Blog

My new favorite writer, Brazilian hipster novelist Mayra Dias Gomes, author of Fugalaça, sent this to me, recounting her first time meeting Jonathan Shaw.           

“I’m with them!” I screamed appallingly at the security guards controlling the backstage entrance at Marilyn Manson’s concert in Rio de Janeiro. Some of my lucky friends were getting in and I was petrified at the thought of being left behind. My heart pounded dramatically, instigating destructive thoughts. My boyfriend was right behind me. “Get in,” a big scary security guard said as he pushed me inside with violence and banged the door shut again. I couldn’t believe it. My cell phone rang and the accelerated beat of my heart made me jump. Ginger Fish passed right through me with a cap on his head and no make up on his pale face.

“What’s up inside?” Allan – my boyfriend – asked me. I had no idea what to answer. What the hell was up? I had been dreaming about the day that I would be able to meet Marilyn Manson since I was just a little girl. He inspired me, energized me, excited me. I was a girl on a mission and that was only day one. It was my very first assignment at the newspaper I write for and what seemed like a piece of cake– following Manson around until I got something close to an interview – turned into a maddening, nerve-racking experience that day.

I may have gotten backstage, but that didn’t mean I was going to go through the heavy metal door that kept opening to show Manson’s face and closing to show me that I was a loser. I certainly felt like one. The security people were showing no love at all and even the fans with backstage passes were not getting through. Desperate people argued all over me. I eventually got kicked out with raging tears running down my eyes. I was back to my boyfriend’s arms and still cried like a little bullied girl. “I met a nice guy amongst those backstage monsters,” he told me. “He kind of looked like a big bad pirate.”

It was Jonathan Shaw, but I didn’t know that yet. Destiny would clear that up for me, though. Destiny would eventually put him right in front of my eyes and say “Hey Mayra, that’s the guy you have to get to know.” When the sun came up on the next day, we were overwhelmingly exhausted, but followed the tour anyway. We drove to São Paulo, where we watched the second concert, but thankfully did not try to get backstage. We weren’t going to go through that kind of humiliation again. It seemed that we had run out of luck. What could I do? I just partied hard and drowned my teenage angst inside bottles and bottles of vodka. Predictable enough.

Fucking hangover, fucking asthma. I just wanted to puke my brains out and erase the Antichrist from my mind forever.

We arrived at the third place where Manson could supposedly be found – the opening of his painting exhibition– my boyfriend walked in the direction of a guy he claimed he knew. “The pirate,” he told me, as I realized the place was packed with reporters. So he introduced him to me. “Prazer, eu sou o Jonathan Shaw, mas pode chamar de Cigano,” the man said in Portuguese.

His effort was spirited, but he still had a funny dejected American accent. I recognized his name, just didn’t where I’d heard it before. He was drinking coca-cola as opposed to everybody, but me, who drank champagne and waited for Manson’s big late arrival. Jonathan had just told us he was accompanying him.

My fucking head! I needed to sleep.

Somehow, after an extensive and radical experience, my dream came true. The Antichrist was even more brilliant than I expected him to be, and I finally got my interview. It was unbelievable and finally over for the sake of my mental health. But we will skip that part and get to business.

Allan told Jonathan that I was a writer and that I’d love to send him the article I had just published about my passion for Manson. So he gave us his phone number and e-mail. We would definitely call. A strong tattooed guy with a golden tooth is unarguably worth being friends with.We Googled him and our jaws dropped. Oh, the Internet generation! Of course we had read the article he had done for Trip Magazine with Iggy Pop, who we unquestionably adore. Of course we remembered that he was one of the first ever legal tattoo artists in New York. Now it made sense.

We were going to call, but strangely didn’t have to. We were standing in line of our favorite club in São Paulo, Inferno, strategically located in Rua Augusta - the place where you go for drugs, prostitution and rock’n’roll. It was a day after the MTV Music Awards’ in which Manson had performed. I was distracted smoking a cigarette as I waited for my turn to come to the counter and get my card to enter the club. Allan wasn’t. “Cigano!” he screamed. I couldn’t believe it. Jonathan was walking right in front of the club with a little pad in his hands. He stopped to talk to us and explained that he was looking for a place to sit down and finish his upcoming novel. My eyes got bigger; he was starting to grow on me. As I stared at the small pad he was holding, I wondered how anybody living in the 21st century could have those writing habits. I didn’t ask, only admired.

He looked like a beatnik. We invited him to come inside with us and have a drink, but he said no. He had to write and I respected it. A week later I was already back in Rio. I bit my lips and wondered if I should really call him. My curiosity had become unbearable and I had spent days wondering what his words sounded like. He answered the phone. We would meet that night at the premiere of an acclaimed new Brazilian movie called “Tropa de Elite”. I would bring him my book since it seemed like he preferred to speak in my language. Allan and I had a few beers and met him. He had his motorbike parked nearby and told us a little bit about his story. He didn’t drink and was a recovering addict for seven years, but it didn’t matter since he seemed like an infinite and intoxicating person with no needs for alcohol in order to create interesting conversation.

We went to the after-party of the movie, met one of his friends, and got a table at the nightclub where the party was being hosted. I felt like we clicked instantly as we engaged in conversations about punk rock, Marilyn Manson, quantum physics, tattoos, literature, The Secret, secret associations, our deceased fathers, aliens, beatniks and obsessive relationships. He took his little pad from his pocket and asked me if I’d like to hear a part of his upcoming novel, “Narcisa – Our Lady of Ashes”, still named “Savage Grace” back then. Under candlelight, he started reading.

He talked about the pieces of food in the female character’s food and about how he fucked her till his dick got soft. He reminded me of Bukowski, who he told me was an old acquaintance. It was quite impressive. Bukowski was just one of his many famous friends, really. He had tattooed every idol I’ve ever had. Give me a break, right?

As I said goodbye to him and prepared for a trip to London where I would write about the Sex Pistols’ reunion, he said we shouldn’t lose contact. And why would I be stupid to do that? That’s why we have e-mail accounts, right? Since that day, our friendship started to grow. I just know it won’t stop. After reading his whole novel, drowning in tears and realizing it is bound to become an American classic, I feel like if I’ve known him forever. And let’s say I’ve spent a fair amount of time being really investigative online.

There is something about Jonathan that makes you always ask for more. It’s like I’ve already been tattooed by him. His stories decorate me and they also hurt my skin. He has left a tattoo on my heart and in my soul. I guess it’s what he does to anybody that meets him and understands his depth, his beautiful dirt. There is no way of escaping Jonathan Shaw’s words and teachings after he’s crossed your way. He is indeed a pirate, a survivor, a poet, an illuminated soul. You just can’t wait to meet him!  

Mayra Gomes fucking rules! Check out her blog–  www.fotolog.com/sensationslave