Not for nothin', okay—and yes, this is my second post of the day after missing most of 2006 and 1/12th of 2005—but getting back to the brushes with greatness thing I started way back near the dawn of man, I was in the Borders Bookstore on Ventura Blvd. in Sherman Oaks last Monday night with The Teenager  in tow (she swears it was the other way around) and I spotted a celeb right there out in the wild. (That's a gorgeous 80 word sentence for all you run-on fans out there in Strunk and White Land.)

It was as if I were peering at him from fifteen feet away through the palms of a potted plant (say that five times fast) near the Literature section, for indeed . . . that's how close I was while he dallied out in the wild, fastidiously studying the shelves of the Mystery section. (51 words)

"Luka!" I thought to myself, for I was the only one within brainwave-shot. "That's the guy who plays Luka Kovac, the good looking, yet brooding Czech or Yugoslavian or Bolivian doctor on the long-running NBC series, E.R. ."

I considered going up and interrupting his momentary pursuit of Agatha Christie or Dick Francis or Earl Stanley Gardner. Then I thought better of it.

Remember way back in the beginning of this series of my brushes with those whose accomplishments are, quite naturally, greater and more attuned to the popular lexicon than my own? One of the unwritten commandments that remain unchiseled in stone to this day because they are, you know, unwritten . . . is that in Los Angeles you generally don't approach a famous person in his or her private time out in the wild because A) Down here they are everywhere and 2) It's just so uncool because (see Rule A).

So, tempted as I was, I did not go up to this relative fictional medical superstud who leaves all the nurses swooning. I am, if truth be told, waaaaay too cool for that. Besides, what am I supposed to say to him as he searches in vain for the latest Ellery Queen—"Hey Luka, I enjoy your work?"

For you see, as much as this pains me to admit, this actor has been on E.R. for 3-5 years now in a highly visible role, and I do not know his name. And I'm the guy who remembers that Fred Gwynne and Joe. E. Ross ("oooooh-oooooh") partnered together as Keystone-like cops on the early Sixties TV comedy Car 54, Where Are You?

The good news here, my friends, is that 1) only three of you know this embarrassing tidbit of moral failure on my part and B) it's likely none of you check in here anymore since my Houdini-like vanishing act of recent vintage.

And finally, there's 3) as fun as it was to spot this big-time Hollywood hunk out in the wild and gaze upon his visage from afar (or aclose, depending how you measure) his sighting does not even begin to approach the level of greatness upon which the rock of my personal Top Ten Brushes With Greatness is built. It's possible, as big a deal as this actor currently is, he might not even be able to crack my top 15. That's the kind of star power we're gearing up for after we've already chronicled my heady personal exposure to Albert Brooks, Al Jarreau, and Molly Ringwald. And were not even in the Top 5 yet.

So what I'm saying is, it's been a nice rest. We got through Christmas, we got through New Years, and we are darned near ready to take on St. Valentine and all those dead presidents. So stay tuned in the coming days for resumption of the mighty countdown on the pop culture super highway of success.

 I hope you found your mystery novel, Mr. Goran Visnjic, because A) no one can even pronounce your name and C) that's why no one remembers it.

1977 was a groundbreaking year in the history of mankind. Star Wars, debuted to thrill millions of fans who had no idea they were actually watching the fourth installment and not the first. The Toronto Blue Jays franchise played their very first game in April. Two one name entertainers, Elvis and Groucho, died in August within days of each other.

And yet each of these seminal events tend to pale when held up to the light of critical observation. Sometimes seminal events are like that. 

So far, this series has led The Three of You™ through my brushes with those whose glowing presence has been well established and universal in their scope of fame. But sometimes fate deals you a hand in the Cosmic Poker Game of Life that looks like a pair of 7's, yet upon further inspection turns out to be a queen high full house.

You see, I once spent six weeks in a summer production of a an original vaudeville show, whose name is mercifully lost to the ages. It played in Old Sacramento's historic Old Eagle Theater. A group of would-be amateur entertainers (that’s right, this group, on the whole, were initially deemed not talented enough to even be characterized as amateurs) auditioned for the show.

