What would you do if you met some famous people? Would you show up late for the meet and greet? Would you make fun of them? Would you be scared to death they would suddenly jump on the table and dance? Would you yell at their bodyguards? Would you act like a complete snob? Would you call one of them a liar? Would you completely ignore them?
Well, I would.

As I walk in (late) five young gentlemen are sitting at a long table hidden in the bowels of the Tacoma Dome, not at all inconspicuously veiled by a bright blue curtain and several layers of bodyguards. Going into this area gives one the sense that they are being led to a secret speakeasy, where the girls dress like boys and the bad ass mafia dudes carry out their duties in an efficient and tax evasive manner. And when I walked in, I discovered I was close enough.
I’ve often wondered --and I’m not trying to be nasty-- why celebrities always have big heads. Literally. These guys have huge heads. They look like life size versions of the Big Boy Bobbin’ Head doll on my dresser.
This would not be the first thought occurring to everyone who steps into this room. Whatever.
I find that I’m actually a bit nervous. I hand the one with the hair a CD (we were promoting my demo) and he looks at it as if he’s never seen one before in his life. He almost looks like he’s just as new to this as I am. It isn’t until I specifically tell him “I do not want anything from you” he actually loosens up and tells me he’ll listen to it.
“Oh, yeah, I love this stuff. I’ll listen to it.”
I half believe him.
Refusing to mind his own business is the hyper one, leaning into Mr. Hair like a nervous three year old grabbing his mother’s pant leg.
“What’s that?”
Now as the reader, this simple statement looks rather bland and unassuming. But if you hear it six or seven times in the course of a 2 and a half-minute conversation with the person sitting next to him, you start to kind of get annoyed. Maybe he was just trying to be personable, but you know when you’re giving a dog a treat, and they way he snaps it out of your hand, and the way you pull your hand back so you don’t lose a finger? That’s kind of what giving Mr. Hyper his CD was like.
I realized that I had started to talk at this point, and to be honest with you; I had no idea what I was saying. Next in line was the one with the Hot Topic shirt. I had nothing to say to him, short of ‘here’s your CD’. I wasn’t intimidated or nervous, or shy. I just couldn’t talk. I was thinking plenty. “Why don’t you tell him what you just told me?”
Mr. Hyper. Up in my business again.
I couldn’t remember what I had said. I can’t remember what I started to say, either. I guess it took up too much time, because one of the big ass bodyguards yelled at me for taking too long. Mr. Hot Topic didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t seem to be enjoying himself much, either. I met with the blank expression you get when you’re talking at someone, but they’re thinking about something else. Maybe food.
I suppose I was on a roll, because to me, this was a most unwelcome intrusion. Before I could stop it, “Hold on a minute!” came barreling out of my mouth. Not all sweet like, either.
And the next time I looked at Mr. Hot Topic, he had a smart-ass smirk on his face. I’m not sure if he thought I was funny, or if he thought I was a retard for yelling at the bodyguard. At that point, I couldn’t have cared less. I’m not known for my temper, but it had been a long day.
“Never mind.” I retorted to Mr. Hot Topic. Drama queen of the day. He thought this was funny. I did not.
There’s this one, Mr. Angel Face. He looks like he’d break if you touched him. All that touched him was a strong wind as I whooshed by him. I wonder if that had ever happened to him before in his life.
The last, Mr. Asleep Under My Floppy Hat, didn’t get much love, either. He looked so tired, I don’t think he had really looked at a single soul all day long until I arrived to retrieve the piece of scrap paper I produced out of my purse for some last minute autographs. I met with a smart-ass grin and two bright blue eyes.
“Thank you.” I spurted, not sweet-like either. The sarcastic, snobby, ‘thank you’ of your ungrateful little sister.
Great. They’ll all hate me.
I guess you can’t be too worried about impressing famous people. Because it’s what they expect, right? I mean, if I had been sweet and unassuming and generally nice to every single one I met, would they remember me at all? No, I don’t think so. I can’t have that.
So what’s the moral of this story? Ah, I don’t know. Make a fool of yourself in front of famous people. I mean, it’s all you can do to return the favor. Mr. Hyper would agree with me.