Infamy

When I used to live in New York, I saw celebrities pretty regularly. I wished that they were ones like Harrison Ford or Mel Gibson, but it was more of the Rich Little variety. Nonetheless, there was always a little thrill, like seeing yourself or someone you know on television. Several weeks ago, I sighted Matt Dillon at a Starbucks on the Upper West Side, but he wasn’t very friendly. Imagine being hounded by fans all of the time. After we saw Liza Minelli in Grace’s Market, I called my then father-in-law to tell him. “Did you touch her?” he asked. “Of course,” I said, recalling with a mixture of shame and pride how I’d brushed by her in an aisle not once but twice. Everyone in the shop was atwitter. The balding man behind the counter confided to me as he filled a plastic container with marinated mozzarella balls that he had loved her mother more. “I’m sure that’s true,” I responded.

Exposure to celebrity makes people stupid. I watched “Revenge of the Whale”, a Dateline NBC show with my posse while we called out, “there’s my elbow”, “hey, that’s the top of my head”, “oops, those were YOUR shoes”. I watched daytime television voraciously for a month watching for the ad that pitched “Jon and Sarah’s fun tapes” that featured my 9 month old son. I taped the CPTV companion piece to CPB’s Twain Days about Nook Farm that allowed me to say (ad nauseum to my friends) I’m not really a Hooker, but I play one on TV (Isabella Beecher, that is).

I thought I was getting better: a few weeks ago when Anne Meara engaged RJ in conversation outside a Nantucket toy shop, I waited till AFTER we walked away to whisper to my kids that she was a really famous actress and comedienne. And I didn’t try to touch her at all. Bu then I annoyed the movie goers on either side of us last night by declaring repeatedly about the woman trying to buy Charlie’s golden ticket from him, “That’s Cousin Deborah, that’s Cousin Deborah.” Sorry guys. But it WAS Cousin Deborah.