How I Almost Met George Stephanopoulos

I began this blog with a sigh, but since no one but me heard it, I'm mentioning it now--for the record, for the mood. Two weeks ago, or thereabouts, my boyfriend/business partner called me on the phone with the news that George Stephanopoulos, THE George Stephanopoulos, was standing outside of our bookstore, talking on a cell phone. First, major props to George for going outside for that nasty business. Second,...well, there is no second. I'll just say that I was floored a little by the news that he was at my store.

I wasn't excited by the garden variety, ohmygodacelebrityjustwalkedin, sort-of star-humping tendency. For those who even know who George Stephanopoulos is, the idea is ludicrous. George served as White House Press Secretary/Communications Director/Presidential Advisor during the Clinton Administration. Hold on to your hat while I expound upon why I am such a huge, flaming nerd. When I was in high school, I wanted that job. I didn't just want it, actually. I coveted--coveted that job. Mostly, I just played it off as a joke, "Wow, George Stephanopoulos can talk to anyone about anything and sound sharp as a tack. I totally want him And his job, ha ha." Nix the ha ha and you have my true feelings at the time. Additionally, my favorite documentary, to this very day (and I am a bit of a doc aficionado, or so I fancy...) is The War Room. In a room full of Democratic shark heads with sweat stained shirt pits and pocket protectors, George Stephanopoulos really stood out as a hottie. In another life, one in which looks do not matter AT ALL, James Carville might have won as the catch of the bunch, but come one people, get real.

It turns out that George was in town because he was addressing the State Legislature in Carson City. Surprisingly, I was a little relieved when I found out that I'd missed him. It would have been really un-cool of me to barf or have a panic fart in front of my childhood idol (I do not have a farting problem--that last part was purely for comedic effect).

Anyway, my boyfriend proved to me that you can train men after all; he recognized George on sight when he walked in. And when George returned to the front counter of the store after his cell phone diversion, my dutiful boyfriend had the presence of mind to ask for his autograph, on my behalf. I'll note here that despite some peoples' distaste for politics and questions about whether or not the political mind is anything but tiny marbles knocking around in a cardboard box, George is brilliant. That fact is evidenced in part by his handwriting. It sucks. Like doctors' handwriting sucks. I could only decipher a few of the words in the autograph--just enough to recognize that it was written in English. For me, that'll do. It will more than do. Especially the part where George wrote, "Good luck with our fughel wlkeh"...or something like that. Thanks to that small, penned gesture, I am willing to forgive George for mis-pronouncing Nevada at the State Legislature; I am willing to forgive him for being 5'5" tall; but most importantly, I am willing to continue carrying the torch for Greek Presidential hopefuls until my dying day. Maybe America wasn't ready for Dukakis, but in a few more years, maybe it will be ready for a Greek dude with a few more syllables in his name.