It’s not hard to find a Yoko Ono autograph signing. She’s promoting her new album, Yes, I’m A Witch, where her back catalogue is remixed in loving collaborations with acts such as The Flaming Lips, Le Tigre, Antony and several more acclaimed hipster acts. To find the crowd at the Borders store at Penn Plaza, you look for the crowd of people who’ve never before bought an album by The Flaming Lips, Le Tigre or Antony.
Perhaps that’s not entirely accurate—except for the first 100 people in line here on a Saturday afternoon. This is still a big event for all ages. I’m surprised that the only press presence is five photographers, all gamely angling their shots to include the Borders logo.
I’m also impressed by the set-up. There’s one burly bodyguard and two guys in trench coats. The people in line will have to surrender their backpacks and bags, and the Witch CD booklets will be handed to Yoko by one of her employees. The fans, however, will be facing Yoko just a mere foot away from the table. I’ve seen stricter arrangements during an autograph signing by David Cassidy.
Yoko’s even sporting a normal pair of sunglasses. There’s no Lone Ranger mask today, and the autograph signing starts promptly. Not surprisingly, the first fan in line is one of the creepiest. He walks to the table and practically genuflects to Yoko. He’s brought the maximum of five CD booklets, so he has a chance to give a long speech while Yoko dutifully signs her name.
The scene climaxes with this exchange: “… and, most of all, thank you for your and John’s efforts to promote peace all over the world.”
“OK, you’re welcome.”
The next gentleman politely smiles while Yoko signs. That’s probably greatly appreciated. He gets a nice thank you from Yoko. Then the third guy comes up, and it’s another fawning thank you for all that Yoko has done for world peace.
“OK, you’re welcome.”
Who knew that Yoko Ono was behind the most important ad buys in the history of the world? It’s nice to know that there was a time when a full-page ad in the New York Times was actually worth the money.
The press—that being photographers and this lone voyeur—only has permission to closely witness the first three approaches. That’s OK, I couldn’t handle another salutation to the savior of the universe.
Besides, I’m more curious to see what’s going on among the faithful. To my pleasant surprise, there’s no one in line wearing a John Lennon T-shirt. I only count two gaunt and gangly beardos who look intense enough to get Yoko’s men unsnapping their holsters. The acid casualties are dying off.
The real pay dirt is towards the end of the line. Security has gathered around a schlubby fiftysomething. There’s a young man in full Army fatigues sporting the name of Gonzalez. It seems that the schlubby guy had some kind of problem with Private Gonzalez. (At least, I think he’s a private.) There was a big disruption in line, culminating with the schlub saying all kinds of racist remarks.
The schlub denies all this. “I have witnesses,” responds Gonzales. These include a store employee—also Hispanic—who had tried to intervene. The employee explains to security that the creep had responded by telling the Borders employee to “go cut my lawn.” There’s a big blonde nearby who saw the whole thing.
Security has heard enough. They explain to the schlub that he has lost his Yoko privileges. The creep complains that he’s bought five CDs for Yoko to sign. Security escorts him to a register to get his refund.
Meanwhile, the big blonde ponders what this says about us as a nation: “It’s sad to see racism in this day and age—especially at an event like this.” Yeah, it’s like the New York Times took Yoko’s money and wasted it or something.
I stroll around—and discover that Gonzales has been moved to the front of the autograph line. It didn’t occur to me that the guy from the Army would be there to get an autograph from Yoko Ono. I see that he’s carrying a guitar with him.
I’d usually say that a man in uniform has a good chance of winning over a celebrity who’s only signing copies of her new CD. On the other hand, Yoko is an emissary of world peace who doesn’t seem to make a distinction between the U.S. military and Islamic terrorists.
As it turns out, Gonzales is sent away without an autograph for his guitar—despite it having already been signed by Paul McCartney and original Beatles drummer Pete Best.
This is good news to an old hippie gal. “Yoko said that she thought the man had a photograph,” she explains to me, holding out an 8x10. “She’d agreed to autograph a picture. She meant this one. This was taken at an art gallery in the 1980s.”
I’m not sure what’s so special about the photograph, and ask out of honest curiosity. The old hippie gal responds by giving me a vexed look. It’s like I’ve forgotten that every photograph is special in the eyes of a benevolent universe.
Meanwhile, a Borders employee is on a chair and addressing the fans: “Yoko Ono is not signing any paraphernalia—Paul McCartney, especially.”
In Yoko’s defense, the employee is probably editorializing.
There’s one person who I expect to get special attention from Yoko. He’s an Asian guy in a wheelchair with a bouquet of flowers in his lap. Nothing gets a celebrity out of his (or her) seat faster than a fan in a wheelchair. Hopefully, he brought a camera. Celebrities always kneel down to have their pictures taken with the fan in a wheelchair.
I’m not paying attention when the guy in the wheelchair makes it to the front of the line. Instead, I see him again back towards the elevators. He doesn’t have the bouquet. I congratulate him on getting the gift into Yoko’s hands.
“No,” he explains, “I had to surrender them. They said I have to wait outside for her to give her flowers.”
He also didn’t get his 8x10 signed. The broad is hardcore, and I’d say that in an admiring manner if the guy in the wheelchair wasn’t on the verge of tears. He knows he’ll never get within 20 feet of Yoko leaving the building.
I’m certainly ready to leave. I go to get a coffee by the Borders café, and run into the old hippie gal with that other 8x10.
She didn’t get it autographed, either. She was able to get the print past the security guards. Yoko saw the photograph, but wouldn’t sign the thing. The old hippie gal is bitter about it, too. She’s still muttering her outrage while halfway down the escalator back to the street.
Thanks, Yoko. The last thing we need in New York City is more angry, bitter, old hippie gals. They didn’t all get to marry Beatles, you know. Eradicating the angry bitter old hippie gals would be a better cause than pursuing universal peace. To be fair, there probably aren’t enough ad buys in the world.
