Going to Georgia

John Darnielle used to get his hair cut at the salon where I worked in Durham, back in my days of living in Chapel Hill. I never told him that I knew who he was, or anything like that. I wanted to say something fangirlish every time he came in, but what do you say and how do you say it? How do you tell him that once, years and years ago, a curious boy put "Going to Georgia" on possibly the most perfect mix CD of all time and you listened to it so much that you could anticipate every strum of the guitar. And that the CD, and that song, shook you up and made you feel magic, and made you wonder if that tall, quizzical boy was thinking that "the most remarkable thing about coming home to you is the feeling of being in motion again; it's the most extraordinary thing in the world" about you. And that the song and mix made you think too much about a boy you weren't supposed to think about, not like that. How do you say anything close to that without sounding like a tremendous douche? It's a tricky thing. So I didn't say it; I smiled and small-talked and checked off his name and his wife's name in the appointment book.