Talk About the Passion

Cup fave Write Procrastinator has once again ring-around-the-rosied me, tagged me yet again. (Methinks he thinks this is the virtual playground. Next thing you know, he’ll be pulling my e-pigtails.)

The Meme: What’s the dumbest question you’ve ever been asked? Why was it dumb? What's the answer?

Really, the dumbest question I’ve been asked during my adult years was when my gender was questioned … but I’ve already told that story. You deserve something fresh, something new, so I’m going with the most recent dumbest-evah question.

Back in the spring, I met an interesting guy via an online dating site. We had things in common: same age … he’d lived in Atlanta all his adult life … we enjoy music and movies and barbecue and beer. We spent a couple of weeks e-bantering and e-flirting like Frank Capra was directing us, so I agreed to a meet-up.

We met. We exchanged proverbial pleasantries. And then, not five minutes into the meet-up, he asked the question that was the nail in his datable coffin:

So tell me about this R.E.M. Where are they from?

Ahem.

Do I need to answer questions two and three? He’d read my blog. He saw my raison d'etre, over there under my photo. He had two weeks to bone up. And yet … although he’s in our age group (“our” being Berry/Buck/Coffey/Mills/Stipe) … although he’s lived in Georgia since they played the church gig that April evening in 1980 ... although he has an FM radio … He. Didn’t. Know. Do you really expect me to have a second date with someone who needs me to explain, not talk, about my passion?

Would it be petty of me to also mention that he said he was 5’10” … but he was actually 5’7”? C’mon, boys; we’re gonna notice those missing three inches. And, yes, every woman on a dating site does weigh 125.

Okay, so maybe that’s a shallow reason to flick off a boy. But, c’mon; he’d be miserable with all the talks about my passion. The Longtime loved R.E.M., yet even he got sick of hearing which albums Peter guested on, or what Michael’s really singing, or how much Mike loves the Braves, or how Bill’s dream of music boxes inspired the beauty of that brilliant “Get Up” break. Consider him saved.

Now, I don't expect everyone in my universe to be well-versed in all things R.E.M. But if you want me to kiss you, you gotta know where it all began (Athens, just 75 miles down the road) and own at least five R.E.M. CDs (greatest hits discs don't count).

And if you need the answer to the answer … click the R.E.M. label. You’ll get an idea.

• REM: Talk About the Passion

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