This blog, which I have dedicated to documenting my canoodling with the famous people of Utah, has suffered as of late due to my inability to track down and/or stalk the aforementioned famed ones.
My last run-in with anyone whose glow was brighter than mine was when I slapped Attorney General Mark Shurtleff &- albeit metaphorically – in the face at the MLS All-Star Game (see previous blog entry for complete, unadulterated details).
That is, until I met a one Max Hall.
There I was, sitting next to my wife, begrudgingly, at the premiere of “New Moon,” the newest installment of the teenybopper series that has somehow infiltrated collegiate life, Twilight.
My eternal partner, in her frenzy to be among the first to witness a second shot at bad acting by Sir Edward himself, bought tickets at The District, a movie theater that seems like it borders Nebraska and Hell at the exact same time, meaning that it is clear in the hell out on 11400 S. Bangerter Highway. This will be important a little later.
So there I was, the lights dim. Girls screamed, I moaned. At least I had my wife’s best friend’s husband there with me to be a brother-in-suffering. Before the vampires and werewolves and pale people and pre-necrophilia could grace the screen, a couple walked in late and sat down in front of me. Our friend leaned over and whispered, “Is that Max Hall?”
I looked at him closely, almost uncomfortably, once he had sat down and was pretty sure that it was Max. And then, I looked at his ears and I knew I was sitting among Utah County royalty.
At that moment, I promised myself that I would get a picture with Mr. Five Interceptions no matter what the cost. Little did I know that the only way I could think of to get a picture would be to sell my soul and tell a lie.
And so I lied. I lied right to his smiling face.
Edward was pale. Jacob turned into a werewolf. Bella was still unattractive. Their drama ended, but mine was only beginning.
“Hey Max,” I said, “I’m a really big fan.”
I cringed. I had never felt so empty.
“Thanks,” he responded.
“I know you probably get this a lot,” I said, knowing very well that that statement, at least in my mind, was a lie as well, “but can I get a picture with you?”
His wife, Mckinzi, whose name and spelling scream Utah County, was kind enough to take the picture. I thought two pictures would be taken using two different cameras, so I smiled for the first, planning to hold up five fingers for each interception he threw against the U last year.
Only one photograph was snapped and it is me, next to Max Hall, smiling. I’ve never been so disappointed with myself. I let me down. I let my wife down. I let my friends down. I let this classless university down.
But, to my credit, I lied to Brother Max Hall and got away with it, and that’s good enough for me. And for that reason, Max Hall can hate me all he wants.