Snubbing Calvin Klein

I have bad celebrity karma.

Famous people come to my work sometimes. Mostly, I have no idea who the hell they are. If I manage to get the TV off of the inane shows the kids like, I prefer to either turn it off or watch something gory like shows about forensics, animal predators, or people of my culinary skill level trying to cook. This is because we don’t have Showtime and I can’t watch Dexter, which I think is unfair, being that I pay the bill.

I don’t see many movies either, unless there’s a vampire, wizard, or talking animal featured.

My sub, the other guy who does my job, has good celebrity karma. The famous people that I have heard of come when he is working instead of me. Betsey Johnson has been there twice. Once when I was on my honeymoon and once when one of the heathens was sick.

The only one who came while I was there that I cared about was Alice Cooper. I got all school girly. It was bad form, truly. But I got a picture. My friend John thinks he looks like Henry Winkler.

My kids were livid with me because when John Stamos (my Blackie; their Uncle Jesse) came, I didn’t get his autograph. Likewise a Jonas Brother. And Zack Effron.

Actual text exchange between me and #3 (yes, I spell out all my words and use punctuation in texts):

Me: Apparently, Zack Effron was here today.


Me: I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. I followed him out the door but I didn’t know it was him. And don’t all your extra letters defeat the purpose of your abbreviations?

#3: NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!! Wait what?

When former President Bill Clinton came, he came backstage at intermission. Intermission serves one purpose for me: pee break. A large crowd of our company gathered to meet him. In front of the bathroom. Blocking me. I tried to gracefully edge around the former President and the star-eyed musicians and actors waiting to say their piece and get a picture. I made it to the other side. I waited until what I thought was the right moment and went into the bathroom.

Of course someone tried to come in. Of course it was Bill Clinton. Thwarted from relieving himself by a locked door. A whole new kind of cock block.  Ah, c’mon, you’d totally go there if this was your story.

Once a man and a woman came up after the show. The man held out his hand and said, “Hi, Calvin Klein.” I shook his hand but was all, yeah right, in my head. He introduced his companion and asked if he could come backstage. I told him he could go to the stage door and talk to the doorman.

The look on his face was my first indication that he may have been telling the truth about his identity. He said, “Yeah, I don’t do that,” and walked away. I related the story to CC later that night.

CC: Did he kinda look like Lyle Lovett?

Me: Yeah, totally!

CC: You idiot. That was Calvin Klein. They’re related.

Me: Crap.


Calvin Klein came back on a different night when I wasn’t there and my sub took him backstage. I’m pretty sure he gave him the entire spring line and a private cruise on his yacht as a thank-you.