Star Struck Dumb
Let’s say you’re exiting a cafe with your friend at the end of your lunch hour, crossing a parking lot to get to your vehicle and head back to work. Let’s say, then, that you turn and see one of your town’s local news reporters sitting on the patio of the cafe you just left. It may take you a second to process that you are looking at the same face you see on TV each day, and then a second longer for that person’s name to appear in your mind. Once that happens, what would be the most appropriate course of action for you to take?
A. None. It’s a local news guy. Who cares?
B. Quietly point out the local celebrity to your friend.
C. Politely approach the news reporter and tell him, very briefly and respectfully, that you enjoy his work.
D. Point at the news reporter with your full arm, as if he is a flying saucer or an approaching tornado, and yell across the parking lot, in your most grating tone of voice, “THERE’S REGGIE AQUI!!!“
I did Letter D. I have no defense. Normally I’m cucumber-cool when I meet celebrities or politicians or the Queen of England. (Okay, I only saw her for a few moments, while I was a clerk at the Texas State Capitol in 1990. But still.)
Because celebrities are just normal people who happen to be on TV or the radio or in positions of great power, right? Nothing to freak out about. But, for some reason, seeing Reggie Aqui sent a jolt through me that could only be dispelled in embarrassingly squawky rudeness. I guess I could tell you that it’s because he’s very, very handsome. But that would be the lamest admission of all, so I won’t make it.
Mr. Aqui reacted as graciously as could be expected. “Yes, here I am,” he said with a polite celebrity smile.
“I watch you every morning,” I called back, trying to save the moment. I wondered if I should say, “You’re doing a really good job there on Channel…” I couldn’t remember what channel he was on. And I don’t even know if he does a good job, actually. I never listen to the words he says, because they send him out to the most depressing crime scenes. I only look at his face for a few moments, then change to The Style Network or Bravo or Anthony Bourdain. So I told Reggie I watched him every morning, and then I mumbled, “And it’s awesome,” and then I whispered, “because you’re hot!” as we got into the car, leaving the man to his cell phone conversation, already in progress. And my friend laughed and said, “Who’s that? He’s very handsome.”
Yes. Yes, he is. He’s Reggie Aqui.
So, Anyhow
Nothing much else to say. All I’ve been doing is working, playing, loving, something, day or night, Jordache has the look that’s ri-ight… The Jordache look… [music]… The Jordache loo-ook…
I know I’m getting old and a lot of y’all don’t know that Jordache jeans commercial jingle. Maybe some of y’all don’t even know what Jordache jeans are. And if you don’t, that’s good. You should keep it that way because, in your case, ignorance is bliss. Don’t hate – congratulate.
Me and some friends are going to a poetry reading tonight. People like to say that they only go to those ironically, because they’re uniformly horrible, but they aren’t always. Once in a while there’ll be someone really good. And, if not, it’s good to hear the horrible stuff, too. It’s bracing. Cleansing. It’s like high colonics for your mind.
I’m thinking about removing the Comments doohickey from this blog because I don’t want to see how many comments I get, and then be unable to refrain from wondering if I should be getting more comments. I don’t want to type stuff while wondering, in the back of my mind, if that particular stuff make people comment in a certain way. Such as, “Gwen, that is so weird, what you just said. Why did you just say that? Are you crazy? Are you evil?”
Not that anyone’s ever said that. But I refrain from typing the things that might make them say that, you understand. I don’t care what people think about me, but I do care what they say about what they’re thinking, there in the Comments. Apparently. So it seems.
I thought about removing the comment function from this particular entry, as soon as I’m done typing it. But then, people would email me and say, “I’m only emailing you because your comments are broken.”
Don’t say that. Instead, say, “I’m only emailing you because I must.”
Say, “I’m only emailing you because love compels me. I don’t love you, because I barely know you. But when I read what you’ve written, I feel love. Probably for myself. In fact, it’s all me, this feeling. I see that now. I don’t need you at all. Goodbye.”
Say, “I’m only emailing you because the demons that possess me guide my hands.”
Say, “I’m only emailing you because I’m here at work, and out of everything in the world that I could choose to do to distract me from that fact, with your entry today, you have merited me choosing your Inbox to be the recipient of my ennui.”
Say, “I’m only emailing you. Okay, that’s all. Goodbye.”
I’m not going to remove the Comments link, but no one comment, okay? Don’t look at me! I am beautiful, no matter what they say… Words can’t bring me-e-e down! O-oh, no-o…
You knew that song, didn’t you? At least, everyone who didn’t know the Jordache song did.
That’s all now. I love y’all. I love you, Reggie Aqui. Even though I don’t know you. And I’m only not emailing you because I don’t want to scare you with the demons in my soul. And I’m only not commenting because you don’t have a blog. But if you did, your Comments numbers would be high, I’m sure. High as a flying saucer. Full of Jordache jeans. And love. Goodbye.
