Thursday, February 17, 2011

I went to a Chris Jericho book signing today, conveniently located only three blocks from my studio. When I settled into line, there were only three people behind me: A plain-looking guy with a hot girlfriend (It was obvious she had been dragged to this signing; he opened his copy and was pointing out certain wrestlers to her along with their significance; and she pointed out that Jericho had frosted tips.), and the last person in line was a black dude.

That black dude was so lucky. I didn't have anything particular to say to Chris besides the little "Thanks, nice to meet you," and I anticipated he was tired by this point. But if I had been last in line, and Chris signed my book and it was clear that--phew!--the work was over for now, then I would have felt more comfortable engaging in a little small talk. Like: "So, what are you doing after this? Would you be interested in seeing a production studio?" I don't know if my co-workers would even know who Chris Jericho was. But, suffice to say, he was dressed like Bon Jovi (well, my conception of Bon Jovi), with a sleeveless shirt and massive arms and shoulders. He would stand out.

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