An update to your U-M style guides: Those of us who love Bob Ufer have often tried to type out how Ufe, imitating Yost, liked to say Michigan. Until today I settled on “Meechigan”. I believe John U. Bacon goes with “Meeshegan”. I’ve seen many other variations here and there.
Well, thumbing through an old 1979 game program I found a piece published by Ufe as part of the 100 year anniversary of the football program and it appears as though Ufe went with “Meeehegan” with 3 (ok, technically 4) Es:
So from now on it’s “Meeechegan” for me.
P.S. While poking around on the web I found this story of a dude who randomly met Iggy Pop at a concert…and something cool happened that the author didn’t (and perhaps still doesn’t) understand:
The bar was mercifully empty except for a tiny, longhaired, black leather jacket clad junkie looking guy and his much taller, Tina Louise looking girlfriend. That man was Iggy Pop. While the bartender retrieved the beers, I gushed all over my fellow Michigan expat.
“You’re Iggy Pop, man. I love your stuff. I’m from Michigan too,” I rambled on, sounding as moronic as the Pop is accused of being by some of his critics.
Iggy pointed to my t-shirt with the word Michigan splayed across my chest. “Meeschigan,” he said, holding his right arm in front of his slight chest in a 90-degree angle. “Meeschigan.”
After a minute or so of gushing and trying to open up a conversation with the man who’s music, with the Stooges anyway, was the soundtrack to much of my late adolescence and early adulthood, all I could get out of the guy was “Meeschigan.” As I turned to go back to the boys, I decided Iggy was either too burned out by the adulation of the years and hero worshiping kids like me or the critics were right. He was so sort of junkie savant. Either way, I was utterly confused by our meeting.
Chad and Josh had moved back towards the bar purely for matters of self-defense. The area in front of the stage had become one large, seething slam dance. I was grateful I didn’t have to navigate the flannel hipster clad rage to get the guys their beer so I didn’t mention my odd Iggy Pop encounter.
Half an hour later, AMC had gone through a series of ballads that failed to alter the weird, contained rage from the mosh pit. I felt a tug at my shirt and turned around. I looked down right at Iggy Pop.
“Meeschigan,” he said, his arm cocked at that 90-degree angle.
“Meeschigan,” I answered him, my arm at the same angle. He turned and walked out with his Ginger look alike on his arm.
All these years later, our quick meeting still confuses the hell out of me, even more so than his appearance on American Idol.
Sir, your confusion ends here: Iggy Pop grew up a Bob Ufer fan.
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