Hard to Wait
by Clandes Tine
7/6/06


Saturday, June 24, 2006: Daytime, hot rain and steam rise from the pavements. I don't even feel the rain as I sashay to the Big Apple Comic Book Convention, gagging for Steven Seagal's autograph. I don't want to tug his pony tail. Let me bask in his enlightened Tulku aura and admire his tall bodaciousness. Anyone who can be immobile in an action movie has my approval. Moreover, Steven cured me of my fear of flying. When I'm afraid, I look to the light and he's there, the shadow figure (in a long gaudy black jacket and love beads) ready to carry my plane to safety.

The convention room is stuffy, the ticket-taker a bitch, but I go to my place in line. When the security man flirts with me -- I am one of the few girls in line -- I flirt back. Rob Thomas Lookalike next to me is too young for serious middle-aged come-ons but I humor his youth and vitality, enjoy all the earrings in his ears. What's his favorite fight scene? Did you know Steven directed ON DEADLY GROUND? Yeah, Steven Seagal directed Michael Caine in a movie.

But what's this? Oh, to get Steven Seagal's autograph, you have to purchase his CD, Mojo Priest, for 30$, other autographs an additional 20$. Because Master Steven has at least six children to support, I put forth the dough. What is money really? Just an exchange of services and meeting your idol is priceless. Besides, Steven is playing his music. I turn over the CD to read the Buddha inspired song titles. "Alligator Ass"..."Talk to my ass?" Qu'est-ce que c'est? Maybe the ass is another venue by which to spread his message. The ass is natural. You can't live without your ass.

After checking the time, I turn to less sturdy fans, who were given chairs after the first two hours. They know, too, the Buddhist theme of life as suffering. Is there a reason Steven is making us wait? I throw on my cynical hat and snort, "He's probably getting a massage." Rob Thomas Lookalike shakes his head and clutches his bag of posters. "He'll be here any minute. He's only a few blocks away," the mantra goes for three hours. And so, after 180 minutes of standing -- which is nothing to how long Steven must meditate daily -- I ask myself, "What Would Steven Do?"

I leave. My parting thought toward Steven can only be expressed as such: Talk to my ass.