Close Encounter

Give and Ye Shall Receive. That's what I experienced today when I dragged my 16 year-old cousin who's visiting New York for the first time to a soup kitchen on Christmas eve. He was loathe to going but, like I said, under duress he capitulated and we ended up at a tiny homeless center near Grand Central Station. My girlfriend who was to meet us there was running late and upon our arrival we discovered that there would just be three other volunteers. And one of them was none other than Glenn Close.

In order to appreciate the level of restraint I exercised, it's necessary to know that I am the biggest jackass when it comes to meeting celebrities. You may recall asking Greg Kinnear what he had done since "Talk Soup" but in addition, I have been guilty of accosting B-list celebs and asking for pictures via my camera phone. Hapless victims have included but are not limited to Tori Spelling, Mischa Barton, and even Molly Ringwald. But, this time, I'm proud to report, I actually played it cool. As we followed Close and her daughter upstairs to lock up our purses, I grabbed my cousin's elbow. "Do you know who that is?" I hissed. He looked at me bewildered. "No," he answered with a mixture of fear and curiosity. I realized I was squeezing his arm a bit too tightly. "That's Glenn Close," I informed. But nothing seemed to register. "Who's that?" he asked. He's 16. But for the love of God and everything holy, it's Glenn Fucking Close! I wanted to implode. Instead, I put back my blase New Yorker hat and marched upstairs. We entered the office and I began peppering the volunteer coordinator with what I thought were intelligent questions. "How many people will come through the line?"; "Does the number of people served depend on how quickly we serve them?" Then Glenn, we can be on a first-name basis after donning hair nets together, turned to me and said, "Hi, I'm Glenn." Then she introduced her lovely 19 year-old daughter.

As you can imagine, having the lady from "Fatal Attraction" serving tuna casserole on Christmas Eve created quite a stir in the shelter. "I love all your movies," one toothless man beamed. She was a bit embarrassed by all the fuss and tried to keep things low-key. At one point someone called her a star and she said under her breath to me, "Star. Such a dumb word," I nodded pretending to understand the plight of an A-level actress trying to maintain a sense of normalcy and realism in her life. I really wanted to tell her how just yesterday I was quoting one of the lines from "Fatal Attraction" when she tells Michael Douglas' brick-shitting character, "I will NOT be ignored," but somehow had the foresight to shut my trap. My girlfriend who had witnessed me make an a-hole out of myself on countless occasions was both relieved and impressed. Maybe I'm becoming a jaded New Yorker who treats actors as people and not immortals worthy of obsequious worship. Yeah, probably not.

FINALLY talked to Boston last night. We had a good talk in which he told me that I had for all intensive purposed freaked him out. Work became intense and I became a needy, annoying pest who couldn't muster the restraint of a gnat in a flood light. I conceded on that point but told him that stone-walling me a happy love pariah does not make. We decided to "start over" but then today some of the angst crept back in when my roommate suggested that I refrain from playing games and just give him a call. I opted to send a text instead. "Hey u :)" and hour later came this: "Hi"
That's not unusual for Boston but given the admonishments from him and everyone else who gives a shit about whether I totally abdicate any sense of dignity, I decided to leave it at that. So I don't know. I'm back to not knowing. However, this time, I'm going to do the opposite of what my instincts suggest. Maybe that way, I can learn how to be "normal", which, incidentally, I think is highly overrated.