We had unknowingly built up to this for nearly six or seven months, as we’d cemented our friendship the previous spring.  All the viewings of “Rock & Roll High School,” all the debates about their best record, all the tireless searching for oval, rose-tinted glasses just like Joey’s, all the speculation about their lyrics, the all the trips downtown to  Sam the Record Man and A & B Sound on Seymour Street to buy Ramones tapes–especially the lesser-loved ones that were in the discount bin–all of it had led to this moment, this night.  It was going to be one of triumph, of permanent bonding between me and Allison, of hot-stuff seduction as I made eye contact with Joey Ramone and he abruptly stopped the band to crouch down and serenade me a cappella with this tune.  

“Yay!”  I exclaimed, clutching my takeout menu-sized fake I.D.  We confidently walked through the crowd of people at the door of The Commodore, who were asking each and every person walking up those stairs if they had an extra ticket.  

Allison was in front of me.  At the top of the stairs was the bouncer.  I was slightly nervous, but I tried my best to act as though I had been to this venue several times.  Besides, there was no way I wasn’t going to get in there.  This was it. My friends had been so thrilled for me, were rooting for me, assured me that there wouldn’t be a problem; the bouncer would clearly understand that this sweet-faced young thing needed to see this legendary band, needed to see Joey, and would ignore my I.D. and give me a wink, and gesture with a quick tilt of his head to get in there.  

I’m getting heart palpitations just writing this.  

The people ahead of us were ushered in without issue, and I took this as a good sign.  Allison showed the bouncer her B.C.I.D., which indicated she was very much of legal age.  She walked briskly into the venue.

With as much nonchalance as I could muster, I attempted to quickly show the bouncer my own piece of identification, despite the fact that it took my entire hand to hold onto it.

He took one glance at your babyfaced heroine, one glance at the farcical document in my paw, and shook his head.

“Nope, sorry.  You can’t go in.”

My stomach absolutely plummeted.  No?

“No?”

“Nope, sorry, that’s not a real I.D.”  He didn’t even look sincerely apologetic; there was a massive queue of people behind me who wanted in, and I needed to get out of his face right now.

“Please?”  Had I been even slightly jaded, savvy, and slutty (not even close), I might have made some unmentionable offers to this fella in order to allow me access.  This didn’t cross my mind even once.  Not that I think it would have done much except get me promptly dragged down those stairs by my hair, with a swift kick in the rear once I got to the sidewalk that would send me soaring through the air.

“Sorry.”  

And that, as they say, was that.

I had no idea what to do.  

I stood off to the side, because I couldn’t even go in to tell Allison that I wasn’t able to see the show.  I was in a state of shock.  I really, truly wasn’t going to see my band.

“My friend’s in there,” I whimpered to the bouncer as he checked other tickets and pieces of identification.  

“Hopefully she’ll–”  And as he said that, Allison came round the corner.

“What’s going on?” she asked, concerned.  Later, she told me that once she had been allowed entry into the venue, tears had sprung to her eyes: Oh my God, this is really happening, she had thought. We’re really going to see The Ramones.  

“I can’t get in.  They won’t let me in.”  I hoped the crippling despair in my voice would affect the bouncer, who was right in front of me and still dealing with a steady stream of fans.  He didn’t hear, or he didn’t care.  All he knew was that I wasn’t getting in there, and I needed to be out of his space very quickly.

Allison then did something that makes me choke up to this day, and this is no hyperbole:

“If you can’t see them, I can’t see them.”  And with that, she led me down the stairs.

That, my dears, is a true friend.  Quite possibly the truest-friend gesture anyone has ever extended to me in my lifetime.  It touched me (and relieved me) greatly then; it bowls me over now, over thirty years later.  Who would do that?  Here we were, a couple of excited kids, about to see our absolute most favourite band in the world, and she had gotten in.  She loved The Ramones just a little bit less than I did, which means that they occupied her thoughts about 88% of the time in comparison to my 150%.  Allison had been completely within her rights to give me a hug, tell me how sorry she was, sigh that we both knew deep down I wouldn’t get in due to my cherubic appearance and preposterous fake I.D., tell me she’d call me when she got home, and then go back in to see the band.  I may very well have done that myself, but I was selfish when it came to this group: all I wanted  was to hear my favourite songs and see Joey in the flesh.

Allison sacrificed her one and only opportunity to see The Ramones because I couldn’t see them.  That’s how much she understood my pain.  And that’s why she decided to share it.  

*   *   *   *   *

We sold our tickets within seconds to a couple of rabid fans in the crowd of people that seemed to be steadily increasing in size.  We didn’t even charge them extra; just the ticket price.  What was the point in haggling?  Besides, I had no idea how to do that.  I was so deflated, so destroyed, but I had my head held high.  Allison just kept saying, “I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”

I’m sure I lit up a cigarette, one of several that night.  Then, an idea:

“Let’s wait for them backstage.”  

