About a year ago, as I teased on Twitter and Facebook, for those of you who follow me there, I got to have breakfast with Kevin Bacon.
(No, I did not order bacon. I’m sure he gets that all the time. God, people, BE COOL.)
Anyway, I’ve written before about how much I hate doing celebrity interviews--how awkward and perfunctory and disappointingly unsexual they are--but this was different. I wasn’t just chattering nervously into a phone in my cubicle. I was sitting across from Kevin Bacon.
Wait, let me back up.
First, I was walking to a restaurant at which I had a reservation for a party of two, with Kevin Bacon. I tried to sound all cool on the phone, like I didn’t care, like KevBac and me go way back, like back to high school, where we may or may not have lived together in a small town where this total dickhead reverend who looked a lot like the Trinity Killer from Dexter banned dancing and rock music.
Then I stood outside said restaurant nervously fixing my hair. A family walked by and stopped, perusing the menu before deciding to move on. “WAIT!” I wanted to scream after them. “Kevin Bacon is about to arrive. You are totally passing up the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to eat eggs next to Hollow Man!” But I didn’t. Instead I went inside and told the hostess that I was meeting someone. “It’s Kevin Bacon,” I added before I could stop myself.
I was hoping that she would look me up and down with narrowed eyes, wondering how Kevin could do Kyra so wrong, and with such a delectable, nubile young thing, but instead she smiled and showed me to my seat, like I wasn’t potentially meeting him for an illicit pancake rendez-vous. Maybe my tape recorder gave me away.
Then I sat down at a table facing the door and put on my glasses, because I had to make sure I’d be able to recognize KevBac when he came in, since, I assume, his only directive in finding me was “the girl who spits up on herself as soon as you walk in,” or “the girl with the crazy eyes who has already consumed the entire bread basket.” I made eyes at the couple at the next table. The eyes were saying, “Wait ‘till you see who you’re about to be sitting next to!” but I think the lady half of the couple misinterpreted the eyes, because she gave me a dirty look and asked for the check.
Finally, as I was lifting an oversize latte to my lips, he walked in. I waved. He sat down across from me. I tried to be cool.
I was not cool.
I stammered and spoke in my unintentional excited helium voice and asked him what was good on the menu, and when he recommended a messy Mexican egg dish that involved beans and cheese I did not have the good sense to say no. So while asking him about his childhood and his music and his acting I was also shoveling steaming spoonfuls of egg white and bean goo and melted Moneterey Jack into my maw. It probably got in my hair; everything does.
But KevBac was very nice, if a bit reserved, and as we talked he warmed up and even laughed occasionally, and by the end he was asking me where I went to college and when the check came he paid for my breakfast.
Then he walked off into the crisp fall morning in his skinny jeans and knit skull cap and I never saw him again.
Oh, well. At least we’ll always have Columbus Avenue. And beans.
Read the article--which was finally published, over a year after our meeting--here.