the weblog @ interbridge.com

Sue Trowbridge lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is the co-owner of an independent record label, 125 Records, and web diva of interbridge.com.
Feedback: loudfan@gmail.com
(Please use my interbridge e-mail address instead if you know you're in my whitelist.)

more weblog:
January 04
February 04
March 04
April 04
May 04

06.30.04 my clinton moment

A dozen or so years back, I set a goal for myself. I wanted to meet two men: Bruce Springsteen and Bill Clinton. It's not like I was an enormous fan of either of them; they just had a sort of larger-than-life quality that I was curious to experience in person.

As it turned out, meeting The Boss was a virtual cakewalk compared to meeting The Prez. I had a brief meet 'n greet with Springsteen before one of his Lucky Town/Human Touch shows. Bruce, then the biggest rock star in the world, seemed very nice. He was shorter than I thought he'd be. I got his autograph, which I hope I still have somewhere in a box of 1990s mementos.

Despite the fact that I was employed at the time by a genuine Friend Of Bill, I had no luck wangling an audience with the leader of the free world. Admittedly, I wasn't particularly aggressive in using my connection. I was a lowly researcher/assistant. I wasn't going to get all up in his face about scoring an invite to the White House.

Years passed before my opportunity finally arose. Cody's Books in Berkeley announced that they were going to be hosting a book signing with former President Clinton to promote his autobiography, My Life. This was it! All I had to do was pre-order the 950-page doorstop for the low, low price of $25 plus tax, and I would be entitled to a pink ticket that would allow me to get my book signed by the man himself. "We're telling people to get there early," said the young bookstore clerk when I went to pick up my copy, "like around 7 or 8 AM." The signing wasn't due to begin until noon.

Throwing caution to the wind, I arrived at Cody's around 9:30 AM; unsurprisingly, by this time, the line stretched around the better part of a city block. Some people had camped there overnight. I figured, I had my ticket; if I was the 800th person in line, so be it. Armed with a copy of Entertainment Weekly, I sat down on the curb to wait. I thought there would be lots of good old-fashioned Berkeley street theater, but things were pretty low-key. There were several entrepreneurs selling Clinton and Kerry buttons and anti-Bush paraphernalia; many people came through offering voter registration forms. One Arthur Slugworth-like character tried to tempt people into coming back with their newly-signed books to part with them for $300 a pop. The Cal brass band serenaded the crowd with an odd blend of songs, including one I had trouble placing until I figured out that it was an instrumental arrangement of Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal." Interesting choice.

Shortly after noon, the buzz started going through the line: he's here, he's here. We shuffled closer to the bookstore with excruciating slowness. Finally, at 2:30 PM -- five hours of waiting! -- I was ushered in to Cody's. A hunky Secret Service agent flipped through my copy of the book to make sure I hadn't secreted anything within its pages. A less-hunky agent wanded me with a portable metal detector. Finally, I was allowed to climb the stairs to the second floor, where he was standing.

Unfortunately, they were only allowing 4-5 people at a time on the second floor, and things moved so quickly that there was no time to stand there and study the man. Everyone got, like, 5-10 seconds with the ex-president. One employee opened the book to the correct page; the former president signed with his left hand, shook with his right; a second employee whisked each finished book away and gave it to you. After all of that agonizing waiting, I was finally face to face with Bill Clinton.

Again, I was never Clinton's biggest fan while he was in the White House, but I'd always heard that he had this incredible charisma. It's true. The man is practically radiant, as if he was lit from within. I watched him begin to sign his name with a bold blue pen, and realized that this was it -- if I wanted to give my little rehearsed speech, it was now or never.

"IwasexcitedtoseethatyoumentionedTaylorBranchinyourbook," I said, at approximately the same rate of speed as the radio announcers who read the "fine print" about APRs in ads for car dealers. "Iusedtobehisassistant." I can't remember exactly what Clinton said, but he smiled and expressed some sort of interest along the lines of, "Oh, is that right," so I continued. "YesIusedtoliveinBaltimoreIhelpedhimresearchPillarofFire."

[photo] "I'm going to be seeing Taylor in a couple of days," he replied. "Ohwow!" I answered, picking up my signed copy (he was already autographing someone else's by now). "TellhimSuesaidhi." This was probably an idiotic thing to say, but I suppose I nurtured some small hope that out of the 2,000 people he met that day, perhaps when he did see Taylor Branch, something would click in his brain and he'd mention me. And maybe Taylor, whom I've completely lost touch with over the years, would say, "Oh, yes, she was a nice girl," and Bill Clinton would be left with a good impression of me.

As I left the store, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. I looked bedraggled -- just like someone who had been sitting on a curb in downtown Berkeley for five hours in the sun, wearing a hat (which a Cody's employee kindly held for me as I got my book signed). I had a bad case of hat hair and my lipstick had faded. Clinton, in a crisp navy suit, every silver-gray hair on his head perfectly coifed, looked as though he'd just come from a morning at the spa.

I wish I'd had more time -- not necessarily to chat, but to look. I hadn't even noticed the color of his tie (pink, according to a newspaper article), or whether his nails were freshly manicured (I'm guessing yes). My Clinton moment worked out to around 30 minutes of waiting for every second I spent in his presence, and cost $2.50 a second. Right then, however, I felt like I had gotten a bargain.