Tell us about it.

Okay, I liked these stories of peculiar brushes with the rich and famous:

Cora--"I once asked the German secretary of culture (who was not secretary of culture back then, just a local politico) to speak a little less loud in a restaurant, because no one else was interested in his political opinions."

Suisan--"My father once asked Alan Dershowitz to leave our house because he had come close to insulting my mother during an ACLU meeting in the living room."

Without providing details (tchah!) Suisan claims the story is off, so we'll add this for her credit: "My great-great-uncle signed the letter, printed in the official biography, which expelled Humphrey Bogart from prep school."

I don't just want shaking-hands-with or going-to-school-with stories--well, they're all right, I guess. I really want to read about how you accidentally poured salad dressing on some politician's wife. The best I can offer is picking up Eleanor Mondale while she was hitch-hiking in D.C.. Ho-hum. I'm going to have to think hard. Oh, and I once was a clown (bad! very bad school-aged clown) hired to do Eric Severeid's kid's birthday party. Bleh.

Better to have had a conversation like this (bookstore clerk in the Boston airport talking to the late Robert Ulrich) :
Bookstore clerk: Are you who I think you are?
RU: You know if you think about it, that is the stupidest question I ever get. How am I supposed to know who you think I am?

Okay! Your turn.


  1. I really want to read about how you accidentally poured salad dressing on some politician's wife

    So, you want to know about the time I was running late for a concert, came into the hall (strange design) at the top level, rushed madly down the staircase to buy my ticket, and on the stairs bowled into a dignified looking party sedately coming up the stairs. I muttered 'excuse me', continued on, bought my ticket, and entered the concert hall just as.... they're playing the National Anthem. For the Governor-General and his party. (GG = representative of the Queen in Oz = veryVIP)

    Fortunately, however, there was no salad dressing involved.

    Unfortunately, however, I didn't get a chance to talk with the seriously gorgeous aide-de-camp. (Which sounds gay but isn't.)


  2. And, speaking of the G-G, my younger sister's first job (at just 18yo) was as a trainee sound and vision operator with our ABC (Oz version of BBC). She had to record an all-day conference being held at Government House - senior government ministers, Heads of NGOs etc. Sister and co were told to wear neat clothes for the job, since they'd be in the same room with all these VIPs. They were also told they'd be given lunch.

    Poor young sis dicovered, when lunchtime came, that the techos weren't eating in the kitchen as they'd assumed - they were having formal, multi-course lunch with the conference people. And, that as the only female present, she was seated beside the Governor-General, with some very senior VIP on her other side.

    But she never mentioned whether she managed to chat with the seriously gorgeous A-D-C.

  3. Because I'm an attention-wh*re who doesn't want her comment *ignored* (cue the Glenn Close voice), I'm copying the comment into the "Blogger comment" window. (Maybe we'll have rabbit for dinner...

    Blogger isn't letting me look at "Blogger comments" right now, so I'm sitting over here.

    Singled out for infamy for not having told the story correctly. ::wince::

    What I meant to say, gulp, was that I'm unable to come up with any great brushes with fame stories, but if I try really hard I can still namedrop with aplomb. (After all, my great-great-uncle signed the letter, printed in the official biography, which expelled Humphrey Bogart from prep school. And it just goes on and on...)

  4. German politicans are a bunch of loudmothed ignorants, feel free to shut them up as often as possible.

  5. Hmm. I was in the General Surgery clinic on the same day Edward Teller was getting his colostomy stoma checked, or something like that. I saw him sitting in the waiting room, looking all old and Star Warsy. So I was this close to the poop bag of a father-of-the-bomb. Does that count?

    I guess the fact I gave Ava Gabor a lap dance doesn't count, eh? Or the fact I stayed my first year at Berkeley in a boarding house run by Lance Henriksen's mom? (Lovely lady.)

  6. OY! Dershowitz details. (Beating a dead horse...)

    Mother asked Dershowitz to help her open a bottle of cranberry juice. He declined, offering up the ever-helpful comment that since she was a feminist surely she did not want to portray herself as a weakling who could not open a bottle of juice without male assistance.

    Room blew up.

    Father offered to ask dear Alan to remove himself from the residence, on the grounds that he had come very close to insulting my mother in her own home or inciting a riot. Mother asked him not to, as it would simply make the whole thing worse.

    Father still sputters when he sees "dear Alan" on TV. He WANTS to have kicked Alan from the house, but he did not indeed do it.

  7. I love that story, Suisan. I'd have kicked him out (I like to think I would have, at any rate.)


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