Starting Again

I am attempting to resuscitate my blahg. I don't even think I could adequately provide a synopsis of what's happened in the last 10 months. Maybe I'll try to throw in a few thumbnail sketches later. For now, I'll have to be content with just picking up where I left off.

The following is expanded from my "babble book" (a journal I keep on my bedside table for dreams, stream of consciousness shit, and sleepy ramblings), this morning around 4am.

Brushes With Celebrity

Maria Von Trapp 1980 - My Mom was set to play the lead in The Sound of Music that fall at the Music Box. That summer, we went on vacation to the Von Trapp Family Lodge in Vermont, and I think my Dad wrote ahead and arranged a meeting with Maria herself while we there, to surprise my Mom. We spent about 10 minutes in her little sitting room. She looked like Peter Parker's grandma, only shorter. The coolest part of this whole thing was that later, on opening night, she sent my Mom a telegram wishing her luck on her performance.

Robert Redford 1983 - Again a family vacation scenario, this one Christmas in Salt Lake City, Utah. We were on our way to Florida for the next leg of our journey, waiting at a ticket counter (can't recall why). My Mom, sister and I were sitting on our bags as Dad talked to the ticket agent. A scruffy ski-bum type guy walked past us, smiled and excused himself, asking the woman behind the desk if the flight from NYC had arrived. I remember he was wearing a hat like Indiana Jones, which made him totally cool in my book (I was 13). As soon as he was out of earshot, the clerk said excitedly, "Do you know who that was?" For the next 20 minutes, we followed my Mom following him, prodding her to ask for an autograph. She never did.

Trent Reznor Halloween 1989 - I was at the Agora Ballroom to see, among others, a local band called Lestat. Having yet to fully embrace the local music scene which characterized my later college years (I had only just joined the ranks of campus radio DJs), Nine Inch Nails was not in my frame of reference. I just looked up the realease date, and it was a scant 11 days after Pretty Hate Machine hit stores that I ran into him at the bar. He lit my cigarette. I thanked him. Whoo-wee! A bunch of girls accosted me in the bathroom afterward. I had no clue.

Mikhail Baryshnikov early 90s? - The date and exact location of this encounter is filed in the trash bin of my brain, apparently. All I know is, my Aunt, who was (and still is) business director of a local symphony, pulled strings and got us into some ballet performance in Cleveland. From what I now know of Mischa, I would guess it was an early performance of the White Oak Dance Project. All I knew then was that he was the hot guy from White Nights. I'd never seen ballet like this. My experience up to then was Swan Lake, Nutcracker....this was something entirely different, and Baryshnikov was so amazing to watch. Here's the best part: afterwards, we were on the list for an exclusive meet and greet cocktail reception. I remember when he entered the room, my first reaction was, "Oh my God, he's so short." We shook hands and I actually looked down at him (I'm 5'8" in heels) and melted like buttah. Damn, that man is beautiful.

Mark Wahlberg & Mario Lopez Spring 1992 - I was interning at a radio station in Cleveland Heights [back then it was Jammin' 92, the Party Pig*] in the Promotions Department. I volunteered to be the unofficial "ambassador" for the morning show, which featured a celebrity guest on Fridays. I picked up donuts each week on the way in, made coffee, and showed the "stars" where the potty was. The only two people that made an impression on me were Marky Mark (he took off his shirt at the autograph signing featuring 50 nasty girls whimpering and giggling. I got stuck behind him trying to get out so I could go to class, and he had tons of acne on his back. Gross.), and of course the kid who played Slater on Saved by the Bell. I got my photo taken with him, even though I never watched the show (I was friggin' 22 by that time). *During my stint there, I had to drive the official Party Pig vehicle, an old pink caddy, complete with fuzzy pink interior and plastered all to hell with promo stickers. Humiliation on a grand scale.

People often ask me why I never procured autographs. I've never been one for signatures. I think it's kind of gay. I don't need a piece of paper with an impersonal and hurried note to remind me of meeting someone. I do wish I could have gotten more photos than just the one with Slater, though. I think I threw that picture away when we moved this spring.

My pathetic experiences with glitterati. Poop.