Me, Jody, and Rufus. One year, three months, three weeks, and two days ago, Jody and I saw Rufus Wainwright in Ann Arbor. We fucking MET him. Here is the proof, taken on a disposable camera and scanned with my cheap-ass scanner which I got on discount for fifteen bucks.

Rufus Wainwright is one of the few musicians for whom I will anxiously wait in a dark alley behind a theatre.
“We absolutely love you,” I gushed at the time.  He thanked us, and I wrapped my arm around his waist to take this photograph.  I would love to say he was uber-gracious and we chatted all night about Verdi, or something, but Rufus Wainwright is just to damned cool for school, so it is the way it is.

The best part of this whole gathering was some lady giving him that retched scarf you see around his neck.  “I made it!” she had said, all proud.  To see him feign excitement as she put the thing around his neck was so awkward, and dare I say priceless?  Ah well, I’d be Rufus Wainwright’s fag hag until the day I die, scarf or not.