When I tell people that I lived in Athens, they usually respond with, “Did you meet Michael Stipe? Ha ha.” The “ha ha” is almost always there. The idea that famous people would just be walking around is, I think, absurd to the general populace. Famous people are supposed to have a perimeter. They should wear a red carpet and velvet rope ring around them like a Lady Gaga outfit. It’s not like that in Athens. Stipe just walks around like a regular person, and the locals are generally unfazed by it.
In 1994, I was in a bar in Athens. (“Throughout 1994” is also accurate.) Stipplehead walked in. My exuberant friend lunged forward in his chair. “There’s Stipe. Do you want to meet him?”
“No. No, no, NO…” It was too late.
“Hey, Michael, this is my friend Laura. She’s from Collinsville.” Stipe had attended high school in The Horseradish Capital of the World. Logically, we were now going to have a pleasant conversation about the ‘ville. Stipe wasn’t smiling. He looked annoyed. I panicked and tried to think of things he might remember. There was a place in the woods where high school kids used to go drink and smoke pot. There were all these urban legends about bizarre things happening out there.
“Do you remember ‘The Gates of Hell’?”
“I know the painting.” He sneered.
It didn’t make any sense. ‘The Gates of Hell’ is not a painting. It’s a sculpture by Rodin. More importantly, why was he being so difficult? I was from The City with that Weird Catsup Bottle Water Tower. I wasn’t some wacko. I was cool. He would totally like me if he talked to me. He was just standing there.
I mentioned the golf course near his old house. He insisted that there was no golf course. My encounter with Stipplehead was escalating into an argument about regional attractions. Why was he still standing there? I squinted at him and probably did that splayed-fingers thing that I do when I’m freaking out (“spaz hands”). We stood there for a few more seconds like tofu marinating in awkwardness, then it was over. I had met Michael Stipe. Yay.
Maybe the locals are generally unfazed by his presence, but I was überfazed. For the next fourteen years, I experienced a crippling adrenaline rush spaz response every time I saw him. “Oh no, Michael Stipe is at The Grit. Fight or flight? Fight or flight?” Not that I wanted to fight Michael Stipe, of course, but I didn’t want to go running out of The Grit with an unfinished Golden Bowl plus veggies, either. Why would I do that? The food was great, and Michael Stipe was there. How cool was that? The battle between fight and flight always manifested itself in an anxiety attack. It was difficult to eat with spaz hands, but I usually got by. I’m cool like that.
My Stipe trauma came full circle when Jack met him the November before we left (November 23rd is now officially the holiday “Stipe und Kreis”, the day the “perfect circle” closed.) My friend, Diana, and I had decided to attend a party for Jim Martin who was campaigning for the U.S. Senate. Jack was four and very into politics. I also didn’t have a babysitter. It was a fun party, and Jack was having a great time. Late in the evening, an announcement was made encouraging people to take some “Vote for Jim Martin” yard signs with them when they left. Shortly after the announcement, Jack began carrying around a yard sign and shouting, “Vote for Jim Martin” like a little free-range, organically grown Paul Revere. He walked up to Michael Stipe and held up the sign, “Vote for Jim Martin!”
It was cute.
It was also completely silent. Stipe didn’t say anything to Jack. He didn’t look for Jack’s grown-up or generally announce “Aww…what a cute kid!” He didn’t even laugh. He didn’t do anything.
I could smell the awkward tofu from The Great Regional Attractions Debate of 1994.
“Did he just tell me to vote for Jim Martin?”
I don’t know who he was talking to, but he wasn’t talking to me. The man mumbles. Michael Stipe talks like he has a microphone pinned to his lapel so that his comments are only audible to a select group of people. Of course, it may just seem that way because he is NOT TALKING TO ME.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. I looked at Jack. He was waiting for a response. There he was, this tiny kid holding up a sign waiting for a response from some random guy. He was my little Lloyd Dobler. For the first time, I didn’t have that fight or flight feeling. I was just getting pissed. I glared at the side of Michael Stipe’s head, thinking, “Come on, Michael Stipe. Don’t you know who that is?”
“Did he just tell me to vote for Jim Martin?” hovered for a second, and then it was gone. I was over it. I had a new hero now. My hero had given up on Michael Stipe and was now urging other party-goers to show their support for the man who unfortunately wouldn’t beat Saxby Chambliss in the next election. Jack’s little voice shouting “Vote for Jim Martin” affected me in a way that Stipe’s “Green”-era megaphone couldn’t come close to.
It was time to stand. It was time to face north. It was time to think about direction.
For the record, I didn’t wonder why. I knew.
I also had an encounter.I think it was all about my angle. I opened with: "I believe your mom and my grandpa used to work together at city hall." A pleasant conversation followed. I even mentioned a Class of '78 reunion in '88 that a few boys and I waited outside of just to see if he would show up. Stipe told me that he would never going back.
ReplyDeleteDon't go back to Collinsville and waste another day
ReplyDeleteLowell also met Mr. Stipe that day in Bertis' front yard. First time my son asked me to introduce him to someone he recognized
ReplyDeleteHere's recollections of a young Adult life bumping into Stipey Stipe:
ReplyDelete1. Body Odor. There is no excuse for a Man who does not do heavy labor to smell like that. I can work up a smell, the operative word is
"WORK." Smell like that right off Stage, I'll give you that - otherwise start welding, smelting or shoeing horses to deserve that stench.
2. Speak directly to me when ordering. I will not take your questions/requests/orders through an Interpreter if we speak the same language and I have not suddenly gone deaf.
3. If you and your Entourage are celebrating your new $70 Million Record Deal - that's $70,000,000 - you can fucking tip more than $2.00 on a round of 12 Guinness.
Not Impressed, never was,
Laffo.