My Hiding Place

The photographer is supposed to be here in an hour, and I think I've hidden everything that needs to be hidden. Girlfriend has told me plenty of times that I'm not supposed to hide things, and I say I don't, but then every few weeks or so she'll come walking in with some thing that I was supposed to have thrown out. You were supposed to get rid of this, she'll say. I apologize. I'll be better, I'll say. Then, when she leaves the room, I'll put it in a better hiding place.

Now, the ad hoc secret spot for all of my stuff is in the attic, which can only be accessed through a two foot by two foot hole above the washing machine. It resembles the Saddam Hussein spider-hole, inversely. You have to climb up to get in.

Up there are all the things that I felt were necessary to save-- things like a picture of a street sign in Ashland, Kentucky. Way in the back, there's an animatronic reindeer that belts out "Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas" when you squeeze its hand. My George Foreman grill is up there. So is a small light-up Pittsburgh Penguins scoreboard and at least five old license plates.

All of it is in the attic because the photographer is coming today to take pictures of our condo, and nothing kills feng shui like a stray hockey stick or a bauble you got in a kids meal from Burger King, once. (I like Johnny Bravo action figures, okay?). I understand this. The place you live in looks bigger when there are fewer things in it. A buyer will want to see himself in this condo. He won't want to see me.

But it is a strange experience, because I know something that most people won't-- that all of my things are lurking, silently, a few feet above their heads. They are straining the rafters, watching from above, somewhere above the spare bedroom, waiting for my home to sell. When it does, I'll create some sort of holiday. Clutter Easter, maybe.

But for now, if you hear something creaking up in the attic, ignore it. It's just me.

Meeting Muggsy

Last night at 7:30, the phone rang. I picked up. "This's Muggsy." It was Muggsy Bogues. For real.

To be clear, former Hornets don't just call me out of the blue. I had been in contact with Muggsy's daughter, who doubles as his publicist. I wanted to talk to him for a story. Last night, he called.

We talked for about a half hour. Muggsy was on the way to Los Angeles for a TV appearance, so we couldn't talk face-to-face. He was kind. He answered all of my questions. He talked about his kids. He told me a great story about the birth of his son, which also happens to include Dell Curry and the Golden State Warriors.

I hung up the phone and couldn't stop smiling. There is this unwritten journalism rule that no matter what, we're not supposed to be visibly impressed by the people we interview. But then I kept thinking, that was Muggsy Bogues on the phone. Squee.

I don't know why I was so excited. It's not because I was a huge Hornets fan growing up (I wasn't). It's not because I've seen Space Jam (I haven't). And I never get excited about talking to celebrities. I interviewed Billy Ray Cyrus once. Big deal.

Maybe I'm just impressed the most by people who do things beyond their abilities. Muggsy was 5'3", the shortest NBA player ever, and look how beloved he is now. You scored 7.7 points a game, and you're nine inches shorter than me? That's phenomenal.

Felt the same way when I met John Sayles of all people. Who? John Sayles. Independent film director. Did Eight Men Out and Sunshine State and Matewan. I went to a screening of a movie of his once in West Virginia, and he was there, and I got all nervous, and I told myself that no matter what, I would go up and have a conversation with him afterward. I went to the lobby of the theater, and then, uh oh, squee. I had this elaborate back-and-forth worked out in my head.

"Mr. Sayles?" I said, in real life.

"Yes?"

"Big fan." It was all I could muster.

Years later, I'm more excited to have met John Sayles than, say Steven Spielberg or George Lucas. I'm more excited to have talked to Muggsy Bogues than, say, Alonzo Mourning or LeBron James. Famous people can be interesting, sure. But interesting people are more famous to me. I don't always set out to meet people who are larger than life. Sometimes, it's better if they're 5'3".

The Man With The Penguin Tattoo

Somewhere out there, a guy is walking around with a tattoo of a penguin on his left foot.

To be specific, it’s not just a penguin, it’s The Penguin. The one from the drive-in. The one from the spinning sign at the corner of Commonwealth and Thomas. The Bird. Actually, “Da Bird.” It’s written right there, in ink, right next to the toes.

I find the foot and the guy it belongs to on Facebook. His name is Lee Causey, and he looks scruffy. “You got a tattoo of The Penguin?” I say in a message. “I’m fascinated by this.”

Within a half hour Lee writes back, saying yes, that‘s his foot and he loves the tattoo, and the guys from The Penguin saved his life when he had nowhere else to go, and that they might not know it and hey, wait, let me type up the whole story and send it to you right now.