My friend Chris sent me the photo below of he and James Brown at the Tour of Georgia bicycle race.
Before I go any further, could you please stand up out of your seat and scream “James Brown!” in a high pitched shriek. Excellent. Now sit down, and if you’re at work, pretend nothing happened.
So Chris sent me this photo and something seems very weird about it. I can’t put my finger on it exactly—I’d say it’s funky, but with the
Godfather of Soul in the frame, that’s a given. Maybe I’m hung up on the fact that
Soul Brother Number One is playing to a crowd of crackers at a bike race in Georgia. Or maybe it’s the awkward look, or the way JB is leaning on the fence…or the fact that he’s behind the fence at all—Is he still somehow incarcerated? I’m not sure either, but I need you to stand up from your seat and scream “Free James Brown!” OK, Thank you. Or maybe it’s just the inherent discomfort in the interface between the famous and the common folk. And as I think about my brushes with the famous, I realize they’ve all been awkward. To wit, I present yet another list of things—
Don’s awkward brushes with celebrities:1)
Dr. Quinn causes me to slam into the dad from That ‘70’s Show
OK, so maybe this one isn’t awkward…or any more awkward than the way things generally go with me, but it happened yesterday and I had written most of this post last week, so I think it was fate and must be included. I was in Sacramento attempting to meet a group of colleagues and there was a rally going on for a foster care support group on the capitol building steps. I was waiting with the majority of our group (unrelated to the foster care folks, no pun intended) and noticed that a few or our members were on the opposite side of the steps. They didn’t see us with all the hubbub going on so I decided to gather them and began to walk up the side of the steps, crossing behind the festivities to get to the other side. As I crossed, a stunningly beautiful woman walked out of the door with a graceful smile and delicate gait. I was taken with her eyes in particular and realized that it was TV’s Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, AKA actress Jane Seymour.
As my gaze followed her and I continued walking towards my colleagues, I nearly knocked a man over, who was following a few steps behind the good doctor. He was very gracious as I apologized and gave me a look that said “It’s OK men crash cars looking at this woman all the time, this wasn’t so bad.” After regaining my composure and my colleagues the man was being introduced to speak to the crowd (as had Jane) and turned out to be the guy who plays the dad on
That ‘70’s Show…sorry I don’t know his name, but he was eloquent and nice. A final gush on Jane here—the 35 years between her debut as a Bond Girl at age 20 and now have treated her very well indeed.
2)
The Lone Ranger is my reluctant Kemosabe 
When I was in my early teens, I shook hands with actor Clayton Moore who played the Lone Ranger on TV. It was at some big gathering at the Daley Center in Chicago. I was standing near the front of the crowd while Moore, resplendent in full Lone Ranger regalia (mask included), was answering questions about riding horses or pooping in the Wild West or something. At one point he looked at me—and I can still envision his eyes peering through the mask—and extended his hand. I took this as an invitation and shook his hand. He had a firm grip, no doubt developed over many years of roping cattle and sharp shooting and hitting bad guys over the head with whiskey bottles. I also remember an uncomfortable moistness which I felt through the stretchy polyester black gloves he was wearing—eww. After we shook, he held the microphone away from his mouth and said to me, “You know I don’t mind shaking hands, but now everyone’s gonna want to shake my hand.” Uh, OK.
3)
His Airness gives me the pen
When Michael Jordan was a rookie on the Chicago Bulls he went to a Peabo Bryson concert at the Arie Crown Theater. I was working an entry door when he and a friend—no entourage or bodyguards—walked up. I recognized him and he knew it. Perhaps sensing that I would ask for an autograph, he, without a word, pulled out a pen and, strangely, handed it to me. A bit nervous, but not too starstruck, I said “Mr. Jordan can I see your tickets?” He smiled that cherubic smile as if to say “yeah, of course” and handed me his tickets. I tore the tickets and handed him the stubbs without asking for his autograph. As he walked away, I attempted to give him the pen back, but he said “no, you hang on to it.” It’s not exactly Mean Joe green throwing me his jersey after I gave him a Coke, but I’ll take it. I actually still have that pen…somewhere.
