SNL "Dead"

In each of my many trips to NYC, I have always managed to spot a celebrity, from humorist Roy Blount, Jr., to Whoopie Goldberg. It’s not that I prepare for the trip by logging onto Stalk-a-Star.com, then lurk creepily, or creep lurkily, whoever you prefer, around their apartment buildings, rifle through their garbage, or spend hours walking around the theater district. It’s simply that a lot of them either live in or visit NYC, and since I usually spend at least five days there annually, the chances are good that I’m going to run into one sooner or later. And even when there may have been the possibility of an autograph, I have never asked for one, because I feel it would be the first step toward qualifying for membership in that group of people who inevitably will be interviewed by one of “The Daily Show’s” fake reporters, with Rob Cordry asking me, straight-faced, questions such as, “How long did it take to cover your Camaro with 8x10 Jackie Chan glossies?” “How do you know that’s really Clay Aiken’s underwear?” or “Tell me again how you were able to obtain the cellulite left over from Carnie Wilson’s liposuction to make that swell paperweight?”

However, my faux pride hasn’t prevented me from indulging in the harmless-I-tell-myself game of making it a personal goal to see at least one celebrity on every trip in the same spirit that children on long trips count red convertables or Neocon body pods on the side of the highway. Of course, the challenge is mitigated significantly by allowing myself to count B, D, or lower list ones if the pressure is on, such as the time I resorted to skullduggery by going to the “Hello Deli” on my last day, where I knew I would likely see the owner, Rupert Gee, of the “David Letterman Show” fame. And thn, there was the year when, out of pure desperation, I bestowed celebrity status on John McEnroe’s parents, whome I had seen walking in Central Park. I quickly rationalized my decision, in a manner that would earn me a tip of Dubya’s Stetson, by proclaiming that this is my game and I’ll make the rules.

Of course, I’m not including seeing them in their natural environment, or else I would list Robin Williams doing his act about 15 feet from me as certainly the most exciting celebrity encounter. He made an unscheduled appearance at a comedy club shortly after 9/11, and his wildly manic performance was as therapeutic as it was hilarious. He sprayed perspiration onto my drink napkin twice, which I later had freeze-dried and framed. It now has the place of honor in my “Bob Coskrey’s Tribute to Comedy Room.”

Without a doubt, my most interesting celebrity sighting happened on my trip of last November when I went to one of New York’s multifold Irish bars, this one named “Rocky Sullivan’s,” where I had read in a magazine they were going to broadcast a show called “Satire for Sanity” on the new liberal radio network, “Air America.” This was after the election, so I was looking forward to a joyous evening of jocular, cathartic conservative-bashing with my beer-swilling brethren. It was supposed to start at 8 p.m., so I arrived about 45 minutes early to make sure I got a good seat. It was a typical looking old New York tavern, with a long wooden bar, a smoky mirror behind it, and about a dozen bar stools, half occupied. It was dark and dingy, which is the way I like my bars—no Ficus Benjaminae, coruscated brass, or mocha frappe latte martinis for me. There was some obligatory Gaelic paraphernalia on the wall and maybe four other people sitting at tables. The bartender was a young girl somewhere between 21 and 30. For some reason, when you reach my age, everyone from 15 to 30 looks the same, but then, on the other hand, when I was in that age group myself, I can recall that everyone between 55 and 70 looked the same, but that’s because my sagging, gray-haired, prune complexioned, ear-hair-sprouting, jumpsuit-wearing, Appleby-eating demographic group actually does look alike.

I sat at the bar patiently awaiting the start of the show, and noted the small stage and microphone near the back, as I found my way to the elbow-use only bathroom, and upon returning to my stool, I noticed a guy at the other end, who looked like one of the SNL performers of the past, but I couldn’t remember his name. I asked the bartender and found out my hunch was right. He was A. Whitney Brown, who was a featured performer/writer in the late 80s and mid 90s. He would always be introduced by the “Weekend Update” announcer, and would read something that was literate, but always very funny. I always liked him, partly because I figured, “Maybe I could do that.” In fact, I have always been a staunch SNL fan, even through the lean years, and it has been a much too easily dissipated 30-year pipe-dream that I would one day, through some sort of divine intervention specially set aside for agnostics, get a job there as a writer. As I got closer and closer to the possibility of introducing myself to Mr. Brown with each Heineken, it became apparent that the show was about two hours late starting. Then I heard of the group around Mr. Brown say something like “Jack’s not here, so we’re not going to have a show tonight.” Shocked, but not necessarily awed, I said semi-seriously to one of the group, “I came all this way from a red state liberal enclave, and now you’re not going to have the show? This is an outrage.” Immediately after making this Heineken-imbued statement, I had the frightening thought that maybe this was a Conservative ambush. Ingenious liberals were lured here by false advertising, and we would soon be attacked by Neocon goons with nightsticks and tasers, then become the bottom part of a naked, all-male triangle. However, my reverie of horror was interrupted by Mr. Brown offering his apology for the show’s cancellation. He then introduced himself to me and asked where I was from, giving me the opportunity to repeat my red state liberal enclave line. I told him I had always enjoyed his SNL performances, and even spilled forth my 30-year desire to be a writer on the show.

Then it happened, the HMS Karma was easing up to my dock after a half-life voyage: “Why don’t you send me some of your stuff?” Mr. Brown uttered nonchalantly. Trying not to appear too excited, I replied phlegmatically, “Yeah, I could do that,” then added, to eschew any notion that I might be getting self-conscious and gushy, “By the way, what are you doing now?” “I’m looking for a job I’m unemployed.” The HMS Karma has hot one of those glaciers released from the Arctic by global warming and is sinking fast. All I remember after that is Mr. Brown saying something about being from Michigan and my walking the long 25 blocks back to my hotel, with the somewhat presumptuous thought running through my head: “Sure, I’m going to send my stuff to you, so you can use it to launch your SNL comeback.”

I confess that I looked up A. Whitney Brown’s address in the phone book the next day, rationalizing that maybe we could team up and write a sitcom or something. But I haven’t done anything about it. I think maybe it’s best that celebrities be seen and hot heard—at least in my case.