Those making the cut were an 87 year old woman singing a charming song from the Gay Nineties, a man playing a saw with a violin bow, several bit or chorus players to fill in various sketches, an a twenty-two year old young man with no apparent gifts, but taking his best shot anyway at doing vaudeville style stand up comedy. That kid was me.

During the run of the show I was singled out by a respected local reviewer as one of two potential stars of the future. Well, at least he got one right. The other was a nine year old girl who completely stole the show by donning in a Shirley Temple dress and sang On the Good Ship Lollipop in addition to a sultry rendition of I Want to Be Loved By You.

Every night the rest of us received polite to moderate applause for our efforts. The kid brought the house down every single time. It’s not that she was overly talented—though surely there was gifting present. What she was was massively cute to a terminal degree.

She moved down to Los Angeles with her parents a couple years later and was cast in the L.A. production of Annie. Having made friends with her parents I flew down from Sacramento to watch the show. It was fun to actually know somebody in such a big production.

Her star kept rising. She was cast on The New Mickey Mouse Club, which I thought was a mistake from the beginning. Let’s face it. Annette, Cubby, and Darlene had executed the concept as well as it could be done in the 1950s. This new version was corporate greed pure and simple.

Still, the young girl kept moving up and her next gig was a short-lived part as one of the original girls in The Facts of Life television show. She wasn’t there long.

She caught the eye of John Cassavedes and was cast as his daughter in the her first feature film The Tempest. Naturally, this was a big step and it only led to others.

And the next jump was huge. She again caught the eye of a young director, John Hughes. She did several films for him including 16 Candles, Pretty in Pink, and The Breakfast Club. She was getting so big that by her late teens there were even rumors flying that she was dating Warren Beatty.

Although I maintained contact with her parents for several years, I never found out if that was actually true. But she had come from a small stage in Sacramento and graduated in a short amount of time to the head of the fabled Hollywood Brat Pack.

By now I think you’ve followed the clues enough to realize that your intrepid correspondent once costarred with none other than a nine year old Molly Ringwald.  

Among my souvenirs of an all-too-brief performing career, one of the treasures I retain is an album Molly recorded when she was about seven. She signed it for me and everything. I don’t believe I’d ever give it up, but it’s somehow comforting to know if things ever got too bad and I needed some cash to pay the rent or feed the family, I probably could get a couple hundred bucks for my autographed copy of I Want to Be Loved By You on eBay.

But I’m pretty sure I’ll hang onto it as long as it helps me hang onto the memory of a star-crossed summer in Sacramento.

How often do you get to watch a shooting star just before it takes off?

(Editor's Note: The fonts went a little bit crazy here. We suspect demonic activity and have call in GhostBusters to investigate)

In the third grade I was all about potty talk. I don't mean I had a foul mouth. I just liked to make a lot of bathroom references in my class clown repertoire. You know, fake fart noises with the pumping arm . . . describing the commode in the boys room to the girls . . . real fart noises with the admonition, "Whoever smelled it first did it!" . . .  and strategic placement of fake barf and fake dog poop whenever and wherever it was sure to bring a psychotic reaction from the fairer sex.

What nine year old didn't love this stuff? OK, maybe Cathy Regar—but that's why she was Pioneer Elementary Head Cootie from 1961-1963. That and the fact she was tenth grade gorgeous behind a dazzlingly ten year old smile.

Suffice to say that elegance and dignity had yet to discover my future shining star on their horizon.

And while I would be the last to revert to my prepubescent humor habits under normal circumstances, I fear I must get just a tad scatological with The Three of You™ . For as much as post-elementary school decorum demands I relegate toilet humor to the four winds (now there's an image, eh?), this current edition of The Official GP Blogs Brushes With Greatness™ list requires we take a trip where no feminine creature but Michael Jackson has gone before. The men's room.

