I'm not one who often meets famous people. I could count off on one hand the number of well-known, pseudo-important, or even mildly infamous individuals with whom I've come in contact.
Actress and weight-loss-product hawker Kirstie Alley frequented the Wichita, Kansas, hair salon where I worked in college (because she grew up in the town -- a little trivia for you).
I once interviewed Wally Schirra, one of the original Mercury 7 astronauts and the only person to fly in all of America's first three space programs (when he visited Atchison, Kansas, in 1997 during the celebration of what would've been Amelia Earhart's 100th birthday).
I've got a six degrees of Kevin Bacon separation thing going between myself and Dennis Rader, aka BTK the serial killer (friends, relatives, former coworkers, distant acquaintances who all knew him).
I scored a smile and autograph from Andy Chapman in sixth grade; the brash British soccer player on Wichita's Major Indoor Soccer League team made quite an impression on me, a swooning pre-teen, because he was wearing skintight black leather pants at the time.
At any rate, fame and I nearly never cross paths. (My husband, on the other hand -- Clinton, Miss Iowa, heck, Jack Nicholson even touched his arm at a basketball game once and said, "Excuse me, son." He has all the luck.)
Except, I'd like to think that, in some small way, I helped one talented musician in her quest for stardom. One New Year's Eve in Ogden, Utah, I attended one of those lots-of-family-fun/no-drinkin' (and really, is there any other kind in the land of the most holy?) festivals and wrote a story about a college kid who sang her heart out in the hopes that one day she'd make it big.
I hadn't thought much about this young woman until recently, I Google'd her name (that Googling business is highly addictive and a somewhat freakish tool for stalkers, but I digress) and found that she has not only made a bit of a name for herself in London's folk music scene, but she has a MySpace page, videos on YouTube, and songs for sale on iTunes.
I was incredibly shocked also to find MY OWN NAME on her publicity information. She used the lead to my story about her; I found my words staring at me from the computer screen. (And they were some damn fine words, I must admit. When she wins a Grammy, there better be something about me in her acceptance speech.)
Check out her Web site for some free tuneage. Or give her a search on YouTube. You won't be disappointed. Her fun, funky, soulful vocals will etch themselves into your head. I hope we get her back on this side of the pond soon. I'd bet money that someday I'll be saying I knew her when...
Actress and weight-loss-product hawker Kirstie Alley frequented the Wichita, Kansas, hair salon where I worked in college (because she grew up in the town -- a little trivia for you).
I once interviewed Wally Schirra, one of the original Mercury 7 astronauts and the only person to fly in all of America's first three space programs (when he visited Atchison, Kansas, in 1997 during the celebration of what would've been Amelia Earhart's 100th birthday).
I've got a six degrees of Kevin Bacon separation thing going between myself and Dennis Rader, aka BTK the serial killer (friends, relatives, former coworkers, distant acquaintances who all knew him).
I scored a smile and autograph from Andy Chapman in sixth grade; the brash British soccer player on Wichita's Major Indoor Soccer League team made quite an impression on me, a swooning pre-teen, because he was wearing skintight black leather pants at the time.
At any rate, fame and I nearly never cross paths. (My husband, on the other hand -- Clinton, Miss Iowa, heck, Jack Nicholson even touched his arm at a basketball game once and said, "Excuse me, son." He has all the luck.)
Except, I'd like to think that, in some small way, I helped one talented musician in her quest for stardom. One New Year's Eve in Ogden, Utah, I attended one of those lots-of-family-fun/no-drinkin' (and really, is there any other kind in the land of the most holy?) festivals and wrote a story about a college kid who sang her heart out in the hopes that one day she'd make it big.
I hadn't thought much about this young woman until recently, I Google'd her name (that Googling business is highly addictive and a somewhat freakish tool for stalkers, but I digress) and found that she has not only made a bit of a name for herself in London's folk music scene, but she has a MySpace page, videos on YouTube, and songs for sale on iTunes.
I was incredibly shocked also to find MY OWN NAME on her publicity information. She used the lead to my story about her; I found my words staring at me from the computer screen. (And they were some damn fine words, I must admit. When she wins a Grammy, there better be something about me in her acceptance speech.)
"Eliza Wren Payne lets her face drop and pain seep from her soul as she sings a somebody-done-her-wrong song. Or she twists her lips into a full-mouth grin and winks an eye as she belts out a happy ending. New Year’s Eve revelers had the opportunity to experience Payne’s harmonic, in-the-moment honesty, and as she sings from her heart and gut, her audiences know one thing. She’s no phony."
Check out her Web site for some free tuneage. Or give her a search on YouTube. You won't be disappointed. Her fun, funky, soulful vocals will etch themselves into your head. I hope we get her back on this side of the pond soon. I'd bet money that someday I'll be saying I knew her when...
Comments
:) That's how I got Ashton Kutcher to call me!