There is something about meeting a person with their own Wikipedia page that impresses me.
Maybe it would impress anyone. Maybe I am not unique in this.
It hasn’t happened often. Only twice in fact has a person come up to me, took my hand, learned my name and allowed me to become a small inconsequential part of their history.
The first time was a few years ago. In the shadow of Mount Saint Helen, with a beautiful view of the side of the volcano that exploded outward leveling the forested area around it, I met an old guy once muscled, now flabby, who wrestled pro.
His name is Dutch Savage. Or that was the name he wrestled under. On his Wikipedia page he has other names. I don’t know which one was real and which was his nom de plume. I read the page before meeting the person and came expecting to be impressed more by the fact he had someone other than himself write something about him on the internet.
I believe he has a fan club.
Hopefully not a hit squad.
honestly I was unimpressed by the whole experience. I forgot going in I am not a wrestling fan. I competed in the ‘real’ sport during my freshman and senior years of high school.
I never finished a season though and I only wrestled one time. I won that match by pinning the guy in the second period and for that event consider myself undefeated.
I have memories of liking wrestling as a kid. The Junk Yard Dog and Hulk Hogan were the shit to little Josh, and I am sure my father liked the sport, because he controlled the remote and if we watched it when he was still around it was because he chose it.
That appreciation never followed me to adulthood though.
First; Dutch had one hell of a stretch of land. Many wooded acres mixed with tamed farm, a large collection of chickens clucked in a coop and a bunch of wild strawberries, I was told, grew out there amongst the brush. I never found them, but according to legend they are the sweetest things to ever be sampled by the lips of man.
Second he was of the opinion that the Lord ’s Day should be Saturday, not Sunday. I don’t think up to that point in my life I ever met a Seventh Day Adventist. The most I knew about it was the Branch Davidians were of this sect.
That alone made this experience strange.
I found myself hoping I would not be brain washed to join the cult.
I am not religious, the complete opposite in fact and here is this person, with their own Wikipedia page, standing a few inches taller than me, glaring down with an intensity that suggested violence, reach out his hand to take mine accompanied with a question, “Have you heard the good news?”
“I had heard the good news,” I retorted. Hoping this would be enough. I had opinions about this supposed good news. I did not want to share them with him as he gripped my paw and squeezed.
Which brings me to the third point about the meeting I remember vividly.
He was, almost, a finger squeezer. Not completely, he did manage to get a bit of the palm in the shake, but still either his grip was premature, or he intentionally aimed for the fingers this is what happened, he joined the, “I can’t shake hands for shit,” club.
The finger squeezer is the type of hand shaker that I find most annoying. They grab your fingers when they shake hands. Sometimes gripping them hard and shaking a few solid pumps. It may be a sign of disrespect when people do this, or maybe they are afraid to shake hands, maybe Dutch had arthritis and was unable or intimidated to actually get in there and pump some flesh.
It left a lasting impression.
Especially when I like to get palm to palm and give a good meaty shake.
Dutch recently had a stroke which makes me feel bad, thinking maybe his weak handshake was a sign of the stroke to come and I could have warned him. Then again he was a vegetarian and healthy looking so I guess if destiny had a stroke prepared for this dude, it was something no mere wanna-be writer could have prevented.
Anyway Dutch had a Wikipedia. I learned a good deal about him. I told him so. He nodded at me and turned away after the finger shake. The impression that I got from the seventy-seven year old was that he did not have a clue what Wikipedia was.
The second person I met with their own Wikipedia page was just recent, at Lincoln Center in New York, his name: Wynton Marsalis.
He: a famous Jazz trumpeter and composer.
Me: a guy who does not know shit about music.
Seems a trend is developing with famous people with Wikipedia pages that I meet, one which indicates that no matter how famous I will not know how to appreciate what they did or do.
This guy wrote the piece of music my wife got us tickets for. Its called “Rush Hour Symphony,” or something like that and before you get all excited, it has nothing to do with Jackie or Chris, but I would still recommend it anyway.
The tickets were purchased way before the event and she warned me that after the concert we might get invited back to the green room to meet him.
My initial thoughts were, “eh.”
I love my wife. She is the smartest person I have ever met. Unfortunately I am immature and ‘play’ stupid with her on occasion. I think it’s funny, and she just sighs and tries to correct me, not knowing, I guess, I am kidding. So being unimpressed up till the night of the concert I would intentionally get the man’s name wrong.
I would ask her if she was excited to meet Marsalis Wallace and then would attempt to make some pulp fiction reference, which not only would fall flat, but earn me that look a wife gives her husband when his behavior is bordering on unforgiveable.
The difference between meeting Dutch and Wynton are in how the meetings took place and I guess the personality behind the page.
The first meeting was a gathering of cultists, or whatever they were, at a picnic type thing at Dutch’s home where I was promised food.
All the dishes were vegetarian so I left hungry.
And I was freaked out at any moment I would be hypnotized into joining some fanatical organization which fetishized Saturdays.
And my fingers hurt from being squeezed by the former professional heel.
The second meeting was after the performance of an amazing piece of music. Jazz is interesting. I like the chaotic flow of notes and watching the orchestra members work their instruments and move to the music. They each seem to be as much audience member as they are performer.
When the piece was over the audience gave the symphony a twenty minute standing ovation.
It was impressive.
Afterward we were led back to the green room and stood around chatting about the piece and what not with twenty or so other people to get this meet the man invitation. After a bit a smallish black man walks in.
The room hushed.
I pointed him out to my wife and she gasped.
She once worked for Lincoln Center. It was a one off. A job she got while looking for the next rung in her career. Still the day Wynton spoke to her, and if memory serves all he said was, “how ya doing,” she came home as if having witnessed aliens landing in Time Square.
Wynton made eye contact with everyone in the room. Then proceeded to shake hands and ask everyone their name.
When he came up to me he said, “Wynton.”
My brain screamed, don’t call him Mr. Wallace as my mouth uttered, “That was amazing,” not really intending to give my name, hoping to avoid embarrassment, I was wondering why he would even care to have it.
He had my hand firmly placed in his. He pumped once. His palm was rock hard. It had a strength to it as if a finely carved marble statue had come to life and was now shaking my hand. His eyes contacted mine I could see a deep passion resonating there, an intelligence, and much like prey caught in the sight of a floating hawk, aware with in a single moment that I could be lunch, I looked back, wondering what the intention was here.
There was the briefest pause before he responded to my compliment, “Thanks for that, what’s your name?” for a moment it seemed he might have been generally interested to learn it.
I wondered why.
In retrospect, I broke the social contract here. When he had introduced himself to me I was obligated to introduce myself back.
I failed to return the gesture. After a moment I did manage to say my name, wishing it had been spoken with more confidence, but hearing it emerge with wobbling quality sure to be caught by everyone within earshot.
“Nice to meet you Josh, what’s your last name?” I sensed a coaxing as if he were trying to lead a thirsty horse to water. Come on dumb ass out with it, the subtext here.
Is this a dominance thing, I found myself thinking as I found my tongue loosening up to give my last name.
With it slipping from my mouth the Emmy winning composer had already moved on to the next person. I had completed the three syllables anyway looking after him as he completed his introductions. I found myself thinking of a guy I served with in the Army who thought the only way to get up in the world was to fuck with everyone.
“Got to be dominating. If you aren’t making the world your bitch,” he would say, “then someone is making you theirs.”
Maybe that dude was right and I just met a man who mastered that tack earning himself a penthouse apartment, a Pulitzer Prize winning career and a Wikipedia page in the process.
