Something amazing has happened, America. My life is officially changed for good. I knew something was different about today from the get go. See, for most of my life, mornings have been difficult: I do my best to slide out of bed, water my bod with Febreeze, lazily run a comb through my hair, scrawl some black eyeliner down my cheeks Awakenings-style, and slip out of the house before my Super demands either the rent or $1000 worth of HJ’s. But this morning, something was different. My eyeliner actually made it onto my eyelid and my Super demanded only $20 worth… Yes, today would be different.
And was it ever. There I am, sitting on the Downtown 1 train that shuttles me to and from work, listening to the Beegees’ Greatest Hits on my Ipod (a must have), and choosing to stare at my fellow passengers to pass the time. Nothing spectacular was happening in my car: a possibly-abused housewife wearing gigantic sunglasses was rubbing her forehead, silently crying for help; an old lady in a 4,000 year old beaver pelt refused to sit down. All was normal.
Until 79th Street. Because it was at 79th Street, my dear friends, that the subway doors opened, and sunshine burst forth to the tune of angel’s trumpets. I turned my head to view the incoming passengers, only to spot a most familiar head of arctic white hair… that hair belonging to the best newscaster — nay, person — on the planet: Anderson Cooper.
Yes, folks, that’s right: Anderson “Universal Crush” Cooper rides the New York City subway, just like fellow extremely wealthy commoners Michael Bloomberg and Tim Gunn. My eyes went from being “things I use to look at stuff with” to “boiling hot orbs of disbelief and joy”. Cooper clutched a stack of newspapers and made his way to the center pole not 2 feet away from where I sat. His baseball hat did little to hide his trademarked white locks, the brim doing nothing to shield his genetically perfect indigo laser-beam irises.
The unspoken rule of celebrity sightings here in New York is: Don’t make it obvies. This exists primarily because most people who live in New York, famous or otherwise, all consider themselves celebrities. Like that time I had coffee next to Leo DiCaprio, and I asked him to put his cigarette out because I had asthma as a baby. We are all equally important in our own minds.
But Anderson Cooper is different, because he is actually the best person, famous or otherwise. As he held onto the pole reading the cover of today’s Times, I couldn’t help but look around the train to see if anyone else knew they were in the presence of fabulousness. My face remained calm, relaxed, but high-speed photography would have shown a single tear of desperation pool in the corner of my eye in an effort to connect with somebody — anybody — regarding this extraordinary sighting. And nobody — not a single person — seemed to recognize him! It was panic inducing. The fanfare and Beatles-like riots one would expect never happened. It truly did not make a lick of sense.
But back to the Coops: So there he is, readin’ the papes, wearing a nylon jacket that on a normal person would do little to block the 15 degree windchill, but on a bipedal husky was probably just right, and I keep thinking, “How amazing would it be if he came and stood over me?” As in, grabbed the subway pole above my seat. Creepy thoughts? Most definitely. But seeing as this is probably the only time I’ll ever see him on my train — our train — I wanted the proximity to matter.
After the jump, My Train Ride with Anderson Continues — and yes, HE DID STAND OVER ME. Full crotch inspection (JK) after the jump!
Next thing I know, as though he was reading my mind (or at the very least, moving in for the other passengers) that is exactly what happened. Anderson Cooper, forced into the car by throngs of lowlier beings, was standing directly over my body, grabbing the pole above my head, and reading the paper, seemingly ignoring the silent and casual heart attack happening right below him. Here is an artist’s (me) interp of our locations:
At this point, he had moved from the NY Times to scanning the NY Post, his eyes darting across the text like a veritable Johnny 5. While I was too cowardly to look directly into his face, I did make a point to check out his hands: Nails, nicely manicured; skin, a little dry if we’re being honest. And let’s be honest: If his crotch had eyes, it would have been staring me right in the face, but I geisha girled my eyes downwards so as to avoid being, well, you know… “Creepskies”. (OK, I glanced.)
I figured he would be getting out at Columbus Circle, where the CNN offices are. But to my delight, he didn’t, meaning one more stop with his body heat keeping my soul toasty. The page of his newspaper at this point was nearly brushing my cheek — normally, I’d slap that sh*t right outta the way, but to get cut by his paper, Anderson’s paper, would have been an honor. It was at this point I had the courage to sneak another look at his face. He caught my eyes, and for one single, spectacular moment (I’m sure for us both) we shared a look, a private look, happening at that moment only between me and Anderson Cooper. Embarassed, I reverted my gaze back to his crotch for safekeeping.
My stop was steadily approaching, and I thought back to the time Andy and I had just spent together. It all began so suddenly – him being born, becoming amazing, and then getting on my train; me uploading a Beegees album onto my portable mp3 player, analyzing his hands to the sweet sounds of “Nights on Broadway.”
And before you knew it, 50th Street arrived. I grabbed my purse, and timidly said “Excuse me” to the greatest man that’s ever lived. He thoughtfully moved out of my way so that I could exit. I kept my cool as I shoved past the rest of the commuting heathens, still not breaking the undercover “New York Who Are You” code… that is, until the train left the station. My guard now down, I proceeded to cartwheel out of the turnstyle, grand pliÃ© up the stairs, grow a pair of wings and fly into my office, my feet never touching the ground.
And I wasn’t only happy for me, folks. I was happy for the hundreds and hundreds of gay men who would squee with delight as I regaled them with my Cooper train encounter. I was happy for my future children who would wonder who that man was in the guilded picture frame on my desk. I was happy for a world where a lil’ ol blogger like MimiCoco could unexpectedly run into a living dream on an otherwise bedbug ridden mode of transport. This is to be my greatest day.