9. The year was 1984 and I was out clubbing with the future Mrs. Blogs at The Sportsman's Lodge in Studio City, CA. To refer to this spot as a "nightclub" is a little like comparing Weekend at Bernie's to Citizen Kane. It was a bar with a piano and a few tables.

Ernest Borgnine's daughter, Nancy, was running a talent showcase out of this room. The woman who would one day bear my children, not to mention my sorrows, was a gifted young singer attempting to find fame and fortune in the Land of Three Dollar Drinks. This being L.A. celebrities would drop in from time to time at Sportsman's.

Once I spotted Eric Scott who played Ben Walton on the CBS show The Waltons. Lou Ferrigno, The Incredible Hulk, was known to drop by from time to time. No, this wasn't exactly your Hollywood A-list crowd, but for a poor boy from Sacramento whose previous claim to fame was sitting on local children's show host Skipper Stu's lap at a grocery store opening, I thought I was styling.
(Editor's note: Stu Nahan went on to sportscasting and playing himself in Rocky movies. I went on to therapy.)

One evening, a few minutes before She-Who-IS-From-Venus was about to go on to do her short set, I slipped into the restroom to hurriedly take care of business. I was standing at the urinal, sorting out the troubled economy, when a trim, good looking black man ponied up to the trough next to mine. Three rules about urinals. OK, four:
 

1. You don't talk to the guy next to you unless you are deeply secure in your sexual orientation. Even then you don't talk to him in case he is still confused.
2. You don't make eye contact. You look straight ahead at the tile. You memorize every inch of that tile.
3. You don't look down—in your direction or his.  
4. You don't offer a contest to sink stray cigarette butts or "sword fight" by crossing urine streams unless you've known each other since kindergarten.

I was able to maintain three of those protocols.

But there was a charisma oozing from the man's pores that drew my eyes to the right like potato salad draws flies at a summer picnic. Something about his presence was familiar. Something about his humming (Humming? Yes, humming! No humming used to be #5 on the list of urinal no-nos, and still should not be attempted by amateurs. But some inexplicable chord was struck, resonating deep within. I had no choice. I turned and glanced.

Bless me father for I have sinned. I broke the Second Commandment of the Urinal Code.

You (gulp) looked?

Well, not down. Just in his eyes. They were really nice eyes. I couldn't help myself.

And are you truly sorry, my son?

I am. I'll never do it again.

And why did you feel the need to break the Commandment?

Because . . . I was standing next to Al Jarreau!

Al Jarreau. The great jazz-pop singer who at the time was riding the big wave of success. Al Jarreau. We're in This Love Together. Al Jarreau. Moonlighting Theme Song. Al Jarreau. Breaking Away and Roof Garden. Al Jarreau. Even the name has charisma. And here he was . . . Al Jarreau . . .  standing next to me. Me who was . . . NOT Al Jarreau . . . and yet we were just two guys going about the business for which God put us on the earth.

He glanced over furtively. Our eyes locked, only for an instant. And then, in that embarrassed way that only guys can pull off in the sanctity of our discomfort, we nodded grudging acknowledgment with our heads and redirected our attentions to studying the tile. Mmmm, babe—this is some goooooood tile.

Al finished first. He flushed, washed up, and beat a hasty exit. I actually finished about the same time, but once it was clear he was making the first move, I gave him his face-saving space. Last thing either of us wanted was to end up at the wash basin at the same time. Where mirrors are involved it's much harder to avoid eye contact.

So that was the end of my brush with greatness involving a truly gifted artist. By itself that makes an interesting tale, but I'm not sure if it would have bumped the Albert Brooks story—or even Redskins Coach Joe Gibbs out of the top ten.

But six weeks ago I brought The Teenager for her first visit to physical therapy at a clinic on Ventura Blvd. after she injured her back in PE. She started on the treadmill. I was reading a book. And this gentleman enters the room and everyone seems to light up. And he lights up from the electricity his constituency generates.

