I am 36 years old. Despite the dreams and declarations of my youth, I am not an important person; which is to say, I have done nothing of great importance whatsoever at any given time in my life, save the birthing of babies. I have, however, worked for important people and in places where people of great import are often located. Such happy circumstances have afforded me the ability to make great claims with much affectation at fancy parties, to the delight of my fellow, highly-impressed party goers.
"It's nice out," you say as we sit enjoying the night air on the couch in front of your double wide.
"You know," I interrupt, smiling wryly over the Cheese Whiz & Saltine concoction in my hand, "I've met Willie Brown."
I live for the dramatic pause; the great sucking in of breath; the look of stunned disbelief. "Now, which one is that?"
Okay-- bad example. Most people I've met were really famous political people about 15 years ago, before term limits. (Now they are so past-tense I doubt they even remember who they are.) Working for the California Democratic Party in my youth made such glamour possible. As a party grunt one gets to go to a lot of rallies, work backstage at various events and attend pricey fundraisers as a crowd filler. The flip side is that a 22 year-old in her finest denim and Burkenstocks blends not at all. Contrary to popular belief, sipping one's drink pinky up does not a socialite make.
Anyway, meeting Phil Angelides means nada to most people I know, let alone Bill Clinton, Al Gore, Diane Feinstein, or heaven forbid, Barbara Boxer. Nobody even feigns interest in any of these stories, which is really too bad because I have a TON of them.
The interesting stories are the stars, because let's face it-- they are exactly like us in every way imaginable and if they could only see that we truly loved them for who they are and not simply the glamorous stars they are to everyone else, they would never have gotten that damn restraining order against us in the first place. Or, you know, celebrity sightings just make for livelier conversation.
I met John Cusack once, and he was quite charming and frankly, I threw myself in front of him just to say hello. And shake his hand. Glomming onto his ankle as he dragged me across the party was overkill. I know that now.
And I also met Kim Basinger, which is to say, I made cursory conversation near her and tried to sound witty and impressive and overloud. SHE LOVED ME.
Truth be told, the only really interesting story is the time I met Alec Baldwin. And since you're already comfy there on the sectional under the bug zapper...
I was a secretary at a hotel. The concierge, whom I shall call Ferret McWeaselhead, conned Alec Baldwin into visiting the back office where I worked. I have no idea why Ferret McWeaselhead dragged him to meet me, except I think he was overwhelmed by the possibility of being in the presence of a glowing star. I certainly didn't ask for the honor and couldn't have given a rip.
"Traci, I would like you to meet someone," the vermin said, and I stood up as I was trained to do, hands folded in a non-assuming pose across my mid section, a pleasant smile dancing upon my lips, when around the corner came THE STAR, THE Alec Baldwin, all brusque-like.
We shook hands as McWeaselhead said, "Traci is your biggest fan. The biggest of all your fans. You can not imagine a bigger fan. She talks about you all the time, how she just loves you and has seen all your movies over and over." On the flippin' rat went, and Baldwin simply turned to me with an expectant, if not sickened, look on his face.
I am good at a great many things, and quite excellent at others. In fact, there are some things at which I am so good, I can't even commit them to print because my amazing talent and expertise just might be the very thing to push the less fortunate to the point of suicide out of total envy and ensuing despair. I can't help it-- at some things, I am just that good.
Apparently lying ain't one of those things.
Al, as I call him, absorbed the fancy-shmancy praise said rodent heaped onto his person, and when he was quite sated, turned to see my face swathed in total disbelief. I was so dumbfounded I think I bruised my chin when it hit the floor. The only film I could remember he'd been in was
Nine and a Half Weeks, and that wasn't him, it was his wife. Clearly I was not the fan Ferret had described. Clearly I had not seen all of Alec's movies. Clearly I did not sleep with a cardboard cut-out bearing his likeness.
Alec rolled his eyes in disgust at the concierge, briefly shook my hand, and left. He was and still is a very important, very famous person, and I... well, I just see famous people.
