The Paparrazi Ruined My Rented RV!

This week marks the 10th anniversary of the death of Princess Diana in a traffic tunnel in Paris.

I remember very clearly where I was and how I found about what was to become a shock to the world at large.

I was on my way to Burning Man with my good friend, Matt Workman. I was about to experience a very personal telling of the Robin Williams masterpiece "R.V." -- except without all the sight gags, laughs and general entertainment value. (ha!)

It was an unusual trip to say the very least, right from the start. I had rented a very large vacation home on wheels. I had no idea how large until, after only driving it for four minutes, I managed to thwap a pole in the parking lot of the Burbank McDonalds with the very long ass-end of the vehicle.

From just outside the vehicle, off the distance, I heard a smart ass remark from a bystander. No doubt Matt remembers the exact wording, but it was something like "Way to go dorkstick".

This only caused very minimal damage to the vehicle so I didn't worry about it too much.

This large vacation home on wheels (VHoW) got about 8 miles to the gallon and only went about 56 miles per hour, top speed. Much above that and you felt unsafe; the kind of unsafe you might feel, say, if you were driving your 2 bedroom bungalow down a highway, blindfolded, while steering with a wheel of jello.

We stopped at what was, to that point in my life, the largest K-Mart I had ever had the pleasure of entering, just somewhere near Reno. We picked up a number of supplies we figured we'd need at Burning Man and made our way to the cash.

The cashier was the one who informed us of the death of Princess Diana. Quite honestly, while I respectfully expressed shock and dismay in her presence, I just didn't believe her. I figured she had somehow got it wrong. Perhaps the blaze of the "Blue Light Specials" had confused her. It was probably the death of Prince of Minneapolis and his friend Dianne (which would have made much more sense to me at the time).

My unwillingness to accept the news really comes down to this : I tend not to accept my news verbally from those who have fewer teeth than they do fingers. I'm crazy like that.

[Keep that in mind Matt, and keep brushing those pearly whites so you can make it to network.]

When we got back in the VHoW, I turned on the radio to a talk/news station and it was all over the dial. Everyone was talking about it. We drove on to Burning Man listening only to the endless news-cycle talking about her death.

The coverage was morbid, sad and I dare say so non-stop as to be mind-numbing.

I just couldn't believe it. I had actually met Princess Diana and Prince Charles in Saint Andrews, New Brunswick when I was 14 years old. I was a member of the Saint John Ambulance organization of which Charles was a figurehead leader.

As they exited the famous hotel/resort where they had some luncheon with local big-wigs, Charles came right over to us and Diana followed shortly after. They both spoke to me directly and briefly and a girl standing next to me gave Diana flowers which she accepted with delight and grace.

I remember it so clearly. She was wearing the most gorgeous off-white, sort of ivory colored formal sun-dress with a matching designer hat that just looked stunning on her.

Wow, THAT was like the gayest thing I've said all year.

Anyway, I have a vague recollection of perhaps sharing that story with Matt as we drove on through the Nevada darkness towards the festival in the desert.

Upon arrival at Burning Man, while parking the VHoW in complete darkness, I managed to back it into a very large and pointedly-sharp piece of rebar, or maybe it was two pieces of rebar. Either way, this punctured the fibreglass exterior of the vehicle in a most disruptive and expensive looking way.

It was at that point I realized my thousand dollar security deposit would henceforth be of the non-refundable variety.

The whole days events between the McDonalds-light-pole/Dork-Stick incident, the death of a princess, and now the rebar(s) through the exterior of the VHoW ... really put me in quite a mood.

Matt went for a walk shortly after arrival, but I think he left the encampment not so much out of a sense of exploration or adventure, but just to get away from me and my 'mood' for a while till I calmed down.

All the events of that afternoon/evening are now intertwined, jumbled and mixed up in my old-age-confused-head.

So much so that, now, when I think of the $1800 I paid to repair the VHoW when we returned to Burbank, I *personally* blame the paparrazzi.

French Photographic Bastards.
---
Knox