Mich Meets Peter

“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

On March 27, 2002, I met Peter Tork for the first time. If not a highlight, this was at least probably the most exciting thing that has yet happened to me.

He and Shoe Suede Blues played the Beachland Ballroom in Cleveland—Cin, Anissa, and Cin’s friend Jenell drove up and stayed the night at my house. Mattie was supposed to come but her car broke down on the way to Anissa’s and she couldn’t make it (to that show, anyway). I spent the whole day bouncing around, going so far as to convince myself that I wasn’t really going to get to meet Peter or get a hug, that something would happen and I’d have to suffer through another day of waiting—or not get one at all.

The show was amazing and we danced all night—my mom even zinged Peter on stage; he was introducing ‘Slender Tender and Tall’ and said that the song was older than everyone in the room—my mother, who was 30 in 1978 when I was born, raised her hand and said “Not by much.” Peter gave her a look and I was trying not to fall on the floor laughing.

Afterward the band retreated to the table in the foyer to sign autographs, and my nervousness shot through the roof. I don’t know what I would have done if Cin and Anissa hadn’t been there, keeping me calm.

Cin stepped up to Peter first, and since he was sitting at the end of the table he was able to stand and give her a hug, and then Cin stepped out of the way and there he was.

Peter Tork.

In front of me.

Looking at me.

Rather expectantly, I might add.

“Oh shit,” was all my mind would say before it shut down for the night.

I couldn’t look at him. I mean—this is PETER, for heaven’s sake! I tossed down the insert from my CD for him to sign and he slapped it playfully, trying to get me to loosen up. I sort of put my arms out and mumbled a request for a hug, and he stood up, smiling as he put out his arms. I wasn’t breathing or thinking as I hugged him—I just put my arms around his shoulders and squeezed. (Ladies and gentlemen, his hugs are every bit as wonderful as the stories say. They’re simply divine.) I moved on, collecting my autographs, and went to the end of the line for photographs, sobbing and laughing at the same time. I couldn’t help it. I’d never felt that wonderful before. NEVER.

Little did I know . . .

The next morning we got up and caravaned down to Anissa’s mom’s house—she was wonderfully hospitable in allowing us to stay at her home, and Mattie was there when we arrived; she’d borrowed her roommate’s car, which was able to traverse the several hundred miles from her house to Anissa’s, and our circle was complete. I was overjoyed.

Thursday we drove down to Athens to see the next show . . . played in a bar that was more of a dive, really, but the band was still awesome as always. When Peter came on stage he slung his guitar over his shoulder, turned around, locked eyes with me, and said “Not you again.” (I wanted to scream like a little girl, I really did . . . ) At one point during the show a girl standing next to me—who was more than a little drunk—screamed “I love you, Peter!” and damned if Peter didn’t lean out over the stage (and about a foot away from ME) and kiss her right on the lips. I was so instantly jealous I didn’t know what to do.

Afterwards we queued up once again for autographs and pics, and Cin went up to him and said “Where’s my kiss, huh?” He kissed her and took a pic, and I thought “C’mon, Mich—give it a shot. Worst case he’ll say no, best case you’ll get a kiss you won’t forget for a long time.” I got a pic taken of him and me standing back to back, and then I asked him if he’d be averse to giving me a kiss.

Whether he actually said anything or not, I’ll never know. What I do remember is his lips pressed against my cheek, the stubble from his goatee almost scraping my face raw . . . okay, I’m exaggerating, but still . . . I didn’t get a pic of the kiss, and Peter and I bantered for a few seconds over that and as we left I thought “Well, things certainly can’t get any better than that.”

I was wrong. Friday night at the Thirsty Ear Tavern in Columbus was yet to come.

It all started when the opening act was still on—I could see Peter hiding behind Michael, scoping out the opening band. I was trying to keep cool, and succeeding until Mattie handed me a slip of paper with a comment about doughnuts on it. *insert Soap Series flashback here* I laughed out loud and did a sort of TV Peter stumble, lurching against a chair which in turn bumped the table and knocked a bottle of beer onto the floor. I was of course suitably mortified, as I always am when I screw up, and acted apologetic and a little goofy (of course).

That’s when I turned around.

I could see Peter peeking out from behind Michael, and then one of his fingers was pointing at me. I pointed at my own chest as if to say “me”? And then the finger beckoned me. I froze, absolutely terrified. What in the WORLD did Peter Tork want with ME?????

I crept over, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. I couldn’t imagine him yelling at me—and besides, what would he have to yell at me for? Then it occurred to me that maybe he was going to tell me to calm down, that I was acting bizarre and it was really unattractive . . . the usual stuff I hear from a lot of people.

Peter’s eyes are incredible, and I forced myself to look into them. (Hell, when am I going to get another chance?)

“I think you’re cool as shit,” he said.

To me.

Have you ever been hit on the head and punched in the stomach at the same time? I started leaning backwards (knowing, of course, that there was a wall two feet behind me). “Don’t faint,” he said, reaching for me.

“It’s okay. I do this for a living,” I said, hitting the wall and sliding down until I was crouching. Ten million different thoughts ran through my head, mixing into staticky white noise. “You know, it’s one thing for my friends to tell me stuff like this, but for YOU . . . ” I shook my head. Was he for real? Of course he’s for real! Why on earth would he tease me? Bonnie and Michael were both smiling, but they weren’t about-to-laugh smiles . . . they were genuine I’m-happy-for-you smiles.

I started to rise, and Peter took my hands, helping me up. (The strength in that man’s body is both incredible and surprising.) Someone wanted to get by, and my sometimes-show-offness kicked in. I flattened myself against the wall, contorting my facial muscles into what probably was a pretty funny face, because Peter leaned back and LAUGHED. (Oh, that laugh . . . in person . . . guh . . . )

“You’re cool as shit,” he repeated. “You’re funny, you have rhythm, you take no shit and you’re yourself.” (My recollection of his exact words here are hazy—this is as good as I can recall—the sentiment is the same.)

I thanked him, smiled (feeling like a total fool for not knowing WHAT the hell to do . . . ) and told him that I had a friend who was very nervous to meet him and he nodded.

Then I got really bold and I put my hand on his shoulder. “Peter,” I said, watching those eyes once again meet mine. “Thank you,” I said with every bit of sincerity that I could. He smiled once again and I excused myself back to my table, spending the next several minutes crying silently, desperately trying to contain the urge to SCREAM at the top of my lungs.

After a time I might have doubted him, but Bonnie came by while we were dancing and said “He thinks you’re really cool.”

“I know!” I said, grinning like a fool as she walked to the back—maybe to go to the bathroom or something.

When she came back she touched my shoulder. “I know it too, but he just told me again.”

And my mind was fairly freaked and totally useless after that. ;)



A few last words:

1. Shoe Suede Blues is one of the BEST live bands I’ve ever heard. They are consummate professionals and sweet people that I’ve come to have a great deal of respect and admiration for. If anyone reading this has never seen or heard them, please visit their website or the official site for fans and either buy their CDs or try to attend their shows. They’re worth EVERY penny.

2. Michael is Michael Sunday, SSB’s bass player. Mattie is St. Matthew, evil fanfic writer extraordinaire. Bonnie is SSB’s manager.

3. Everything I have related above is TRUE and DID happen to me on the nights of March 27th, 28th, and 29th, 2002. I have tried to remember things as accurately as possible, and I have not embellished any of the above events. If you don’t believe them, then that’s your hang-up, shotgun, not mine. (Besides, I have witnesses, so there.) ;)