I first met Emo Phillips in 1989. A young model and I were standing in front of my Lakeview studio considering art when Emo casually strolled by. "Oh my God. it's Emo Phillips," said she.

Anyone who's ever seen the comedian Emo Phillips knows he dresses in a particularly iconoclastic manner. This particular day he wore plaid pants six inches too short for his frame and a horizontally striped black and white shirt like the movie convicts wore in old black and white movies. On his feet were oversized brogans; on his head an out-of-style Dutch Boy Paint haircut.

Emo was headed to the Village Thrift Store a couple of doors down from me. I'd lived in the neighborhood for years, and aside from the fancy cars chauffeured in and out of the Steppenwolf Theater parking lot next door, the only real traffic on the street was either coming to my place for some alternative institution or visiting the thrift store.

The thrift store clientele was an odd mix of affluent middle class housewives, college students, bored retirees, book and antique dealers, and the common poor - the ubiquitous low-income, section Eight, lunatic fringe, street people that changed outfits several times a day, often right there in the store, without paying, leaving the old costume on the racks and walking out with the new one. Sandwiched anonymously in the middle of this crowd, Emo too was looking for a new outfit.

"Who the fuck is Emo Phillips?" is about all I could say to her. She might be a hip young thing, but I was 50 years old and from another space and time. I had no idea who she was talking about. I deduced Emo must be a movie or TV star, and since I didn't use either medium, of course I was in the dark.

Well now, the little darling filled me in: Emo was not only the "darkest, goofiest, well-loved comedian that ever came out of the affluent Chicago suburb of Downer's Grove, he is also an available bachelor." And she was in love with him! Hmm.

Time passed and our conversation wandered elsewhere, as the model kept hanging around in hopes of glimpsing Emo on his return from the store. Sure enough, eventually Emo reappeared, walking in the opposite direction with a bag of costumes in hand.

This time it was me mouthing the words: "Oh my God. it's Emo Phillips!" Gesticulating with outstretched hands, I worked him like a good politician milks his voter: "I've always wanted to meet you, Emo. you're my all-time hero!" I had my camera in hand. "May I have a photograph?"

Emo beamed from ear to ear and acquiesced by straddling a young concrete deer that stood with its 350 pound parents in the front patio of my Halsted Street Studios. We clicked off a series of shots, him acting goofy in front of the lens, me acting just as goofy on the other side. We even made a couple with the girl that had the hots for him, his arm sliding around her exposed midriff. Finally he strolled on down the road, with the model, unbeknownst to him, straggling ecstatically along behind at a safe distance. I went on back into my shell of a world and put the whole episode behind me.

It was two years before I saw Emo again. I suspected he had always been curious about the photos, but it wasn't until he required the need of a professional photographer that he got in touch with me. Fortunately I'd left a lasting impression on him. So we met again and he hired me to make some promo photos for a soon-to-be released movie he co-wrote with Gregg, Meet the Parents . Emo insisted I attend the movie premier at the Art Institute of Chicago. There must've been 35 people there, hanging around afterwards to make small talk with their idol. I left early and rode my bike along Lake Michigan , allowing the tides to empty me before I reached home.

Over the next three years, roughly 1990-1993, our relationship blossomed; he invited me to live shows at comedy clubs, introduced me to friends and family, hired me for additional photos, eventually commissioning some drawings and a T-shirt design, I am an Emophiliac.

Figuring that we'd been together long enough, I decided to come clean: "Emo, do you remember when we first met, how I was so excited? Well, the truth is I didn't even know who you were until that very day! I didn't know you from Adam. I only stopped you because the girl who was visiting me was a fan of yours. I did it for her. I wouldn't even have noticed you if she hadn't pointed you out. Everyday I see people walking around dressed like you, real silly and stupid like. But the difference is they dress that way for real: they're lunatics, Section 8 disasters and street people who just need some cheap clothes to put on, an occasional college kid trying to be fashionable."

"And another thing Emo, I know you think you're funny. but the truth is I've always been funnier than you. With you it's all an act, but I happen to see life this way." I could tell I'd hit a nerve. Emo had such a rejected look on his face that it even made me feel bad! Still, it could have been something he rehearsed in front of a mirror in Downer's Grove, a fake face he would later try out on a stage somewhere to entertain his audience. Yet it looked real enough in the intimacy of my studio, the two of just sitting there, he with those puppy eyes moistened over, looking at me sideways and questioning. Yep, I'd definitely hit a nerve.