He begins his own physical therapy by laying on what looked to be a heating pad. And he's talking to the staff, enjoying their company and attention.

They're saying things like, "Oh Al, you're such a cutup."

"Al, you just better lay right back and take some more of that heat."

It was Al this and Al that. I was trying to figure out who he was.

The staff kept dropping clues like, "Do you act this crazy when you're singing?"

I had to admit, when I heard the man speak his voice did sound familiar. I think if he's have hummed I probably would have put the puzzle together sooner. He went over to use the phone while I was talking to the receptionist. He must have heard my name because he said, "Now don't you listen to a thing she says GP. She'll fill you full of lies." Of course he was jesting. He was in an awfully good mood, whoever he was. And his voice was quite distinctive, almost familiar.

He made an appointment for the next week, then canceled it because he would be singing in Virginia. So he promised to call for an appointment when he knew his schedule better. And he left to a hail of farewells.

I asked the receptionist, "Was that . . . Al Jarreau?" Indeed it had been. Twenty-one years after our first encounter we had yet another. He even talked with me briefly. And called me by name. And if he had looked me in the eye? Perhaps a jolt of recognition would have followed and a nod of grudging acknowledgment might have ensued.

I know it sounds silly, but I wonder if Al remembers our first encounter? Did he recognize me as the guy in the men's room at Sportsman's Lodge? Did he decide to spare me the embarrassment of asking, "Hey, do I know you . . ." in a room full of women?

Perhaps.

If celebrities have Top Ten Lists of Mere Mortals I've Encountered, there's at least half a chance I'm on his. I think I'll ask Mr. Jarreau . . . when I see him again in 2026.

I can already see this is not going to be easy. Every time I think I've got The Official GP Blogs Brushes With Greatness™ list pegged, I remember another special moment in my modestly astounding Celebrity Enhanced Life. Then, if it's worthy of inclusion, I must discern its pecking order and diligently inform #10 he/she has been preempted. The famous have been known to hurl themselves over cliffs for less.

Let me show you what I mean.

Tonight I just remembered (how could I forget?) an amazing dinner I had in my 20s with a relatively famous man. Checking my list I judged this encounter immediately shot him up to claim the #3 spot. Everyone below moved down a notch  This bumped  #10, Washington Redskins coach and NASCAR racing guru Joe Gibbs.

Coach Gibbs was doing a signing at the CBA bookseller's convention promoting a volume he had recently written. I was there doing the same. Meeting him and shaking his hand was only moderately exciting to me as I have no great allegiance to the Redskins or the NFL in general.

No, it was the uncommon gesture he  offered that I will always remember. His Super Bowl ring was sitting on the counter next to Gibbs and he allowed anyone who desired to pick it up and momentarily place the bejeweled symbol of excellence on his hand. How could I resist? I'm sure my testosterone was surging, my blood coursing just a little faster through my veins as I wore Coach Gibbs' ring.

How many guys thought about making a mad dash for the exit? Well, at least one that I know of. I'll admit—it was a heady experience. But since my name wasn't John Riggins, I returned the ring with thanks, deciding against a life on the run from Paul Tagliabue and his goombas.

And Joe Gibbs doesn't even make my list! Is this going to be a great time or what?

Without further ado, which is a phrase whose origin I cannot even begin to fathom, I present to you  my list of close encounters with earthbound celestial beings.

10.  Comedian Albert Brooks . I nearly pushed him off the list instead of Gibbs. He had been a tentative pick at best, owing to the fact that I never actually met him. But Albert nudges Joe into   ignominy by virtue of the fact I think this is a better story.

A couple months back I found myself two carts behind the master comic and filmmaker in line at Costco in Van Nuys, CA. I remember thinking to myself, "Even rich people like big boxes and bargains."

As a student of comedy I idolized Brooks growing up. He and Robert Klein were the painfully funny older brothers I never had. I memorized his album, Comedy Minus One, and absorbed as much of his comic sensibility as my pituitary glands would permit.

