Stalking Michael Stipe

There’s nothing sadder than a concert hall post-performance. Empty plastic cups litter the floor, punctuated by puddles of spilled alcohol, the occasional stubbed out roach, and fallen pocket lint. People mill around aimlessly, trying to collect their thoughts and walk with purpose.

What does one do with the pent up energy post-concert? You are one with an ocean of humanity for one hour and 27 minutes, and suddenly it’s over, the encore is over and done with, and the floodlights are turned on. “Go home”, the tired security guards say. You are still mesmerized and staring at the stage, waiting for something to happen. “This can’t be it. It’s not over. I can’t walk out onto the street and look at grey concrete again.”

On a different note, I stalked Michael Stipe this evening.
I have the distinction of being frowned upon by said Mr. Stipe as I ever so tactlessly snapped his picture and toyed with the idea of asking for an autograph. I can’t help it; the junior high school girl in me gushed when I spied him; “it’s Michael Stipe, OhMyGOSH, MichaelStipe, REM, MichaelStipe, LosingMyReligion, MichaelStipe, ShinyHappyPeople, MichaelStipe, blue eyebrows, StipeMichael, MichaelStipe.”

I once stalked another Michael, this time Mike Doughty of Soul Coughing. I somehow happened upon an algorithm that produced his email address and spammed him regularly with my favorite poem of the day. I sent him once “Soliloquy of the Solipsist” by Sylvia Plath. He was kind enough to email me back a thank you.

I was hoping to stalk Gregory Corso, but was crushed when he passed away before I could do so.

I’m really not a creep, promise, I am infatuated with the idea of stalking, not the action.