My brush with celebrity Clint Black

I was living in Houston. It was time for the annual Livestock Show and Rodeo, which is the Houston equivalent of the Academy Awards show in LA. Every night for two weeks, big (country music) stars some to town and entertain people dressed in large hats and cowboy clothes they never wear in real life, who have just watched animals being abused for entertainment. In this year, one of those big country music stars was Clint Black.

My friend Gregg is a grocery store manager and through his job he had received two complimentary tickets to the rodeo for the night of Clint Black's show. But these were no ordinary tickets, because they also would allow us to meet Clint Black before the show! After Gregg was kind enough to offer to share one of these magical tickets with me, I happily imagined the two of us standing around drinking champagne in a plush room before the show with Clint Black and his wife, Lisa Hartman. It was easy to picture the witty bon mots we would exchange with the Black/Hartmans, in between sharing our innermost thoughts and most meaningful experiences of our lives, with them asking us out for a drink after the show to continue our bonding session.

The night of the rodeo arrived and my anticipation had only grown. To my surprise, however, it turned out that there would be no intimate gathering with the star and his wife. Instead, nearly one hundred fans holding tickets just like ours stood in a line that snaked its way through a locker room in the Astrodome, with the single file line squeezing into the narrow space betwen the lockers and the benches before them. Pair by pair, the people in the line had the opportunity for a 5-second encounter with Clint Black, in which he and the ticketholders would put their arms around each other and turn, smiling, to the camera to have a picture taken.

This was not what I had anticipated, but I would make the most of it. I thought of things I could say to Clint that would be different than what anyone else in line might say to him. (This same sort of delusional thinking led to me taunting Salman Rushdie for acting the part of a suffering Yankees fan when he autographed a book for me after a speech in Dallas.) Finally, the time came for us to meet with the great Mr. Black. The words flew from my head and we were only able to muster hellos for him. He was just my height, and I was surprised that he was so cozy with us when we turned to the camera, placing his arm tightly around each of us; we responded in kind. Suddenly, the photographer appeared to have taken our picture and I dropped my arm to move away. In fact, the photographer was not finished and Clint was still standing there, meaning that my arm didn't fall through the air, but rather so close to him that my hand brushed his bottom. Gregg did not know this had occurred and tried to make small talk with Clint before we were hustled away, but Clint appeared somewhat perplexed and we quickly left to take our seats for his show.

Gregg loved the picture of our little group that he received in the mail. In it, Clint has a startled look on his face, as if someone had just grabbed his butt unexpectedly.