By the way, wasn't Maureen Dowd's column yesterday embarrassing? She sneers at Clinton and Gore, she sneers at Bush and Cheney and Rummy and Condi, and you think, well, she just doesn't take any of the puffed-up people seriously. But put her in the same room with a movie star and she melts into a puddle. You can practically see her mooning over the contours of his manly bicep as she writes, with far more sympathy than sarcasm, "The other candidates have ganged up on the ex-bodybuilder and kicked sand in his face."
I've met a couple of celebrities in my time. I was in a room once that Bill Clinton was working, and working quite adroitly. He was smart and charismatic, and it was impressive, but so is watching any worker -- and that would include a mechanic or a fish-cutter or a rush-hour delicatessen sandwich maker -- do a job nimbly and with grace under pressure.
I don't understand starstruck people. I certainly don't understand being starstruck when your life puts you in contact with lots of stars, or at least lots of people with influence and power. I feel as if I'm the only person in America, male or female -- or at least the only Anglo -- who doesn't want to sleep with Arnold Schwarzenegger right now.
Et tu, Maureen?