Or, "How To Make An Awestruck Fool Of Yourself Without Really Trying"

Everyone has an idol - some unattainable, famous, fabulous person that you would fall all over yourself in order to meet. If you don't you should. I have tons of them, but if I had to pick just one to meet...well, I suppose it would be Ewan McGreggor. But after to him, it would very likely be John Linnell (one of the founding members of the super-original pop group They Might Be Giants and accordion player extraordinare). I really think that I'd have a seizure if I ever met him in person.

Which is why I was not at all disappointed with having to settle on meeting the Giants' other half - John Flansburgh, demi-god of the Guitar and a very, very nice person.

The October 11th concert in St. Louis, MO was the second TMBG show I'd ever attended. Not counting the Monopuff concert (Flansburgh's semi-solo effort) I saw about three years ago. Not that it doesn't really count, but still... Nothing quite prepares you to see a band that you've cherished and followed for years up close and in person. It always has that surreal quality that is oh-so-enjoyable and slightly nauseating. So needless to say, this show was incredible. Other than the audience, chock full o' 15 and 16 year olds, whom, as far as I was concerned, could go collectively flush themselves. "Hey, how'm I supposed ta skank with all these people here" and "When are they gonna play 'Istambul'" were the questions of the night. Needless to say, my full attention was on the Johns. And I thoroughly enjoyed looking up their noses all night long, like some beautiful dream. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not.

So, yeah. All my favorites were played. Ana Ng. Birdhouse In Your Soul. The Guitar. I bopped around on the floor like I was still 17, sweating and panting and trying desperately not to have an embolism. At some point in the show, I took off one of the three shirts I was wearing (it was cold outside), threw it on the floor (I thought I could keep an eye on it), and a conga line promptly came along and shuffled my shirt under the feet of 50 equally bopping youngsters who put much more energy into trampling my shirt than I had to look for it. (*--- Foreshadowing!!) In two short hours, the show was over, the kids started to skulk out (more perky since the Johns had played "Istanbul" in their second encore), and I made my dazed way over to buy a *really* cool TMBG t-shirt. I then pressed my way through the throng of fans, busy trying to find their moms and dads, met up with my friends and reflected on the night while I laid down on the pavement in the cool of the evening. Smoking. Thinking. Then it hit me.

MY SHIRT!! The one I took off - it was mine, and I took it off and now it was gone!! That wouldn't do at all. After haggling with a burly, brainless doorman for about ten minutes, I was permitted back into the vastly empty, brightly lit and very different looking club - back onto the floor now, looking straight down for anything that resembled a small, black, button-up, short-sleeved shirt. That's when something caught my attention, snapping my head up. It wasn't a shirt at all - it was a small cluster of people grouped up and chatting happily. "Oh great," I think. "One of them is probably standing square on the damned shirt, and this is gonna get ugly". So I moved in to investigate, and that's where this story gets good. Finally. I promise.

I move in to investigate, and through the crowd a see...a guy...in a white t-shirt...and the flash...of stainless steel rimmed glasses...and then I understood. FLANSY!! John Flansburgh was giving out autographs and people were getting these autographs and talking to him and he was talking back and smiling and not looking at all bothered about the fact that he was talking and smiling with these people and - John!! *This is the point where I start getting really silly* Shakily joining the crowd now, standing patiently and clutching my brand new tour t-shirt, already planing where the signature will go like I'm planning where my future summer home will be, smiling stupidly at anyone who meets my gaze. John!! Crowd moving slowly now, two more people before me and some hippie guy chatting Mr. Flansburgh's ear off about the diametric and opposing contrasting chords found in some song on some album I can't bother to think about now, and Mr. Flansburgh nodding to him and smiling politely and saying something back to him that I couldn't quite grasp, since I was losing all concept of the English language at that particular moment, and then I looked up and...

...I was standing right in front of him. I mean, he was really real and right there! I could still hear the hippie rattling on incessantly in the background, and I clutched my tour shirt tighter and stared. And giggled. And John Flansburgh looked...right...at...me. And I giggled some more. And here is an exact transcript of what transpired after that point:

*Sigh* Yeah, I walked away feeling pretty stupid overall. But he talked to me! Signed my shirt, touched my back, shook my hand and talked to me! And as I hit myself repeatedly over the head for forgetting my camera (D'oh!), while reflecting on the conversation and the night as a whole, I couldn't do much more than smile. A very good occasion indeed. A night I'll be sure to tell my grandkids about...or any hapless bystander who asks me the time. John Flansburgh: Musician, Intellectual, Humanitarian, Beautiful Human Being and Really, Really Nice Person.

I never did find that black shirt, though.