This was a move that I had learned from Pamela des Barres’ memoir I’m With The Band.  If I couldn’t go in and see them play, I could perhaps try a completely unrehearsed, unreliable Plan B.  Maybe the band would grant me access!  A backstage pass!  Joey would hear my tale of woe, grin with those crooked teeth, and mutter, “They didn’t let you in?  C’mon.  You’re comin’ with me.”  And then I’d sit in the wings as they sped through their number, and then the inevitable would happen.  Not that I was experienced enough to really visualize that raunchy inevitable.  While not pristine, I also wasn’t anywhere close to being as much of a…woman of the world as Allison.  In fact, I wasn’t boy-crazy at all.  Why not?  Because I was in high school and they were all boys.  I wanted a man.  

“That’s an awesome idea!” exclaimed my Saint Allison.  We swung round the corner and up the alley behind the Commodore to where the rear entrance was.  

Instead of there being a throng of incandescent groupies gathered there in feather boas and platform shoes (I only had 70s notions of groupies thanks to Ms. des Barres’ book), I saw only two girls waiting there.  And they were, like, hippies.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Heeeeeeyyyyy.”

“Hi.”

I can’t remember one of them, but the other girl was straight out of a 1967 Be-In: long blonde hair parted in the middle, round John Lennon glasses, a peasant blouse (despite it being October, and cold), and flared jeans.  She appeared to be sketching in a book, and had a pizza box beside her.  We all made small talk, and we were all underage–except for Goddess Allison–and had decided that maybe we could meet the band and have a shot.  

“I brought Joey some pizza because it’s his favourite food,” grinned the bespectacled girl, sounding incredibly spaced-out, “but we ate it ‘cuz we were hungry.”

“How–how long have you been waiting here?” I asked.

“About, I dunno, an hour or somethin’?”  And the opening band probably hadn’t even put on their socks and shoes.  We had a long way to go.  A very, very long way to go.

We killed some time sitting on the curb, smoking and chatting.  I asked the hippie if I could have a piece of paper from her sketchbook: I was going to write Joey Ramone a letter.  This would do it.  In fact, my words and sentiments might even affect him more than seeing my upturned, sweaty, snot-smeared face as I bawled and sang along with “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend.”  

I don’t remember what I wrote at all.  Definitely not a poem, as I’ve never been much of a poetess, and at sixteen I wouldn’t have dared attempt one.  But if I had, this steamy teenage set of verse probably would have read something like:

Every place I look

Everything I do

Every second of the day

I’m thinking of you.

Your face lives in my mind

Your face is all I see

I know I can’t stop thinking

And it’s killing me.

Everyone says I’m a fool

Maybe I am, I don’t know

Much as I try to stop it

I just can’t let you go.

I want to tell you everything

My longings are so real

But since you’re all I want

Pain is all I feel.

-Hypothetical Nadz Vera, age 16, October 6, 1992

I’m fairly certain it was just a letter talking about how inspirational he was, and how much his music meant to me, and this, and that, trying to sound deep and mature and sensitive and smart (two out of four ain’t bad).  As we waited, a roadie descended the backstage stairs and was waiting there at the bottom door with a long, silver flashlight.  We asked him what was going on, and where were The Ramones?  Where was Joey??!!

“They’re late,” he said.  “They should’ve been here a while ago.”  By this point the opening group was full-on into their set, which we could hear loud and clear.  

So we kept waiting.  And waiting.  And patiently waiting.  

Until a plain white van pulled into the alley.

“Ah, finally!” said the roadie.  “There they are.”

Slowly, the van stopped right in front of the open doors, which we sat directly across from.  And lo, my God, heartstopper of them all, Joey happened to be sitting by the van window that we were facing.  

It was him.  Really him.  And he looked exactly like Joey Ramone.  You know how, if you go to the Louvre, you see the Mona Lisa and it looks just like the Mona Lisa?  That’s the sensation I was experiencing during this moment.  It felt like an out-of-body experience.  He was just a couple of feet in front of me, separated by glass.

…and, almost as though to give us young girlie fans a thrill (although I very much doubt it), he glanced to his left, saw us sitting there, and then very slowly pulled the elastic holding back his long black hair.  In fact, he seemed to be moving entirely in slow motion, from the way he turned his head to the way he reached his arm back to loosen his mane.  I almost needed smelling salts by this point.  

Their manager, Monte Melnick, leapt out of the van and seemed very angry.  “Get in there!” he roared.  I saw Johnny Ramone duck out of the van in a flash, in the same lightning-speed way he played electric guitar.  He seemed to go up those stairs as though transported by some otherworldly element.  I wondered if he ran track & field in high school, and how many blue ribbons he had amassed.

