I actually hadn't planned to post anything else tonight - it's late, it's been a long week and I'm tired.
But I just had a brief e-conversation with a friend of mine (well, a sort of cyber-pal: I'm never actually met her - I should be so lucky!). I can't link to her - tho she writes well and her blog is fun - because she enjoys her password-protected privacy, but she knows who she is and IMO she's a hell of a great woman. And it was because said e-miga is, aside from a totally kickass person, mom-to-be, desert savant and mamma-jammer (literally) someone I think of as a sorta-kinda minor-celebrity-I-know, like being pals with Bernardo Brito, that I thought of this story.
This is NOT her, BTW. She's the hottie in red at the top. This is Anne Baxter doing 40's cheesecake.I've actually met a couple of other people I think of like this: my aunt and uncle lived for years next to Anne Baxter who was quietly retired in Easton, Connecticut just a couple of years before her death; very good lady and a smart person. And I actually got to shake hands and exchange hi's with Michelle Akers while she toured Portland with the U.S. WNT back in 1999 before the WWC. So I'm usually not a total dope around someone I've seen in the paper or on the screen.
Back in the day I was something of a fan of the thea-tah, and was used to going to New York every year to take in a show or three with my college buddies. To this day I cannot remember the show - probably something pretty rotten - that I was tolerating with my friend Sally when she suddenly started poking and jiggling me and bouncing in her seat like a mad woman.
"Jaysus, wench," I hissed, "can't you cross your legs and wait until intermission? I'm soaking in some utterly forgettable dialogue here..."
"No, no!" she whispered frantically, "I just saw Sandy Duncan sitting three rows back! Sandy Duncan!!
I'm not exactly a stalker but I thought that was pretty cool. But Sally was in an complete and utter swivet. I thought she was gonna hyperventilate and pass out and I was going to be stuck there in the eighth row of "The Fucking Guys in the Truck" or whatever in hell the show was with her dead body between me and the exit doors forever. Finally she made it clear that 1) she wanted to go over and say something to Sandy at the interval,and 2) my job was to be the person that came with her.
"No fucking way!" I snarled, "I'm not going to interrupt poor Sandy Duncan's entertainment like some star-struck trailer trash wannabe."
"You ARE a trailer trash wannabe," she replied, "just get over it, off your ass and stand next to me and say hi to Sandy Duncan, you goop."After begging and pleading and a few threats the lights came up to breathlessly perfunctory applause and Sally grabbed my arm and bolted up the aisle. She came to rest standing in front of a neat, blonde-headed woman of late middle age, jittering in one place as noisily as an idling Harley Davidson.
"Oh, Miss Duncan," she gushed, "I just wanted to thank you for all your great performances. You're really a great actress."
I have to say that Sandy was really quite gracious, thanking my friend and wishing her a nice time at the show. She looked at me, not pointedly, but a trifle quizzically and I noticed that Sally was too. They both waited a beat, as if to hear me say something, but I just smiled brightly, nodded like an idiot and began dragging Sally away up the aisle.
We got out to the lobby and Sally was as excited as I've ever seen anyone not actually getting paid.
"Wow wow wow wow!!!" she multiwowed, "That was soooooo cool! Sandy is totally cool! I'm SO glad I got to talk to her! Wasn't she cool!?" Suddenly she stopped and looked at me with a skeptical squint.
"What the heck's wrong with you today?" she said, "You're usually little mister chatterbox...I thought for sure you'd have some smart remark to make to Sandy Duncan!"
I stared at her as I had stared at Sandy.
"Yeah, that was the problem."
"What problem?" Sally asked, making those air quotes around "problem" with her fingers.
I looked at her and shook my head. "The problem was...I swear to God, Sal, I'm dead flat serious; I stood there staring at Sandy Duncan's face and the only single fucking thing I could think of to say was "Which one of your eyes is real?"