Scene & Herd - Hey Mom, I’m a celebrity!

At U2’s sold-out Philips Arena show last Friday, I got to feel like an actual celebrity — minus the wealth, respect and fawning admirers — for about 20 minutes. The entrance for photographers covering the show happened to be the same entrance through which U2’s celebrity pals entered. It wasn’t luxurious or anything, just a concrete loading dock with a table. I didn’t even have a chair. But from my spot on the cold floor, I got to see R.E.M.’s Michael Stipe get his bag searched by security, just like mine. R.E.M.’s Mike Mills also passed me on his way in. He looks a lot more boyishly Alfred E. Newman-esque in person than he looks in magazines.

Jermaine Dupri also went by. It’s the third time I’ve seen him in person while covering events for this column and the second time he’s taken the opportunity to glare at me for a split second as though I’ve done something wrong. Maybe I’m just paranoid.

Also backstage were two lanky, curly red-haired, middle-aged twins named Ed and Fred who make leather guitar straps, including some of the ones used by U2 guitarist The Edge. Their business card, which I saw when they gave it to someone else, is made of leather.

Now for the feeling like a celebrity part. When the U2 police escorted me to the arena to photograph the first three songs, I saw a bunch of my friends in the audience who all thought I was cool for getting to stand in the photo pit. Former Atlanta Brave and lifelong multi-culturalist John Rocker was also in the photo pit for some reason. I guess he just can’t get enough of the news media.

The parts of the show that I saw were fantastic, though my celebrity moment ended abruptly when security escorted me out of the photo pit after the allotted three songs. Since I didn’t have a ticket to the show, I had to go home. While waiting for the MARTA train, I called my mom to tell her about my night, which amused a group of teenagers waiting nearby who openly mimicked me as I spoke.

Mo’ Ped: Just in time for winter, Buckhead got its very own Vespa Boutique last week. For those of you who don’t know, a Vespa is a stylish Italian motor scooter. A couple of people told me that Vespa means “wasp” in Italian. I always thought that “boutique” was the French word for “boutique,” but actually it’s the Italian word for “motor scooter dealership.”

The boutique owners held a nice reception last week. Radio personalities and Vespa riders Jimmy Baron of 99X and Bert Weiss of Q100 were there. The shop is beautiful and boutiquey; and the staff very gracious. I was disappointed, however, that no one offered to let me test drive one.

If you’re interested in buying me an expensive Christmas gift, I’d like a white Vespa. If you want to wait until next year to get me one of those Segway Human Transporter things, that’s cool, too.

Beautifu: Last Saturday, Tibetan Buddhist Monks from the Drepung Loseling Monastery began construction of a sand mandala at the Sensua Gallery in Inman Park/Old Fourth Ward. Mandala is not the Tibetan word for Vespa, nor is it a grainy likeness of the former South African president. A Mandala is an elaborate and colorful sacred sand sculpture. It’s not a sculpture in the Michelangelo or Rodin sense, but more like an elaborate painting or weaving made of sand. The Mandala that the monks will spend the week building is called a Buddha Achala, which, as far as I know, doesn’t mean Vespa either. It means Buddha of Protection, and is designed to evoke protection and conflict resolution. Upon its completion this Saturday, the Mandala will be destroyed. Why? Why not? It’s their sculpture, they can do what they want with it. Get to it before they do.

Alejandro Kelly: Kelly Hogan doesn’t actually live in Atlanta anymore, but she’s still treated with the loyalty and enthusiasm of a hometown hero. She played two packed shows at the Star Bar Saturday night, opening for Alejandro Escovedo, and was the recipient of much enthusiastic hooting and hollering. One guy kept maniacally yelling “Goddammit!” in lieu of applause. Her sets were low-key — just her and an electric guitarist playing mellow songs that she described at one point as music to listen to in your underwear. Sort of taking her own advice, she wore a large hooded blue pullover over a flower-print dress that made me think she just rolled out of bed.

In addition to her beautiful voice, her performance was noteworthy for elaborate percussive hand movements that sounded kind of like castanets — but it looked like she was washing her hands. She also played hand trumpet. Thankfully, there was no air guitar.

Perhaps because he brought real guitars, Escovedo didn’t bother with air guitar either. He played a superb rock set, with a full band that included a cellist. The cellist really brought about the melancholy at the heart of his music, particularly on the slower songs. Escovedo has a hardened “I’ve seen it all” aura about him, but at the same time seems like a gentle, kind soul.??