So I should preface this story by saying that I am in no way famous. I did once have a color photograph on the front page of a a section of the New York Times, but it was the Sunday Styles section, and it was only to make the point that people like me at anti war protests didn't really 'get it' - this was October 2001.
Anyways, I am not famous, and don't have pretensions that I should/could/would be.
But. Tuesday night I went to the 75th anniversary of Habonim Dror North America, the Labor Zionist (!) youth movement I grew up in. Leading the singalong at the end was the one and only Bradley Burstein, left wing columnist and hero! Hero! In some circles he is totally famous; in Berkeley, he could fill up a 250 seat room of people paying $45 to hear him talk with the snap of his fingers. In addition, I have the honor of having gone to school with his daughter for two years when we were 6-7. Anyways. I have read his column, like forever, and in an awkward moment where he was fiddling with wifi equipment, I gathered up my courage to tell him that I love his columns. I march bravely up to him, and say, "so I just wanted to say that I love your columns" and he takes a look at my name tag, and bursts out "finally! It's the famous xxxxxxxx (my name. trying to stay anonymous guys)!" I am sure he thinks I am someone else - I have a very generic name, I haven't seen him for 20 years... I respond "Um, no, I think you are thinking of someone else." "No! From Berkeley!" So he remembered me, remembered where I lived, my parents names, the what I used to do, and was wondering what I am up to... apparently he bumped into a cousin of mine, whose boyfriend lived in the same very very small town in the middle of the dessert as he did. Anyways. I felt gratified! The moral of the story is never be afraid of telling famous or 'famous' people how great they are, because maybe they will call you famous too!