4)
David Lowery violates my Scrubbing Bubble 
When I lived in Chicago, Camper Van Beethoven was this “amazing band from Santa Cruz.” Now that I live near Santa Cruz and Camper is kinda over, it doesn’t seem as novel, but at the time I was a big fan and “Take the Skinheads Bowling” will forever be one of my favorite songs. Anyway, back in ’92 Lowery’s then-new band Cracker was playing a gig at Cabaret Metro. I arrived early and went to Pravda, the record store attached to the Metro to peruse their new vinyl. They also had odd toys and lunchboxes for sale and I found myself buying a Scrubbing Bubble squeaky toy for no other reason than it amused me. As I was getting my change this guy goes, “That’s so cool,” referring to my purchase. I looked up to see the goofy grin of David Lowery in line behind me. I told him, “Yeah thanks…hey I’m gonna see you play tonight.” He said something about rarely being recognized and asked if I wanted an autograph. I’m not really into autographs, but I didn’t want to offend him so I said yes. He then grabbed the Scrubbing Bubble out of my hand, whipped out a Sharpie and signed it. “How cool is that?!” He laughed, genuinely excited. “Not!” I thought, but just smiled and said thanks. When I got home I scrubbed it off.
5)
At the Pisser with Roger Ebert
I once saw film critic Roger Ebert in a public restroom peeing, as one does, at a urinal (for the record, no I did not see his penis). I had not yet begun to unzip when another patron who had just relived himself recognized Mr. Ebert. The man was fairly animated and emphatically stated the obvious—“I thought I recognized you, you’re the movie guy from TV, Roger Ebert!” —as he zipped up, then tried to shake Ebert’s hand. Roger was visibly appalled as his eyebrow raised in horror and he said in a condescending voice that I did not disagree with, “I’d be happy to have a word with you OUTside the restroom AFTER you wash your hands.”
6)
Stop nuzzling me your bodyguard is getting mad! 
I wanna say it was 1999 or 2000 and I was at Supershow, a sporting goods trade show in Atlanta. My co-worker Matt and I were carrying some boxes from our booth and got on an elevator with a couple other people. As the door started to close a group of four men, two of whom were police officers, jogged toward the elevator. They asked us to hold the elevator and we obliged. The officers walked away and the two others got on with us—one was blinged-out and had a shortish but stocky build. The other, dressed in a suit, was possibly the largest human I’ve ever seen in person. As he got on, he literally put his hands out, turned around and kind of squished the rest of us against the back and side of the elevator and told us to stand back—I thought it particularly rude, especially since we held the elevator for them, but my sense of self preservation kept me from expressing this verbally. Matt and I were particularly cramped as we each were pinned on opposite walls between a meaty outstretched arm and the boxes we were carrying. For no apparent reason the blinged guy began to dance and rap/sing a little then nuzzled himself against Matt and then me for a second, which prompted another warning from the big man for us to stay back. I thought of reminding him that a) his ginormous appendages already had as far back as humanly possible, b) that we neither had, nor could move an inch since he got on the elevator, and c) that his precious little flippin’ buddy was the one invading
our personal space, not the other way around! “Keep
him the fuck back!” is what I was thinking. Thankfully, the elevator doors opened and they got off. Matt and I looked at each other in confused disbelief as these two kooks who had been squished to the back of the elevator high-five’d each other and told us that we had just been in the presence of greatness—Atlanta Falcons running back Jamal Anderson.
Fame. Whatever.
