Celebrity

Before moving to New York City I had few brushes with celebrity. When I was 11, I saw Ray Nitschke, a former Packer linebacker, speak at a rec hall dinner. I tried to speak to him, but my words were mangled. Even more mangled than his hands. A boy my age was able to speak to him. I don't know how he did it. He must not have been a Packers fan. I saw Fred Travelena at the Miami airport in 1997. He was picking up his suitcase from the baggage carousel. It looked like he had just worked a cruise. His skin was family tree brown.

I saw minor celebrities, too. For example, at university I saw many good, near great, and so-so athletes. I once sat near a Panamanian model on a plane. But since moving to NYC, I have been overwhelmed by celebrity. In the last seven months I've seen Elijah Wood's slow walk in front of the Charmin sponsored toilets in Times Square. Robert Klein's reckless walk down Broadway. Frances McDormand on view outside of Whole Foods. (I think that's how Marilyn Monroe was discovered.) Ed Harris peering over raised collars on a cold December street. And then there was Jake Gyllenhaal. My friend BA and I saw him at Spamalot. A friendly usher tipped us off. The next day we saw him with his sister in Chelsea. I identified both immediately. BA had his cultural blinders on and failed to see them. I thought that it might be funny to stop them and share the story of when the celebrity and the unknowns kept running into each other. But I didn't. If I did, then we would both have to admit that we saw Spamalot.