Few people are given a chance to make up for a decades-old mistake, but on Saturday, even though she was sitting at home in Milwaukee unawares, comfortably playing Yahtzee and eating Jack’s pizza, my friend Dee-Dee was given such a chance.
Then:
It was 1988 and Dee-Dee had just moved into the dorms. Still riding high on a wave of small-town celebrity, having been voted “Most Friendly” by her senior class mere months earlier, Dee-Dee was a blur of toothy smiles, belted sweaters and sky-high bangs.
Her friend from high-school moved into the dorms too, and was assigned a room with a sensitive, arty girl who wore oversized floppy velvet berets and Doc Marten boots. Rumor had it she was a film major because she spent a lot of time in her room with the shades drawn.
Dee-Dee soon learned that the girl’s name was Natasha. She was from Chicago, and that gave her an edge. Nat didn’t wear Tretorns or high-waisted Benetton jeans, and she had friends who wore a terry cloth shirts with kittens on them long before the concept of ironic T-shirts even existed. But what defined Nat more than all of this – more than the black boots and the giant stereo headphones and the Pretty in Pink peasant shirts – what truly defined Natasha was her utter devotion to one man: George Michael.
So when Nat found herself during that second week of school with an extra ticket to the George Michael concert, and when she knocked on Dee-Dee’s door while Dee was listening to When in Rome, it meant something. This was a big deal – a really big deal. Nat wouldn’t have asked just anyone to see George Michael, but Dee-Dee didn’t see that. Dee got scared because where she came from, people didn’t just ask strangers to go places, unless it was a brat fry sponsored by the 4H Club. She panicked, so she made up a lie.
“Oh… I can’t.”
It was an embarrassing lie – almost insulting in its lack of effort. It would take years for Dee to hone her now pathological ability to spin a tale, but still, it did the trick. Natasha went to the concert alone and switched her major to photography. Over the coming months, Dee would come to trust Nat, and eventually understood that different didn’t necessarily mean dangerous. Soon enough, they found themselves meeting up for sodas in the cafeteria and joining aerobics classes in the gym in the basement of the dorms.
“She was my first alternative friend,” Dee would later comment. “I have a ton of regrets about the George Michael concert.”
Now:
Natasha, Farnsworth and I were in the car on our way to dinner when Nat screamed something unintelligible and started frantically scribbling in her notebook.
“What? What are you freaking out about?”
“There!” she said, pointing to a row of posters plastered on a wall.
I looked over and saw dozens of giant George Michael heads, advertising his upcoming North American Tour, his first in 17 years. Nat was already texting her sister to make plans.
We spontaneously launched into a George Michael medley, starting with Father Figure, building up to Monkey and Careless Whisper, and ending with Freedom ‘90.
“Hey! You should go with me! You, me and Farnsworth.”
Before I could respond, Farnsworth chimed in, “No way I’m going to a George Michael concert.”
“What? You seriously won’t go with me? I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“All right, Jenny. It’s you and me.”
After hearing about the ill-fated George Michael/Dee-Dee debacle of 1988 for years, I felt completely honored to be invited to this reunion tour. I never would have considered myself a George Michael fan, but somehow I knew all the lyrics to every song Nat rattled off. It would be a once-in-a-lifetime event, and I would be able to lord this over Dee-Dee for the rest of our lives, because I would be the friend who accepted her invitation to see George Michael. I would be “Most Friendly,” not Dee.
I was secretly thrilled and made a mental note to start downloading songs from iTunes, which is why I can’t really explain what came out of my mouth next.
“He smokes crack, you know.”
“What did you just say?”
“George Michael. He’s a total crackhead. And I’m pretty sure he snorts meth at rest stops, too.”
“NO HE DOES NOT! YOU TAKE THAT BACK!”
“I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”
“You are uninvited. UNINVITED!”
“What? But I was just-“
“It’s too late! You’re not coming!”
“Fine. I’ll go anyway, and I’ll get better seats than you. Plus I’ll get Dee to make some calls and get me a backstage pass, too. And then I’ll smoke crack with George Michael and you won’t.”
We sat in uncomfortable silence for the remainder of the ride to the restaurant, where a fortunate bottle of Pinot Noir made all the bad memories go away.
For the past two days, Natasha has been researching all the tour dates and locations, mapping out a strategic plan of where we’ll go next if for some reason Chicago sells out in 5.4 seconds. I suggested Vegas and Toronto. She seems to be leaning toward DC.
As much as I wanted to keep this to myself, I couldn’t help but tell Dee-Dee that this was perhaps her one and only opportunity for redemption, as this is likely George Michael’s last US tour ever. We agreed that we would all go together. I’ve been searching for velvet berets on eBay all evening. Dee and I are finally going to make this dream come true for Natasha. It’s everything she wants.

Filed under: General on March 25th, 2008