Riding in a West African bus (the dusty, sticker clad Alhums of Senegalese lore) crossing the overpass in Pleasanton CA that crosses the I-680 over into Dublin... you know the one, by Home Depot, Kinkos and all that?... anyway, I’m in the back, sweating to death, baby stepping towards dehydration in the heat... there’s a chicken under my seat that I’m trying not to crush under foot, but the bastard keeps pecking at my ankle and squawking, and my efforts to preserve its life are waning with every sharp stabbing pain that erupts too close to my Achilles tendon... we stop for some people and an unkempt Michael Keaton gets into the front seat... he looks a little bloated with age and alcohol, a crusty mangey beard that has completely given up on trying to lend him some sort of dignity...he’d never be mistaken for a college professor... he is wearing a printed t-shirt that has a stethoscope picture on it– ear pieces up and over the shoulders, diaphragm ‘dangling’ to his belly button area. It’s like one of those shirts that are painted like a tuxedo... tacky, ugly, and inexcusable... I smile, genuinely happy to see him as I was a fan... but what do you say to a famous person, if your are compelled to say anything to them?... I’ve always wondered how to say anything to a famous person without coming off like a jack ass... after years of contemplation, and not really any actual encounters to practice with (except that one time when I saw Jackie Mason in Manhattan, but who wants to talk to him?) I’ve just decided to not say anything... if I was famous, I’d want people to ignore me, so I give them the same treatment... do unto others and such... but this was a dream, so all I could say was, “Hey, Mr. Mom”... he looked wearily over his shoulder at me and did that fake smile/ smirk, head nod thing, and turned back around, unamused, and quite happy to ignore me... I found out later he was actually going to audition for Mr. Mom 2, and he didn’t end up getting the part...
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