I happened to be trolling the net the other night when I came across what you’re listening to: a live, in-studio recording of Jon Langford and longtime collaborator Sally Timms doing a cover of Alejandro Escovido’s “Broken Bottle.” It’s always cool to hear one of your favorite artists cover the song of another favorite…and even more so when the song itself is one of your favorites. Such is the case with “Broken Bottle.” I had been immediately drawn to the studio version Langford and Timms did for the Escovido tribute/benefit album Por Vida, that came out a couple years ago. And I was almost shocked to see that it was one of only five songs Langford chose to play on KEXP’s Live Performances, what with his own songs being so outstanding.
learned of post-facto and out-of-context. The Mekons and Jon Langford, have been on my real-time radar since the mid-’80’s when Mr. Daniel J. Berry, esq. and then program director at WRRG River Grove/Chicago turned my attentions to a spacey looking record with the faint face of Elvis on it (a detail which would later get them sued, by the by). Now as then, The Mekons Rock N’ Roll stands out as one of the most incredible things to ever stimulate my cochlea.
Langford’s artistry extends to the stretched canvas as well where he’s established as a painter with works that echo the punk and country stylings of his music. Rustic and rough-hewn, his paintings are mostly portraits or 
statement pieces that reflect the same influences and outlook as his songs. Not surprisingly, Langford provides much of the cover artwork for the albums he’s worked on. Marketers would call it good branding. Everyone else would call it consistent. You can see more of his work on http://www.yarddog.com/ , the website of an Austin, Texas art gallery.
who’s known for combining jazz with punk much like Langford does with country—the MC’s chat, play songs, have in-studio guests and, I’m sure, otherwise share their creativity. I was at Delilah's one boozy night years ago when Langford was a guest DJ spinning insurgent country records...the fact that I remember little of it is testament to its excellence. I'd think the radio showgram would communicate the personality, if not the context, of such events well. If you’re in Chicago, tune in and consider yourself lucky.
would cement the status. I’m speaking of the Garmin Edge 305, an insanely complex and configurable GPS-based cycling computer that allows the user to dissect, fold, mutilate, spindle, slice, dice and julienne a dizzying array of data in a staggering variety of ways.
In Milan’s noted (and perhaps overrated) Fashion District—next to the duomo and in the Galleria which houses original Prada store, established 1913—we had paused at a café, as one rightly does, when musician Carlos Santana himself takes a load off and settles into an espresso. Like anyone in Italy having afternoon java, he is utterly normal, though not unrecognized nor unnoticed by passersby and patrons. It strikes me that he looks somewhat like Otto, the bus driver from the Simpsons, but better dressed.
In the San Francisco airport I spy actress Andie McDowell with what I assume are two of her children—and apparently another on the way—casually checking out sunglasses in a shop. She either exudes that fabled glow of pregnancy or is simply lovely all the time…or both. I see her again in the sushi restaurant in the International Terminal and miraculously don’t trip, stumble into her or smash into anyone else.
When Michael Jordan was a rookie on the Chicago Bulls he went to a Peabo Bryson concert at the Arie Crown Theater. I was working an entry door when he and a friend—no entourage or bodyguards—walked up. I recognized him and he knew it. Perhaps sensing that I would ask for an autograph, he, without a word, pulled out a pen and, strangely, handed it to me. A bit nervous, but not too starstruck, I said “Mr. Jordan can I see your tickets?” He smiled that cherubic smile as if to say “yeah, of course” and handed me his tickets. I tore the tickets and handed him the stubbs without asking for his autograph. As he walked away, I attempted to give him the pen back, but he said “no, you hang on to it.” It’s not exactly Mean Joe green throwing me his jersey after I gave him a Coke, but I’ll take it. I actually still have that pen…somewhere.
I once saw film critic Roger Ebert in a public restroom peeing, as one does, at a urinal (for the record, no I did not see his penis). I had not yet begun to unzip when another patron who had just relived himself recognized Mr. Ebert. The man was fairly animated and emphatically stated the obvious—“I thought I recognized you, you’re the movie guy from TV, Roger Ebert!” —as he zipped up, then tried to shake Ebert’s hand. Roger was visibly appalled as his eyebrow raised in horror and he said in a condescending voice that I did not disagree with, “I’d be happy to have a word with you OUTside the restroom AFTER you wash your hands.”
