Star-Struck 1: James Earl Jones

The first, and only celebrity that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting was James Earl Jones.  I had to be….16?...17 years old at the time?

For those of you who do not know who James Earl Jones is… shame on you.  Moving on…

He was the keynote speaker for a teachers’ convention going on at the Rivercentre in downtown Saint Paul.  Seeing how I come from a family of teachers, I easily found myself sitting in the first ten rows of the auditorium with my sister-in-law.

After the presentation - which I remember being whimsical, but which I remember nothing about - we all formed into a meet and greet line. 

At this point I did what I imagine every single person, regardless of age, does when he or she is about to meet a quintessential influence of their life… in person… face-to-face… in the flesh!  I briefed myself.  I made a plan.  I would hold my composure; keep a good posture; make and hold eye-contact; smile; shake his hand firmly; nod; say something meaningful - even a simple “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” would suffice; extend a blank page of my notebook to him and ask if he would be kind enough to sign it; thank him - remaining yet composed; and make my linear exit by the direction of security…

Believe it or not, that’s not what happened…  At all.

Instead of meeting this elevated, refined gentlemen that I imagined him to be, James Earl Jones had the pleasure of meeting me instead.  I’ve never been tazed before, but I imagine the sensation is not much different.  I don’t remember operating my own body, much less having much of use of its faculties. 

I stepped up to the table like a sagging, half folded accordion, if you can picture that.  I don’t know what James Earl Jones looks like up close because I never made eye contact with the man.  I could tell you what his hand looks like, though!  I vacantly watched as my hand and his shook without any participation on my part that I’m aware of performing. 

As for my lines: “It’s a pleasure to meet you.  Would you be kind enough to sign my notebook, please, Mr. Jones.  Thank you so very much.  Have a nice day.”  Yeah… that didn’t happen.  I held out the journal with both hands and said in a six-year-old’s voice something akin to, “Hi.  C-C-Can I have your autograph?”

I watched in a slow-moving, sedated limbo as the pen strokes left a series of organized black lines on the blank page.  I said “thanks” (I think), and left by the guiding pull of my sister-in-law.

Ten feet later, I was perfectly fine, outside of the fact I left my pride back at the table; and I was not going back to get it.  However, having my sister-in-law - a woman more than fifteen years older than me - look at me and ask in childish awe, “Wasn’t that cool?!” made me feel better about the whole ordeal.  At least we both felt like we were six again.

Oh yeah, and I still his autograph.  That makes me feel better, too. 

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Why am I telling you this story, do you ask?  

Good question.  See, at about this time next week, I am going to find myself in the same situation for the second time in my entire life when the Nerdist Podcast hosts their live-show in Minneapolis.  

So look forward to that post…