The first time I ate dinner with REM’s Michael Stipe—okay so it was also the last time I ate dinner with him—was September 28, 1984. The boys were in Tampa to play at the University of South Florida (my alma mater, a place of such prestige that the dorms had pools behind them and no one took classes during prime tanning hours). Stipe didn’t invite me, I invited myself. I’d lucked into a phone interview with Pete Buck and Mike Mills a few days prior and I was still high from this unbelievable score—me a twenty year-old fledgling music writer getting to talk to them, some of my biggest musical heroes. They weren’t superstars yet, but they were heading in that direction. It was an outdoor gig and when they pulled up, I watched from a little ways away as Pete and Mike scrutinized my words in The Oracle, our college daily. Stipe was a vegetarian—probably still is—and vegetarian wasn’t something the caterer had provided, so it fell to my friend Ed, to ferry the singer to a place where he could find something that suited his palate. I like to think Ed invited me along. Or maybe I just shoved my way into his sports car. Either way, there we sat, gathered around healthy food before healthy food was a trend, at the NK Café. ...