I'm Not The Man

I met my father for drinks after work today. We met up at 6 pm at this same strange hotel bar in midtown we've been meeting in for the past year and a half. It's buried deep within the lobby and is without any windows. When you walk into it, it's a bit like stepping through a wrinkle in the time-space continuum. It could easily still be 1973 in there, if not for the flat screen TV above the bar. It became a regular meeting spot for us after I was laid off from MTV News in the summer of `07. In a cruel twist of fate, my dad lost his job the same month I managed to secure my current job,  turning the tables on our ongoing discourse. In any case, we meet up about once a month to catch up and compare notes.

Around 7 pm, we settled up and went our separate ways. Tired after a long day and a little buzzed from downing two pints of Stella Artois on an empty stomach, I walked over to 33rd street to catch the downtown 6 train, my ears filled with the aggro pulse of the newly released Peel Sessions disc by my beloved Killing Joke. I walked to the end of the platform and stepped onto the last car of a southbound train that was conveniently pulling into the station.

I boarded and assumed my normal stance by the opposite doors, my head filled with tidbits, anecdotes from the evening, instructions for last minute grocery shopping from the wife and Killing Joke's sonic wallop. Glancing around the train I was immediately struck by the gent sitting next to the doors across from me. Looking bleached, subtly spikey of scalp and slightly bug eyed (made all the more piercing by the contrast of his pale skin to his blue eyes), British New Wave icon Joe Jackson sat gazing distractedly into the middle distance. Only just this afternoon, I'd been in a discussion with my co-workers about running into famous people around New York. Living downtown, I somehow manage to see celebs all the time, but here was someone I genuinely admire. I was legitimately starstruck.

As the train sped past 28th street and then onto 23rd street, I decided to confess my fandom for the great man's music. I have a long history of doing this, unfortunately. When the train reached 14th street, I crossed the train to Joe's side. After the doors closed, I leaned down and said, "Excuse me, I don't mean to bother you, but I'm a great fan of your music."

Joe's head whipped around suddenly as if someone had just lit off a bottle-rocket inside the train. Clearly, I'd caught the man off-guard. I extended my hand to awkwardly land the plane. Joe's eyes darted around nervously. I started to feel about a foot tall, but repeated my initial statement just to end the confusion. Joe limply shook my hand, never holding eye-contact for more than a few fleeting nanoseconds.

I felt like a prize-winning jackass. The trip between 14th street and Astor Place (my stop) was positively excruciating. Not wanting him to worry any further, I purposely looked away and acted as if nothing had happened. He sat to my immediate right, almost visibly twitching with unease. I felt as if I'd completely shattered his calm and ruined his night. I stepped off the train at Astor Place without another word to him,

I've got to stop doing that sorta shit.

Comments

[Tim B.]

He's a pretty uncomfortable guy in general. I've had my experiences with him, and have heard some other things which I won't repeat here. I wouldn't take it too seriously...

[Benjamin]

I think you did the right thing. Don't stop being you just because people can't stand being themselves.

[hntrnyc]

i personally have run into a number of celebs and generally give props the same way you attempted to. with the exception of Johnny Ramone (on my first trip to NYC, circa 1982) every one was very cool with it. my faves were running smack into Terrence Stamp (english gangster baddy-type, see The Limey) on St. Marks place or Eli Wallach on Broadway and Houston. jackson's reaction says everything about him, and nothing about you.
i would have done the same thing as you did.

[Jill]

My husband claims that he somehow knows, but doesn't know how he knows, that Joe Jackson lives (or at one point lived) at 13th Street bet. 2nd/3rd Ave.

[Soundgardener]

He was probably wasted.

[MEK]

I approached actor David Morse (Green Mile, John Adams) on 18th street and I don't think he's even a New Yorker. Chelsea is where I used to see all kinds of celebs all the time. It was almost the same kind of reaction when I approached him, he was shocked that I recognized him and looked frightened. It's better to admire your heros from afar, I think.

[James Taylor]

Although it causes my wife tremendous embarrassment, I've never hesitated to say hello and shake hands with celebrities, especially when they're by themselves. I've also been thrown out of hotels for that sort of thing, but it was always worth it.

Joe Jackson could've taken a cab. If I'd seen him I'd have done the exact same thing (adding that the first time I ever saw the sea was on the beach of his hometown).

About a year ago I ran into Steve Earle and his wife outside my local deli. He was wearing a Yankee t-shirt.

[GG Allin]

Ya know, it is fans who have put money in his pocket and given him a career. The least he could do is say "thank you." Fuck him. If he wants to be left alone then live with the bubble boy. What a Moop.