Jeff Tweedy came into the bookstore the other day. I knew he lived in the area and had been told by colleagues that he often made lengthy, Hesperus-like visits to the fiction section. Nevertheless, when he arrived early Monday evening I admit to thinking he was Chief, a Gulf War I veteran and newly-minted interior designer with whom I talk Illinois politics and Chicago sports. They looked similar. Tweedy, sporting an unkempt beard and puce waiste-length flack jacket with a German flag patch on the shoulder, looked every a bit the disconsolate vet as he circled the new releases section. It wasn't until I noticed two well-behaved, mop-topped boys silently trailing that I knew he wasn't the childless Chief. Obscured by throngs of early-holiday shoppers it took a few minutes to place him. Usually, when I meet celebrities (rare though these occurrences are), I can gauge how receptive they might be to a brief interruption by one extremely reserved, highly respectful fan. Or, what's more likely the case, someone just happy to meet ANY celebrity—whatever tier they may be. But Tweedy, languorously reserved behind mountains of Stephen Colbert books, was a little black rain cloud: emotionally ambiguous.
I figured if he came to my register he was fair game so when he eventually made his way over I asked if he was who I thought he was. He replied in the affirmative and I obligatorily told him how big a fan I was. Truthfully, even had I hated his music I would have said the same thing so I suppose I should consider myself lucky that in this instance I could be forthright. He smiled politely. I smiled back. He paid. I bagged. That was the end. His two sons lead the way out the door.
Did I mention that I took a second job at a local book store? I work nights and weekends. And never sleep.
Even though I have nothing but PURE UNADULTERATED CONTEMPT for the entire state of Arizona after their trouncing of the Cubs back in September, I have to admit to warm feelings towards the Arizona Diamondbacks theme song. Written and performed by the unstoppable Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, I've been jamming to this thing non-stop for the past 48-hours (a dubious achievement considering the tune's about two-minutes long). I've been a fan of Clyne's since his days in the Refreshments back in the mid-90's and have seen him in concert more times than I can count. True to his feel-good, western roots, the D-Backs song is pure two-dimensional fun. Good! Perhaps out of my fondness for his music, I'm willing to give the McCain state a pass on this one. Just until I get sick of the song, though. After that, they're back on my S-list along with Florida and Indianapolis. Click the link above to hear the song.
A friend of mine asked me eariler this week not to "forget her." It made me feel unworthy of anything.
July 12, 2008 11:09 PM PDT
Adam, I'd be happy to sign a book, coat, rag, paper - anything really. No, Im not famous yet - but hell - you just never know when you'll wake up and see my face all over the world media circus - err - circuit. When it happens I just pray to G_d my image doesnt have "WANTED" over it. :-O
April 3, 2008 12:06 PM PDT
Hey man, been checkin' in. It's been a while. Hope all's well ;)
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