I've talked about attending readings and signings before, with a little measure of disdain for most of the attendees.
As
Daryl said to me last week, "I don't understand why people are willing to wait an hour to spend ten seconds and get a token from someone who doesn't know they exist and doesn't care about them." I sort of scolded him for being a little judgemental and harsh at the time, but he is, actually, right. People meet and greet celebrities generally for one reason only - validation. Nobody goes to a book signing just to tell the author how awesome they are. They want to have
their own hand shaken, and
their own copy autographed, and somehow this means something. Random Famous Person has acknowledged their existence, therefore they exist.
The people I've griped about in this blog before are the ones who take it even further and make the event itself about them. For example,
the folks at the John Irving reading who seized upon the Q&A time as an opportunity to list their CVs for Mr. Irving, who really couldn't care less. For some reason, the tiniest bit of writing success inspires a lot of wannabes to spout their life story at their heroes, as if to say, "hey, look at me, we are the same." And there's very little that annoys me more at these things than these displays of grandstanding (and veiled envy). The author really
doesn't care if you got a fat 4-figure book deal. Shut up.
I have whined about this over and over, in person and in writing. And then, last night, I became one of these people when I met Anderson Cooper for the first time.
Anderson Cooper was one of my first celebrity crushes, though this was
way before he became a celebrity. In fact, we're coming up on a decade and a half of Cooper crush-dom in my world. I'm pretty sure he was the one who initially sparked my interest in working in media. I loved him for his unconventional good looks, but also for his sharp wit, his keen insight, his willingness to go to great lengths and witness horrible things in order to tell the best story. In college, I maintained a fansite for him and traded emails (he even supplied quotes for me for my final paper in "American Media History." We've maintained occasional email contact over the last few years, and I've been shocked to watch his popularity skyrocket.
Last night, more people turned out to see him speak in Union Square than were there for John Irving. More people were there than for Neil Gaiman, Margaret Atwood, or Chuck Palahniuk. (Granted, Palahniuk did a signing at the Strand on Monday that I think may have had comparable attendance - I couldn't even get to the floor where he was signing so I don't know for sure how many people were there. Needless to say, my Palahniuk library remains sadly devoid of signature.)
So when I finally got a chance to meet him, what to say to someone who's been a role model, inspiration, lust object, and all-around entirely too nice to someone who's seen him as all of these things for more than half my life? Well, you shouldn't babble about your own life, and yet, that's what I did.
He did remember me, and suddenly the Floodgates of Validation were opened. He asked me if I was still working for Conde Nast, and how I liked New York, and suddenly my brain went to "it's all about me" land, and I started babbling incoherently. I didn't get to tell him anything I should have said. Instead, as my friend Jill put it, I was "a total squeetard" and I have nothing but my inscribed copy of
Dispatches from the Edge to show for it.
So Anderson, I'm sorry. What I
meant to say was that your willingness to chase after what you really wanted has been truly remarkable. I've always admired the way you risked your life over and over for the sake of telling a good story, and you show a talent for writing as prodigious as your talent for reporting. These are the things I should have said. I should have thanked you for your support and kindnesses over the years, thanked you for the book, thanked you for the autograph, and gone on my merry way.
Alas, twas not to be. And Anderson is probably too busy recovering from all that signing he did yesterday to be reading blogs today.
Truthfully, I do place a lot more value on the book
Caren inscribed for me, because she is a friend, than I do for the one-shot meet-and-greet autographed copies in my library. Same for the copy of
Tara McCarthy's novel, which she thoughtfully brought with her to Barbes as a thank-you gift. (Note to all past and future readers at Barbes: presents for your hostess are not mandatory, but you do earn a special place in my heart and blog if you see fit to bring them.) Still, there is something sentimental about collecting books inscribed by my favorite authors that I can't quite pinpoint, and maybe I should stop pretending it's anything more noble.
It may actually be a worse character flaw on my part that I try to rationalize my own fannishness and desire for validation, and attempt to make it something better than what it is. I'm no better than anybody I bitch about. Last night, I wasn't an aspiring writer. I wasn't a media professional. I was a part of the clamoring throng, and the sooner I admit it, the better off we all will be.
But I did get to shake Anderson Cooper's hand. And that's pretty damn cool. (By the way, dude has total preppy hands. For all the bullet-dodging and tireless reporting he's done, it's like he's never done a day of hard physical labor in his life. I want to know what moisturizer he uses.)
