Well, they don't say 'The luck of the Germans'
But as the host of a local TV talk show, I'm something of a minor league celebrity. At about the level of a utility infielder on a Class A -- maybe AA -- team, I'd say.
But I get a kick out of seeing, maybe, 25-watts of recognition come across someone's face when I'm out for a walk, or having a fellow shopper at Home Depot come up and stick out his hand just as I've grabbed a fistful of roofing nails from a bin and tell me how much he likes "Informed Sources." To participate in an activity like the Muscular Dystrophy Telethon, or our Parks and Parkway Commission's annual "Feast with the Stars" fund-raiser, pleases me, and I was ecstatic when I was billed as the celebrity bartender for one Media Night at the French Quarter saloon Molly's at the Market.
That's plenty for me. I don't think I'd want to be in the pinstripe
class, with my face known by everyone who reads "People" or "Vanity
Fair." I wouldn't want to spend my time posing for the kind of photos that
would put me on their pages or even to be pestered for snapshots with ladies
with blue hair every time I went out to one of the in spots I'd have to
frequent to maintain my standing among the celebrated. I wouldn't want
to be eating out and have people at the next table whispering and pointing,
as my family and I did one night when we were seated next to Harry Connick Jr. and his family. And I certainly wouldn't want to be condemned to autographing ticket stubs or programs or scraps of used Kleenex or whatever else my panting fans would thrust upon me.
Of course, I don't get the perks the major league celebs do: chauffeurs and limousines, and fawning maitre d's, complimentary champagne at every stop, and laugh-track cheers for my appearances on the talk shows. Things like that. Still, I get my share, minor league though they might be. From time to time someone gives me special consideration that I would not get otherwise -- a ticket to an event or extra-attentive service at the necktie counter. Or what happened today.
This morning, my 18-year-old son, Patrick, and I went to court in Hahnville,
in St. Charles Parish, about 20 miles up river from New Orleans. A state
trooper had stopped him a couple of weeks ago as he was driving himself
and his girlfriend through the parish on I-10 after a party in Baton Rouge.
The trooper's radar had clocked
him at 83 miles an hour.
Why so fast? Patrick was afraid the car was running out of gas, he said, and he wanted to hurry to get to a filling station.
I don't suppose that rings true with you? It didn't set the strings of the trooper's heart zinging either. The fine for speeding would be $185. And he didn't anticipate driving during that trip, or so he said, so he didn't have his license with him. That lapse would cost another $105. And God knows how much more the episode would add to our automobile insurance.
Patrick and I got to the courthouse a few minutes before 10, the hour set on the ticket for his appearance. A good many others had chosen the last month to sin against traffic regulations in St. Charles Parish too, apparently. It took us three and half hours to get from the front door to the desk in Courtroom II where two assistant DAs were hearing confessions.
The female looked sympathetic. Maybe she would be motherly. The man
rumpled, seemed tired, and he had been working through the lunch hour.
"Pray to get the woman," I said to Patrick. A moment later the man picked up Patrick's ticket and we approached the bench.
He acknowledged Patrick and offered me his hand. "Hello," he said to
"We've met. I'm Howie mumble. Leslie Hill's husband." And while he listened to Patrick's explanation I remembered meeting him at WYES. He was there to see "Informed Sources" one night when his wife, who was then a reporter for the NBC affiliate, was a panelist .
Talking to Patrick he sounded like a genial used car salesman. "I can't kill this for you, but I can reduce it. Let's see what I can do here." He waved his pencil over the ticket, wiped away the driving-without-a-license charge and started subtracting miles until he got it down to 69 m.p.h., 14 miles over the speed limit. The total cost was $110. A mile more and the fine would have been more than $150, and we would have had another stain on our insurance record.
Only $110. I could see Patrick was relieved. It would not take him long to work his way out of indenture to his mother and me. Howie and I shook hands.
"Good to see you again," I said, and I damn well meant it, too.
So that's what set me thinking about my minor celebrity and my satisfaction with it. However, the thought did cross my mind that, perhaps, were I a major league, People-cover celebrity, the DA would have fixed the ticket for me.
But that was only a fleeting thought. It was gone by the time I autographed a $110 check for the sheriff of St. Charles Parish.