Another "brush" with fame

Tonight my mother and I went to see Sunday in the Park with George, and as we were standing on line to have our tickets taken, a man and woman pushed past us so they could get to the ticket-taker first. My mom had a bad toothache (meaning she had less than usual tolerance for discomfort or disturbance [meaning the pain I would have caused if I'd gone on a tirade]), so I didn't go into righteous indignation mode and demand an "excuse me" from the offending, bad-mannered, selfish people. But really: Who did they think they were anyway? Why should they not have to wait in line like everybody else?

As I was thinking these thoughts, I was staring at the back of the woman's head (willing her to turn around and ask forgiveness for having cut the line and slightly shoving my person to do it),
and her mane of reddish-brown curls looked incredibly familiar. Then I heard her voice, which I also recognized. Then I caught sight of her face. Oh. Mom and I looked at each other, and looked at her, and I realized I couldn't confront her as if she were any ordinary broad.
Because she was, in fact, Bernadette Peters.

And the man she pushed past me with? Stephen Sondheim, his very own self. Wow.

Here's the thing. I don't like it when people cut in front of me whether in a queue or on a highway, and I think every human being should be respectful of everyone else and not think him- or herself any better or deserving of better treatment than anyone else, but on the other hand I find it really hard to hold it against Ms. Peters and Mr. Sondheim for wanting to get into the theater and from there into the VIP Lounge as quickly as possible. After all, it's his show (and even if he hadn't written it he's one of the gods of Broadway) and she was its original female lead (and even if she hadn't been in it she's one of the goddesses of Broadway), and under the circumstances you can easily imagine them being besieged. Any wonder they may have been just the teensiest bit hurried? And of course, in getting my attention by pushing past me (I may never have noticed them if they'd stayed behind us, after all), they provided me with a marvelous anecdote.

Oh yes, the reason I titled this entry another "brush" with fame: Once when I was a little kid, I got off a bus and walked smack into Barbra Streisand--bang!--right into her stomach, providentially well-protected by a fur coat (I swear I bounced off) as she walked up the street with Elliot Gould and their son. Luckily my mother and aunt each grabbed an arm and hauled me off before I could do any more damage (by trying to apologize?).
There was also the time David Bowie stepped on Andrew Benepe's foot, but as it wasn't my foot, I won't mention it. :grin: