Also, when I was a junior in high school, I was a teenage girl.
Here is why I mention this: a teenage girl in 1988 had lots of oversized, empowering accessories. These include, but are not limited to: notably aerodynamic bangs, large dangly earrings, shoulder pads, slouchy sweaters, shoe-boots... the list goes on.
Being adorned with such festoonery demands, of course, a certain amount of sassy teenage attitude. Hey, it's the costume.
 |
| Not the actual Volvo... (though I wish it were...) |
We parked the car and got out. And that's when Jenny saw something Very Exciting. It was a sign. A white sign, with block red lettering that looked very much like the angry protest signs that the Teamsters had been waving at us outside the front gates of school due to their diligent boycott of the movie production that was being filmed at our high school (did I mention that we grew up in L.A.?).
But this sign did not read... well, whatever it was that the Teamsters put on their signs. I mean, I'm on my way to school, Teamsters, can you just move your sign-toting selves so I can get to Chemistry Lab on time? I'm not thrilled to be out here before 8 either, thanks... wait, what did that sign say, anyway? Ugh, I'm late again - outta my way, Teamster!
This sign simply read:
BONO FOR MAYOR
Cool.
So we both started looking around and these signs were all over the place, mostly in shop windows and such. And, as we started walking around, we became extremely excited about these signs for one reason, and that reason is:
We were both very big U2 fans.
And the posters didn't have a pronunciation guide.
We went into a store and noticed a young-ish proprietor, who looked like an easy target. He had super nice, tailored clothes and good hair, and and he was pretty cute too. So, like any self-respecting 17-year-old girls with excellent hair volume ourselves even in that sweltering heat, we figured that we'd bat our eyelashes and sweetly ask if we could have one of his signs.
Instead of "Of course, girls! Go right ahead" (which is what we expected), he said, "No, of course you can't have one of my signs."
We had not expected this. We were, in fact, entirely unprepared for a rebuff, coiffed and cologne-scented or otherwise. It should be noted here that, having been in Catholic school for the past several years, neither of us actually knew that we knew what a gay man looked and talked like - had we known, I'm sure we would have gone in with a better game plan. In retrospect, of course, I'm sure we both realize that our Aerobics/French teacher - he taught both; he did not teach French Aerobics, though that sounds hilarious - who wore leg warmers and had a voice not unlike Richard Simmons reminded us of this shopkeeper, but at the time we were pretty much in the dark.
In the dark without a campaign sign.
We tried again, but our coquettish "Please?" did not sway this infuriatingly stubborn man to bend to our extremely reasonable requests. So, somewhat defeated, I simply asked "Why not?" and he said, "Because when he wins I'm going to have Sonny sign them!"
Jenny and I looked at each other, wonderingly, but before we could say anything he said, "You know, you might just try campaign headquarters. They might give you a sign. It's right down the street," and he pointed us in the right direction.
So, feeling pretty excited about being one step closer to the coolest U2/Spring Break memento ever, and figuring that Bono running for mayor meant that we might run into Larry Mullen, Jr., who was very high on the "dreamy" list at the time, we decided to head straightaway to Campaign Headquarters.
On the way, we had a brief discussion as to how odd it was that neither of us had known that Bono's first name was Sonny, but figured that he would just be using it for his political campaign, because having a mayor without a first and last name would be a little weird, and probably violated a statute or something. We also conducted a brief analysis as to whether it was odd it was that an Irish singer would be running for Mayor of Palm Springs, but concluded that (a) Palm Springs probably didn't have the same rule that America had about how you have to be born there to run for the highest office, (b) lots of celebrities went to Palm Springs, (c) our President for the last 8 years had been an actor (that's Reagan, for the youths out there), and (d) Bono generally looked as though he'd seen about as much sun as the zombies in the "Thriller" video, and it was possible that he just needed a tan. (Remember: we were from L.A.)
And as we finished these conclusions, we were suddenly at Campaign HQ! OMG!
Which in those days was actually spelled out, so:
OhMyGod!
Was Bono in there? Was a jam session happening in the background? Were Bono's celebrity friends milling about and drinking things? Was Bob Geldof there, planning another Africa-saving ballad with Bono and Larry Mullen, Jr. and - the other two guys - and aforementioned celebrity friends? There was only one way to find out, and that way was to walk right on in there.
Adjust shoulder pads. Shake earrings and hair. Quick-check reflection in window. Enter.
...And... huh. This was a pretty boring-looking office for a rock star, but of course this was a rock star trying to be taken seriously as a public official, so... OK, Bono. Got it. But... no Bono at Bono for Mayor offices? Not that we really expected him to be there, but... Oh, well. We could still get a sign.
So we walked up to the counter and the guy behind it asked us if he could help us. And the answer, of course, was "Yes, please, can we have a campaign sign?"
He gave us a slightly puzzled look, and asked why we wanted one. And I said, "Well, we both really like U2."
And then he stared at us. And, just maybe, one of the staff members giggled a little bit. Oh, dear - apparently being ordinary fans wasn't enough to get a cool sign. So we both figured we'd better demonstrate just how big of fans we were, and we started going on about how much we like U2 and Bono and ... um, so can we have a sign, Nice Mister, please?
The guy looked at us and said, "You know what? You can have one, and I'll even have it signed for you. Just let me go in the back here and get it signed."
Holy. Moses. Was this guy telling us that Bono was RIGHT THERE IN THE BACK ROOM?! Right behind that door?! No. Way. !!!!!!!!!!!!!
