OMG! It's Leon Panetta!

Donna Summer

It’s interesting how someone who gets a rush from meeting famous people can pair up with someone who couldn’t care less about ‘em.

I admit I still get excited about rubbing elbows with celebrities. I don’t read PEOPLE magazine like I used to and stars who attract and excite me are different than those who used to, but for some reason I can still see myself whipping out my Android and snapping photos if I find myself suddenly breathing the same air as a Sitcom Star or Famous Author or Someone Who’s Been Interviewed by Larry King. (My phone would stay in my pocket if King himself were to appear, however. That dude has always given me the creeps.)

Anita and I were sitting on the couch one time, watching one of those shows on Bravo or TLC or MTV where a normal, real person is replaced by a Famous, Richer, More Attractive Person to surprise someone who’s known to have a major crush on said celebrity. We were shaking our heads at how some people go to great pains in their idolatry, erecting alters and plastering their bedroom walls with photos, dressing and wearing their hair like the celebrity, even getting tattoos of the star’s name or image permanently affixed to their behinds. I asked Anita whose name, besides mine, she’d want to display on her derriere and she replied, “Nobody’s. Not even yours. What if I were in a car accident and they had to remove my clothes?”

It occurred to me that if one is in a car accident where his or her clothes must be removed, the Pierce Brosnan or Donna Summers tattoo on their ass ought to be the least of their concerns. But I kept my mouth shut.

Anita added, “Maybe meeting Albert Einstein would be cool, but I don’t know why people stutter and stammer and burst into tears meeting singers or actors or dancers. It’s great that they have talent. I’ll pay money to see their movie or watch them dance. But give them space in my brain to worship their persona? That won’t happen.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that she wouldn’t be meeting Einstein anytime soon, God willing.

I met Bill Clinton more than once and Mike Dukakis and Lee Iacocca and the Lord Mayor of Dublin, Ireland, whose name escapes me at the moment but who was a real friendly fellow. I met Martha Reeves and Junior Walker and all four of the original Four Tops and I shook hands with the Queen of Soul. (She looked at me like she smelled something bad but maybe it was me.) I’ve met a slew of lesser celebrities, like governors and senators and local news anchors and the guy who runs the cheesy TV commercials for his car dealership, whose name escapes me but who was kind of an ass. I’ve yet to meet anyone who impressed my unbelievably discerning wife, however.

I don’t know why some of us worship celebrities. I’m sure studies have been done and scholarly papers have been written and important conclusions have been reached. I imagine it’s just another form of escapism. How can you feel depressed or regretful about your life if Someone Who’s Been on Television More Than Once is in your vicinity, your circle, your bubble, albeit briefly? Things can’t be that bad. It’s not like everybody can experience what you just did...

My 11-year-old and I were sitting in the bleachers at Chuck Byam Field in Grand Ledge, Michigan, yesterday, complaining about the warmth of the sun while we waited for her brother’s first football game of the season to start. I spotted a young boy with a feminine hairstyle and whispered to Nikita, “Don’t look now but Justin Bieber’s here.” I expected her eyes to get big and her heart to beat faster as she grabbed my lapels and breathlessly begged me to tell her where, exactly, the God of The Tweens could be found. Instead, she whispered back, “I couldn’t care less.”

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree all right.