Lady on red

My name is Tricia Garner, and I am a celebrity junkie. I read all the trashy tabloids. I watch Entertainment Tonight while I eat dinner. I look for Tom Cruise every time I drive past the local Scientology church. Only problem? I live in St. Louis. The only celebrities in St. Louis are the ones who fly over the city in their private jets on the way from New York to L.A.

But that changed recently when the cast of The Longest Yard came to town for a premiere. At last--my first real taste of Hollywood life. What I learned on the red carpet:

It's like a bad date--lots of buildup but not much action. I showed up giddy with anticipation, brimming with questions--and then I waited. And waited. After I had spent two hours in the scorching sun, balanced on ridiculously uncomfortable heels, the big names finally arrived--and were gone within minutes.

On the windshield of life, print media are the bird crap. We were relegated to the very end of the red carpet--which, for some poor souls, actually was a green miniature golf-style carpet in front of the fan bleachers. By the time Chris Rock reached us, his publicist practically was shoving him into the theater. The TV people got Adam Sandier to perform a little jig for their cameras. The print folk? We got a sheepish hello as he breezed by.

You will be groped. Reporters were packed together like fans angling for a home run ball. The first time the guy next to me stuck his elbow into my chest, I was startled. When the guy on the other side first brushed against my backside, my personal space radar went off. An hour later, after I had been manhandled more times than I could count, my only thought was, "I hope they can't tell how sweaty I am."

Throw everything they taught you in journalism school out the window. If I would have heard the reporter next to me ask one more celeb what his mere existence meant to the city of St. Louis, I would have hurled. So when Burt Reynolds strolled up to the print throng, I seized the opportunity to spare everyone the sight of my lunch on the red carpet. "I've got a question," I said. "I wanna know if Adam Sandier can hold your jock."

Burt looked at me. So did everyone else. I glimpsed the monster-sized Florida State ring on Burt's left hand and hoped it wasn't about to come flying at my sunburned little nose. "Sure, he can hold it," he finally said. "But I don't know if he can wear it."

I laughed. The other reporters laughed. Even Burt cracked a smile. Take that, Joan Rivers.

COPYRIGHT 2005 Sporting News Publishing Co.
COPYRIGHT 2008 Gale, Cengage Learning