We couldn't contain ourselves. We had to ask. "Is he really back there?"
He nodded at us. "Sonny is here today."
This Sonny business again. Was Bono going to use this name from now on, or was this just for his political career? Because, seriously, just Bono sounded a lot cooler than Sonny Bono or just Sonny.
And, with that, he walked into the back room with our sign. And he was in there for kind of a long time, actually. And, just maybe, we heard some laughing back there... no doubt from the raucous celebrity party that was taking place right behind that mystery door!
In the meantime, though, I was getting bored waiting - my attention span at 17 being somewhat like that of a caffeinated gnat - so while the front-office staffers smirked at us (something we expected from staffers working for a rock star, being L.A. trained and all), I decided to check out all the cool celebrity photos on the walls.
And this is when I noticed something strange. There was a man in all these photos, but this man was not Bono. This man had a mustache and questionable hair and looked, vaguely, like he might even be related to me. (The great Nuccio tradition of an impressive Italian mustache was enthusiastically embraced throughout the '70's and '80's, and has only recently evolved to include a beard.)
And, as I was pondering this oddity, the guy came back out with our sign. Our autographed sign!
He handed it to us, and our conversation went something like this:
Him: Here you go, girls.
Me: Wait - that's you in all these pictures.
Him: Yes, it is.
Me: But - why are you in all these pictures, and not Bono?
Him: [shrug]
Me: Oh, are you like running his campaign or something?
Him: Yes. (Knowing Smile)
Me: (Why is this little man giving me this strange smile?) Oh, cool. Well, thanks a lot!
And, feeling very clever and gratified and extra sassy and saucy and otherwise pleased with ourselves and our new SIGNED (!!!) memento, and of course feeling extra tickled that we already had an autographed sign before the election, when that guy who wouldn't even give us a sign thought he was so cool... well, Jenny and I headed back to the gold Volvo (Ouch! Even hotter leather on my thighs! Should I sit on this sign? Hmm.. probably not...), and back to the house we went with our trophy.
We walked into the house to find my Mom so that we could tell her this awesome story. But we didn't get very far, because as soon as we came to the part about how Jenny saw the "Bono for Mayor" sign, my Mom stopped me. This conversation went something like this:
Mom: Girls, Bono is not running for Mayor of Palm Springs. Sonny Bono is running for Mayor of Palm Springs. (Pronounced: BOH-NO)
Me: Right, Bono! Sonny is his first name! (Pronounced: BAH-NO)
Mom: No, Leslie, Sonny Bono was married to Cher.
Me: Bono was married to Cher? (I will permit myself a slightly anachronistic snark here to serve as representative of what I thought in the moment: If She Could Turn Back Time, indeed.)
Mom: No, Bono and Sonny Bono are not the same person. Sonny Bono is the Sonny from Sonny and Cher, don't you remember watching that when you were little?
Me: Um... maybe... but... no, Bono is running for mayor, we were at his campaign headquarters!
It was at this point that I probably should have put 2 and 2 and 2 and 2 together to make 8. But I just knew that I had to be right, because otherwise, who in the heck had signed our campaign sign?
So I argued with my Mom, in the way of 17-year-old girls who know that they're right (like always), by telling her about how we went to his campaign headquarters and how his campaign manager told us that Bono was there and how he went in the back to have the poster signed, and... and..
And my Mom, who started with patience and tried to be reasonable and explain this to me yet again, finally realized that ration was getting her nowhere, and threw down the gauntlet.
"I'll bet you $10 that you're wrong."
Oh, dear. A bet.
My Mom rarely made bets - and she wasn't known for losing them, either. And $10 was a whole week's allowance, so... was it possible that she knew something I didn't? But... the sign! And that man told us that Bono was there and that he signed it, didn't he?
So, of course, I took the bet. But who could be the impartial arbitrator? No, Dad was just siding with Mom because that's what parents do, so that of course doesn't count. So how was this bet to be settled?
This critical dilemma was, fortuitously, solved shortly thereafter by the 5:00 evening news, which immediately launched into the story of Sonny Bono's current campaign for Mayor.
Sonny BOH-NO. (And then they showed him campaigning through the street of Palm Springs.)
OH-NO. (This man looked very familiar.)
My Mom pointed to the TV and said, "See, Leslie? That's Sonny Bono!"
Jenny and I couldn't contain ourselves, and yelled, "That's the man we talked to at campaign headquarters! He's the one who gave us the sign!"
And both of my parents just started at us, much as this supposed Sonny Bono character had started at us earlier. And then they started to laugh.
And Jenny and I just started, unbelievingly, at the television report about this Sonny BOH-NO, who was either the identical twin of the man who'd given us the autographed poster, or was - it was suddenly all coming together now - actually the man himself!
This man was not, incidentally, Bono. At. All.
Damn!
And so I begrudgingly gave my mom the $10, feeling pretty tricked out of it by that Sonny Bono fellow who was pretty lucky that I wasn't 18 and living in Palm Springs, because tricking a voter out of $10... well, I never... but figuring that a story that gave my parents this much of a laugh was probably worth $10.
Jenny ended up with the sign (her rationale being that she was the one who'd had the idea to get a sign in the first place, which was entirely true), and I - swear to all that is Sonny Bono - eventually ended up with one of the Teamster's signs. (Teamsters, as it turned out, were much more receptive to high school girlishness than that strangely unaffected but ultimately helpful store proprietor in Palm Springs.)