When I recognized Brooks I just wanted to go up to him and say, "Mr. Brooks . . . you changed the way I look at life. You made me laugh. You help me understand funny." But he was two carts away, engaged in animated discourse with a friend, looking around frantically for an item he apparently had forgotten to pick up.

He left the line and returned empty handed. He left the line a second time and passed right by me. Clearly he needed this item. I wanted to go up and ask, "How can I help? I owe you. You go left. I'll go right and we'll tear this place apart looking for the thing-a-ma-who's-it you need. OK?"

But I didn't. I let Albert Brooks suffer his loss while I brooded mine.  And do you know why? Do you know why I let a boyhood icon brush past me like we were comic tugboats in the night? Because of the code. That's right. THE CODE. It is an unwritten rule in L.A. that you don't bother famous people when they are just going about the normal, everyday pursuits you and I go through. We respect their privacy. And then we kick ourselves later for missing what could have been an incredible moment in our lives—all because we don't want to become a story in their repertoire of insolent louts they had to deal with that day.

As he returned, again empty handed, I leaned over to The Toddler and whispered to her in the cart's kiddie seat, "See that man over there? That's Nemo's daddy."

So this opening gambit was, indeed, a literal brush with greatness. I know I will always regret passing up the chance to meet my comic hero at Costco. But who knows. Maybe God will give me a second chance one day. I've been wondering lately if Albert Brooks might also be a Pic 'n Save kind of guy.

This was Part Two of Brushes With Greatness. Follow the entire series here.

Over the course of a lifetime—and at fifty I figure I've already run through roughly 1/3 of the sands I'll be allotted through the ol' hourglass—you tend to bump up against a lot of interesting characters. Some of them are famous or have achieved some measure of greatness in their lives. The rest are like, well . . . um . . . The Three of You™ who read this space. And me.

From time to time we actually get to meet those featured on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Some of us while dining and rubbing well-heeled elbows with them at Chez Whizzzzz . . . the rest of us end up cleaning their pools or clipping their poodles.

Granted that those of us who reside in, say, Waterhole, NM or Brrrrrrrrr, Antarctica find that spotting and meeting celebrities can be a frustrating, yet rewarding, experience. One that tends to occur with the frequency of each appearance of Halley's Comet. You can wait your whole life at the McDonald's in Crawford Corners, IA and never see Bill Clinton chomping on a Big Mac at the next table. OK, bad example.

This is the tragic subplot in the somewhat dreary lives The Three of You lead. Sadly, I am unable to relate to this dreaded malady I like to called CCDD or Chronic Celebrity Deprivation Disorder (CCDD, incidentally, is the number 1200 as cited in the bestseller, Roman Numerals for Dyslexics). As a resident of Los Angeles for the better part of one score and three years (that's 161 years for all you dog lovers out there) I find it's difficult to walk to my mailbox without tripping over Lorenzo Lamas pulling my weeds or Robert Culp blowing our grass clippings, at my behest, into the neighbor's yard. Trash can space, like real estate, is a precious commodity in this town. But celebrities are not. They are, quite literally, everywhere.

And yes, MR. GP Blogs has been truly blessed with his share celebrity sightings while tending his own little corner of the world and, yes, occasionally slips into the annoying habit of referring to himself in the third person like so many of his famous acquaintances and lawn boys. Ol' GP just hates it when that type of vanity rears its ugly head. He really does.

So it occurred to me that those of you in Zephyr Falls, GA and Haines Underwear, ME might really get a kick out of living your otherwise empty lives a bit vicariously through the truly exciting CEL (Celebrity Enhanced Life) I have experienced as a geographically-blessed bon vivant.

As such, over the next couple of weeks I will count down The Official GP Blogs Top Ten Brushes With Greatness™, describing them in as much resolute detail that will still permit each of you to keep the contents of your most recent meal down and running through the digestive mill.

Ol' GP can't wait to get started.

Be still your obscure, celebrity-starved hearts.