I have never been very impressed by celebrities, not that I am uninterested in them, but I have always held the philosophy that they are just like me but with better clothes and hair and make-up people. Of course, I can count on one hand the amount of celebrities I have seen in person. I once saw Rod Stewart driving a very small British car that could barely contain his massive hair. I saw Christina Applegate walking in Boston’s theater district surrounded by what I would assume to be hired muscle. I met David Sedaris at a book signing, and last night, I met Anderson Cooper.
Anderson Copper was giving a lecture at the Boston Public Library to promote his new book Dispatches from the Edge. I have always had a lot of respect for Anderson Cooper and I had been planning our conversation for weeks if by some chance I was able to meet him.
Three days ago, I bought his book on my lunch break. A book of this kind is not something I normally would buy or enjoy, but since I knew he was coming to Boston, I thought perhaps I could get him to sign it.
I read the book cover-to-cover just in case I was able to meet him and he asked what I thought of it or wondered what my favorite part was. I was determined to be astonishingly articulate and charismatic, I wanted to walk away and have him think to himself, “Now that’s a clever guy, I want to be his friend.” I wanted Anderson to like me so badly. I imagined he would say something like, “Gosh Conor, you should be on CNN, why don’t you be my co-host for 360?” I was convinced that if he just met me we would be friends for life.
Yesterday morning, I picked out my clothes for work based on what I thought Anderson would like. I paired my gray dress slacks with my favorite shirt, a white button-down with thin vertical blue stripes. I wore a very smart blue and white diagonal striped tie that I thought Anderson himself would wear. The weather yesterday morning was cold and drizzly so I completed my ensemble with a charming black sweater. My hair fell in all the right places, my skin was especially clear, and I just had a handsome glow. I imagined people would nudge one another on the street and whisper, “Is that a Ralph Lauren model?” I was ready to become Anderson’s best friend.
When I got to the library that evening, they were selling Anderson’s book in the lobby. I took this as a good sign that he would be signing his book and I wasn’t disappointed. Upon entering the lecture hall, I was greeted by a young woman who asked me if I wanted to get a book signed. I shook my head vigorously up and down unable to actually form the word “yes.” She handed me a card with a number on it that would designate my position in the book-signing queue. I heard the couple behind me grumble, “That asshole got the last card.” I beamed, I was the asshole that got the last card, which meant I was the last person he would talk to so it wouldn’t be awkward if he wanted to invite me for drinks afterward. There wouldn’t be hordes of people waiting behind me while we made our plans.
I grabbed a seat smack dab in the middle of the room; I reasoned that this would be the best seat for viewing no matter where he was on stage. I sat in my seat silent and waiting, my hands sweating and rehearsing my talking points in my head for when I met him.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Cooper, I really admire your frankness when writing about your coverage of Bosnia.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Cooper, in your opinion, where did the federal government go awry when responding to Katrina?”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Cooper, I found your book to be a riveting memoir about loss and survival. How did you find the courage to weave your own personal story of grief into the plot?”
Anderson gave a very brief lecture about his book. I was a little disappointed that he basically regurgitated excerpts from his book in speech form, but it really didn’t matter. The real magic would happen when I was able to meet him in person.
After the lecture, the woman handing out the cards began calling numbers by groups of 20. I waited anxiously, wondering what he would say to me. “Numbers 110 through 130,” the woman at the podium finally called. I was up. I was 130. I waited what I thought was a reasonable amount of time to join the line, wanting to be last. Unfortunately, a few others were even slower. Six or 7 people stood behind me in line, it didn’t matter, Anderson would surely still have the courage to invite me for drinks in front of a few people. I would then turn to them and smirk slyly as if to say, “He could have ask you, but he asked me bitches!”
The woman in front of me was now getting her book signed and I began shaking nervously. It was my turn and I handed him my copy turned to the title page with a trembling hand.
“What’s your name?” he said extending his right hand out to me.
I grabbed his hand and he gave a firm squeeze. “Caw Conor,” I said, still hanging on to his hand.
“That’s a cool name,” he said, “C-O-N…?”
“C-O-N-O-R,” I said, still hanging on to his hand.
“Are you from Boston, Conor?”
“N, no, I’m from Illinois. Orig, originally,” I said, becoming self-conscience and finally releasing his hand.
“Where in Illinois?”
“Between Chicago and Decatur, wait I’m from Decatur. St. Louis, no wait. Between Chicago and St., well if you draw a line. Central, I’m from central!” I said practically screaming. I wasn't prepared for the question, "Damn your ruthless interviewing tactics," I thought.
The blood drained from my face and I began giggling uncontrollably. The couple behind me earlier in the evening was right. I was an asshole. He handed my signed book back to me with a large smile on his face and said, “Thanks for coming out Conor.”
I let out an odd shriek reminiscent of Peter Brady going through puberty, a sort of “ea-a-ooo-a-ewww” in a decibel that I’m sure only dogs could hear. I finally composed myself and managed a deep and guttural “thank you man” and walked backwards out of the hall staring at him. I felt like I was out of my body, witnessing the entire painful exchange from the ceiling. It was like a conversation between Sandy and Flipper. Him, impish and good looking. Me, flailing my flippers about and squealing.
Needless to say, Anderson and I did not become fast friends, but just to make sure, I replayed the entire incident in my head over and over all night. I dreamed about it. Cool and charismatic I was not, but at least I got my book signed.
I imagine one day Anderson and I will sit in a swanky Manhattan bar and laugh about the whole episode.
CJM, signing off....
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