in class thursday my writing comrades asked me about the concert. clearly i had made quite the impression with all my giddy babbling about the concert the week before. as i waxed poetic in that very tiger beat passionate way i get when talking about paul westerberg and the like, The Messenger sat down right next to me.
“hi jodi,” he said.
“hi,” i sighed all dreamy like. . . not just becuase there he was sittingrightnextome, but because i was still in that little dream world where my own eyes got to see bob mould and grant hart on the same stage making music.
“so you went to that concert?” he asked. “that must have been amazing.” i tried to focus, it wasn’t easy. he has this intoxicating accent of some sort.
“it was amazing,” i said. then went on and on and on and on. he just grinned at me kinda goofily.
“sorry,” i said. “i’m sort of a westerberg nerd.”
“nah,” he said. ” i totally understand. you going to any of the shows?”
i held up three fingers. “all of them.”
“i told you! i’m a total fangirl.”
“you got any boots?” he asked.
“a few,” i said. “my favorite is the one from the first guthrie show a few years back.”
“oh, i don’t have that one,” he said.
“you like westerberg?” i nearly shouted.
“oh, yeah,” he said. “i remember seeing the replacements in like 91 or 92 or something.”
that’s when my brain fell out and i had to kiss tongue kiss him and touch his junk.
or really, i just said.
“wow. i never got to see them.”
and it went on for sometime like that. where we spoke in westerbergian tongues that only a select few can really understand.
then i told him i’d bring him the guthrie show, because i love him.