I figured I'd really drive it in: "And if you want to see something really profound you should go to a Samuel Beckett play. He's even funnier than I am!" I wasn't much into Beckett plays - I preferred Beckett's novels, The Lost Ones and How It Is . But Beckett's play characters were always dressed up in ill fitting clothes and carrying themselves around like complete imbeciles, so this was right down Emo's alley.

During the years with Emo I learned a lot about him. For instance, he was totally rehearsed and scripted in everything. Even off stage he held onto the same character he had become famous for. But in contrast, in his private life, he was shy and withdrawn, an ordinary kind of guy that wasn't especially humorous at all. Maybe it was his mom that got him started with the comedy routine, the way she spent a lot of time laughing at him as a child; that's perhaps where he originally got the notion he was funny. (Hmm, I wonder where I got the notion I was funny?)

Surprisingly Emo was not offended by my observations. One day I got an excited call from him; he'd just learned that the Beckett Players from Dublin were coming to Chicago for a week-long Beckett Festival and he wanted to know if I would like to be his guest for the opening night performance of Waiting for Godot? "Why Emo, I would be honored!"

In vain I searched my closet for plaid pants and a striped shirt, but the closet was bare. Eventually I just wore what I had on, paint-stained Levi's and a semi-formal double breasted blazer, sandals and t-shirt, my daily fare.

We were to meet at the theater. I arrived early, found our front row seats and settled in. Although there were always dozens of artsy types attending these kinds of festivities that knew of me, they graciously stayed their ground, respecting my solitary position and allowing me to sit there all alone in the middle of the great and uncomfortable opening night social buzz.

Of course that all changed when Emo arrived. Although people might've been too intimidated to get close to me, they weren't afraid of Emo in the least. In appreciation a small silence fell over the place when he strolled down the aisle, himself looking like one of the Beckett players, but all too soon this great throng took the opportunity to come up within touching distance.

It was understandable. Emo and I were really two of the more illusive figures from the art world; meeting us would bring a questionable validity to the whole experience for a lot of would-be connoisseurs. So yes, my reverie was shattered as several people in unison came up to the front of the theater to pay homage. "Why, Burkhart. so glad to see you! And you've brought Emo with you!" Actually it was the other way round - I would have never come to such a place without being invited. And then, what a round about way for them to approach the even more illusive Emo, but through appealing to my vanity!

"Yes, of course I brought Emo, my star pupil." Visibly more embarrassed than I, Emo really didn't know what to say. His forte was the memorized script, delivered without interruption at his own show. Impromptu and interactive he was not. As usual, I did all the talking.

"Yeah. I figured it was time to introduce Emo to some real clowns - his audience!" I casually threw some additional innuendos at them as each sauntered away in turn, leaving Emo and I finally to our combined isolation. Able to relax, we reentered our own world; two Siamese twins headed off in opposite directions from a lobotomy.

At intermission Emo sat stunned and silent, unresponsive even to my asinine comments. It was obvious that Beckett had struck a greater nerve than the one I had earlier awakened.

After the show Emo had a train to catch to Atlanta Georgia for a comedy show. Still visibly and inwardly disturbed, he bid me adieu. In fact, I didn't hear from him again for five years. Later I learned that Emo had been so impressed with Beckett that upon returning from Atlanta the following evening he bought tickets to every remaining performance!

I really haven't seen Emo since. Oh, one time in 1995 he returned from a stint in England and stopped by my studio to introduce his new fiancé. In a round-about way I guess he was trying to tell me our relationship was finally over - Now that he had a good looking woman and a whole new set of mannerisms derived from Beckett, what could he possibly want with me? Companionship? Humor? Truth?

It's like the old saying says: When you meet the Buddha on the road. kick him out of the way!

 

Now that you've read this story, I'd like to point out that I have much respect for Emo. If you don't know me, it might not be so evident in the above.

I say this because a "reader" got in touch, thinking that i was a dishonorable Paparazzi intent on exploiting Emo for gain. Once we exchanged e-mails, he came to realize that I was talking about a friend in the story.

True, Emo and I hung together for two years. He introduced me to his friends, family, bride-to-be, commissioned me for various photos and drawings, and shared the off-stage side of himself with me. So, read it and laugh, rather than weep!

And of course, Emo being the professional comedian he is, I say that I am funnier than he with a full tongue in cheek. (Although I was commenting on the non-scripted off-stage person I discovered there behind the mask, not his professional persona.)