What? I'm being serious. I went to his show last night. HPG's friend, Sig, a former NASA scientist and baseball expert (for lack of a more identifiable title) had asked me to go out Monday night. But I was exhausted. I had woken up at the crack of dawn to go to a 7am spin class. Sometimes I'm inspired to perform uncharacteristically devoted acts of physical fitness. In subzero temperatures, I trekked the few blocks to the studios and had an exhilarating workout. However, by mid-afternoon I was seriously sluggish and was daydreaming about crawling into bed early. Sig gave me several options but I told him the thought of schlepping downtown for anything short of a million dollars was not enticing in the least. He responded with one final offer: Letterman tickets. "Come on," he implored, "It's David Letterman." He was in luck because my offices were directly across the street from the Ed Sullivan Theater. I looked out the window and my excitement waned. The line was long and everyone looked really cold. Once you get the call that your ticket request has been approved, the process is a bit like a scavenger hunt. Except instead of random clues, you're sent in random directions and asked stupid questions. I timed my arrival in line just as he was reaching its end. They asked him for the name of his contact and directed inside to another line. After waiting in that line, a young page marked his name off a list and before handing over the tickets asked earnestly, "Are you excited about the show?" I heard the other page ask someone in another line the same question with the same forced enthusiasm. We replied affirmatively and were led to another line, then another and another. Here, they told us the dos and don'ts of being an audience member. Don't worry; I won't bore you with that. Bottom line, the level of perceived excitement dictated where you sat. One look at my lethargic demeanor and Sig knew we were doomed. "They're going to take one look at you and put us in the rafters," he predicted. He was right.
The guest was Rachel Ray. Can someone please explain her celebrity? Why does she have her own freaking talk show? Not that that's a major feat given the list of has-beens that belong to the washed-up-celebrity-hey-let's-give-you-a-show-of-your-own club. But Letterman is in great shape for his age. And the sprightly way he carries himself (not in a gay way, more of a confidence-exuding way) is kind of a turn-on. I'd do him. But I digress. Let's talk about the death of my crush.
The Daily Show guy doesn't think it's dead. But he killed it. He talked it to death. I mean how many conversations can we have about the oppressive nature of a one-sided crush before it becomes, well oppressive? I could almost see my stock rise in his eyes as I shared this latest development. "No it's not," he insisted. "You still like me." I laughed. I mean why wouldn't I? First I'm called on the carpet for creating a climate of expectation for my premature disclosure. Then, when I'm set to dismiss those early tugs of attraction to a more platonic arena, I'm advised that I'm yet again, mistaken. But all of this, all of it, stems from his latest performance. Improvised, if you will, for my listening pleasure. I got to hear him imitate me on the phone and it wasn't pretty. "Why don't you like me? How could you not like me? I'm so hot, I have big boobs," he whined in a voice that didn't even remotely resemble my sultry tone. But he was amused. He couldn't get enough of what he quickly anointed his new favorite impression. Honestly, it was pretty funny but totally baseless and inaccurate. I had no recollection of the tantrum he was supposedly recreating for my mortified ears. Then he reminded me that it was part and parcel of the drunken dialing that had occurred last week. Oh that.
I'm still haunted by flashbacks of this conversation. Bits and pieces assault my psyche when I least expect it. "I just want to know if this is going anywhere so I can cut my losses." CRINGE. In my defense, I didn't want to make a fool out of myself. (Yes, I'm aware of the irony.) I should expound on the comment about my rack. My indiscretion in drinking and dialing resulted in the announcement of my bra size. It's impressive, shocking and alarming all at once. The size that is. He questioned the veracity of my claim. Still drunk, I forwarded him a pic Mo took of me on vacation in, you guessed it, my bikini top. I know. I should live in a trailer park.
To further the whole feeling like a big dumb asshole I was experiencing, he tells me that he's forwarded my blog to one of his girlfriends in an effort to weigh my sanity. So this blog is suddenly a litmus test for whether I'm crazy. I was upset by this. I didn't like the idea of a stranger using my blog to assess my date-ability. "You can't put your thoughts on a blog and not expect people to judge you for them," he pointed out. Fine. But I wanted to know what he had told his friends after he informed them of my crush. I mean surely they must have asked if he felt the same way. And the explanation I got was what I've come to expect from this man- brutal honesty. "I told them I didn't know, that I enjoyed talking to you and your were fun and annoying." Ahem, "annoying"? Needless to say, I didn't take that last part well. He recanted. I should elaborate but Larry's standing over my shoulder and needs his laptop back. And let me leave you with the quote that his been pre-approved for your amusement:
"You're witty and smart, and you have big boobs. You're not annoying." I'm beaming. I mean really, who needs Shakespeare when you can find a man to wax poetic like this?
