Steve Martin at the Public Theater Gala, 6/17/08
Two things: One, I have not blogged in approximately 56 years. Two, I met Steve Martin.
On the 17th, I volunteered at the the opening night of Hamlet, which premiered following a gala attended by dozens of people a smidge more famous than me. I congratulated myself for keeping it cool around Kathleen Turner, Andie MacDowell, Alec Baldwin, mayor Bloomberg, Jerry Mitchell and other sexy people, but there was one person in attendance for whom I nearly passed out: Steve Martin.
Please let me preface this very true story with a little history of my (one-sided) relationship with Steve Martin. I love him. Clearly, as you can see at the left of this blog, he has said---in my opinion---the most brilliant things. And my favorite movie of all time is L.A. Story, which is actually an homage to many Shakespeare plays, Hamlet included. Honest to God, I can speak along with the characters in the movie. I have never gotten tired of watching it. And let's not forget my other favorite Steve Martin movies: Father of the Bride (oh, you know it's a classic remake), Bowfinger (hilarious with Heather Graham), Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (brilliant), Planes, Trains and Automobiles (RIP John Candy), Roxanne (so touching), and even The Out-of-Towners (Steve + Goldie). Also, Steve Martin's books and plays are so dear to my heart. The "Dear Amanda" short story in Pure Drivel is so funny, I will never, ever forget it. And don't even get me started on his SNL appearances ("To My Love" and "King Tut" never get old). Oh, and the Annie Leibowitz portrait of him hangs in my room at home, with the postcard version taped to my wall in New York City.
My adoration for him is just limitless.
Okay, back to the story. So who saunters in to the gala in a fedora but Steve Martin and his lovely, lovely wife, dressed in similar outfits. And though my job is to show guests to their seats, I swear to myself that I will not let this party continue a minute longer without my speaking to Steve Martin.
One minute turns into two, and before I know it, I've wasted forty minutes eying my Steve Martin from afar. I want so badly to speak to him, to tell him how much I admire him, but there seems to be no good time: someone else is walking up to shake his hand, or he's visiting the buffet, or he's seated, eating dinner. For forty minutes, I spot no good time to non-creepily approach his table and give him my heart.
Finally, I metaphorically slap myself in the face, take a deep breath, and walk confidently over to his table. I plan to not tell him too much, just that L.A. Story is my absolute favorite movie, and that maybe I love him.
When I reach his table, I speak. I squeak. "Excuse me! I am so sorry to disturb you! But I just had to come over here! And tell you! That I love your work!"
He turned to look at me, smiled (!!!!!), and gave me a very calm, very decent "Thank you."
"L.A. Story is my favorite movie!" I continued.
"Oh, really!" He said. Hah-hah, take that, other Steve Martin fans. Bet you haven't seen this frequently forgotten classic, co-starring a very young, relatively undiscovered Sarah Jessica Parker.
"I watch it with my dad all the time! I could probably say all the words! From it! From the movie!"
He smiled again. "Thank you."
"But I won't! I'll let you! Eat! Your dinner! Thank you so much! Thank you so very much!" And then, before I left, I---reached out---and---patted him on the shoulder.
I patted Steve Martin. He seemed to be okay with it. Afterward, I quickly hurried back to my position---as quickly as one can move in the grass with heels.
So there it is. That is my story, my time with Steve Martin. It was full of exclamation points, just as I would have predicted.
The Annie Leibowitz portrait, 1990
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