The other two weren’t in there, or at least, I didn’t notice them.  All four of us girls shuffled together in unison to the open-door side of the van, where we watched, mouths agape, as Joey unfolded his endless skinny body out of the van.  Slowly.  As though he were underwater.  He was all limbs and long torso and pink-tinted glasses.

“Come ON!” yelled Monte.

I could only stare.  And then Warrior Allison, brave, fearlless soul that she was, spoke for all of us, uttering the words that would surely make a massive impact on the man who had not only heard them four trillion times, but had to sing them yet again that night.  She said:

“Gabba Gabba Hey, man.”

He raised a hand. “Hey.”

Hey.

Joey Ramone–of the world-famous Ramones–had just acknowledged four shivering teenage girls in a Vancouver alleyway.  In disbelief, I watched him ascend those stairs with the same lack of urgency, one lamppost leg after the other, clad in black jeans, wearing his leather jacket, taking his time as his manager raced up the stairs behind him, yelling and frantic.  I had a feeling this was a fairly common scenario with the group.

And that was that.  Again.

It was the second time that night I had a Ramones-themed feeling of not knowing what to do with myself.  

I approached the bouncer, who was about to slam those doors shut, and handed him my letter. “Could you…could you give this to Joey?”

“Sure thing.”

“Make sure he gets it,” I whined.

“Oh, he’ll get it,” he assured me.  And then those doors closed.

Allison and I didn’t feel like sticking around any longer to listen to the show from the alley.  It seemed like a mockery to experience our band that way, especially after all of the very turbulent emotions we’d gone through already.  It was time to go home.  

We walked to the bus stop, prepared for the hour-long ride back to Coquitlam, mostly in silence, but Allison tried her sweet best to keep things upbeat.

“Gosh, maybe he’ll read your letter and write a song about it,” she said.

“Yeah…maybe.”  

And then we went home.

*   *   *   *   *

It’s not as though I totally gave up on The Ramones after that.  Hell, I even dressed up as Joey for Hallowe’en later that month at school, and I sure wish I had a photo of that.  But it was never the same.  My moment had come like a flash, a once-in-a-literal-lifetime moment, and I couldn’t seize it because I had been born in the wrong year.  It wasn’t long after that I officially dyed my hair black and started dressing in funeral-parlour gear.  At the time, I was considered goth.  In retrospect, I wonder if I was subconsciously mourning the passing-by of the opportunity I had, the death of my love for Joey Ramone, the pulverizing of my heart, the agony of the–

No, I was just goth.  Boy, it was fun to dress like that.

However, there was a period of mourning many years later.  The 90s were over, I was now wearing polyester thrift-store clothing, I was attending SFU, living in North Burnaby, and I’d long since moved onto other music.  In fact, I was making my own: a few years earlier I decided to start playing open-mic nights around the city, so I taught myself a few chords–The Ramones had schooled me in minimalism–and wrote lyrics that were actually fairly clever.  Not poetry, God no, but lyrics that were deliberately thematic and meant to be put to music.  “The Trepanning Song” was the first thing I ever wrote, followed by “You Leave Me Drippin’ Like A Tap” and “On The Naugahyde.”  

It was Easter weekend, 2001, and my friend Lisa gave me a call.  This wasn’t an unusual thing.  Her reason for calling, however, was.

“Did you hear?” she breathed.

“Hear what?”

“Joey Ramone is dead.”

I think my stomach once again did a free-fall, much the same way it did when I learned I wouldn’t be getting into The Commodore nearly a decade before.

“He’s dead?”

“Yeah.  Apparently he died of cancer yesterday.”

At the time, I was fortunate enough to be within walking distance of SFU, although I generally took the bus up Burnaby Mountain for the most part, and I also had a 1986 Honda Accord.  Having grown up on a mountain, though, marching up a long, steep incline is nothing to me.  As my best pal Charles always says, I’m part mountain goat.

Calmly, sadly, I grabbed my ancient Walkman, found a couple of old Ramones tapes rattling around somewhere (tapes had become obsolete by now–we had all moved onto CDs quite a while ago), and went for a big hike.  It was a cool day, and the clouds were lying low and obscuring the top half of Burnaby Mountain.

I listened to their music the entire way up, not pausing nor needing to, and yes, with a nostalgic tear or two escaping my eyes.  The music punted me right back to the very early 90s, back to that night, back to when I was so close to seeing them live, back to when my now-vanished best friend Allison had demonstrated one of the most selfless acts of love anyone has ever performed for me.   I got to the top of the mountain, and I just took a seat on the grass, and I spent some time with the music.

Rest in peace, Joey.  Sorry we couldn’t think of something better to say when we saw you.  Maybe then you actually would have scooped me up into your arms like Rhett Butler did to Scarlett O’Hara and carried me up those backstage stairs to Who Only Know What.    

And I will never know if you got that letter.

(Reach me at nadya@nadzvera.com)