Just Passing By

There’s a scene in my head. I run it over on a loop, rewriting and editing as my life and interests change. It’s the celebrity encounter. You may not know this about me, but I have a bit of a thing for celebrities. (Clarification: Not celebrities in the Kim Kardashian, TMZ way. I’m obsessed with musicians. Except for my sweet Raúl Esparza, it’s rock stars.)

I’ve imagined these encounters where I come off as witty, charming and maybe a little sexy. My humorous displays are quite evident on these pages; therefore, the wit and charm are feasible. A little sexy may be a stretch, but gosh darn it, I’m funny.

Although I’ve been very lucky to have met all my biggest celebrity crushes, the reality of my encounters is far, far from the fantasy. The reality is more like this: blah, blah, blah. My demeanor resembles that of The Crusher, the Looney Tunes wrestler right after Bugs slams the big, steel door on him. All I can say is, “I’m just passing by – daaa-eeeee.”

All the charm, all the wit, all the sex appeal disappears. What is left is a babbling fool just passing by.

Let’s look back. I do this for your enjoyment, but also the opportunity to re-live these brief moments of connection with my rock-n-roll loves.

Poor Jeff Tweedy has seen me at my most babbling. I’ve met him seven times. Some of it was good luck. Some of it was paid for. And yes, some was good, old-fashioned stalking. Or, more precisely, waiting outside the tour bus. Don’t get me wrong, I have tremendous stalker potential, but that seems like a lot of time and effort. Meh. I only stalk when it’s convenient.

The conversations on these seven occasions can be summarized thusly:

Me, “OhygodJeffIamsuchabigfanyourmusicmeanssomuchttomeandyourliveshowsareincreadibleand LOVE YOU!”

Jeff, “Uh. Thanks.”

Just passing by. Daaa-eeeee.

I did not come off like an intellectual vixen with Peter Buck of REM fame, either. Picture It: 2010. The Bell House, Brooklyn, NY. Mr. Buck is manning the merchandise table after a Robyn Hitchcock Show. (Yes, you read that right: manning the merchandise table.) I buy a CD, nervously ask for a photo, and leave him with this: “I’VE HAD A CRUSH ON YOU SINCE SEPTEMBER OF ’89!”

And he responds, “Uh, thanks.”

What are you doing here, Barb? Just passing by.

Speaking of Roby H., my interactions with him have been more or less coherent. I squeak out a few comments about his artistry and lyrical brilliance. All the while my face is awash in a worshipful gaze as I look upon this Alt-rock god. Realizing that if it were not for him there be no REM, no Wilco, no Lucuis; I’d be listening to Nickelback. Robyn H. has saved me from a life of mediocre, heartless music lacking creativity, bravery and 12-string, acoustic guitars.

Not saying that he has never met The Crusher. My attempt to show him my Thoth tattoo on my shoulder failed miserably. I didn’t pull my shirt down far enough, to which he said, “I don’t see anything!??” And then added, “Now you can’t donate your body to science.”  Not the plan, mate. Daaa-eeee.

Will Forte threw me quite the curve ball. My nerves were shivering enough at that book signing in Jersey City. Then he recognized me from Twitter. Brain snap! That’s the best way to describe what happened in my skull. He thanked me for supporting his show; I babbled about some nonsense. I got a hug, he probably got confused by my nonsensical statements. Daaaaa…

When I reflect on meeting my sweet Raúl, it’s all about missed opportunities. I had prepared a script of humorous comments to make my favorite fake ADA smile. There was the one about how binge watching Hannibal was a little too intense, but had kept me on my diet. (Not uttered.)

And my plan to request a Barba-style eye roll. I wanted to ask, “If I say something ridiculous, would you roll your eyes at me?” He’d agree and I would have said, “Trump’s gonna make America great again.” He would have rolled his eyes so hard that he would have passed out.

No such request was made/received. Instead, I nervously wrung my hands and blathered on about O’ Holy Night and Wilco. One steel door; one face: SLAM!

Is there a lesson here at all? If so, doubtful that I will learn anything. I will continue to pay, stalk or luck my way into meeting my favorites. I will continue to lose my cool and come off as a bat-shit crazy girl that I know I really am, but have managed to hide.

So please don’t ask me to stay. I’m just passing by.