Luiggi's

My mom worked at Luiggi's Pizzeria in the 70s. It's still in Lewiston, Maine, where, according to my mom, "all the riff-raff hang out" - never mind that she once lived in Lewiston and attempted to raise two children there.

I took Gerard to Luiggi's last week.

I know, it's the second story in a row about Gerard. My writing class - the people who told me to "concentrate on the carnage!" for my lobster story - pointed out to me that he is my comic foil, and gushed all sorts of things about how brilliantly hilarious I was for writing him as my straight man. Unfortunately for Gerard, he is not a made-up tool of humor, but a real man who simply has no choice other than to go with me to these things and try to remain calm.

Thus, I took him to Luiggi's, and, because it has TWO "g"s in the name, I could offer him TWO promises: 1. a better understanding of my childhood and 2. the off-menu sandwich known as "the A-bomb."

We parked outside the Blue Goose, a dive bar to which my 15-year-old future mother once delivered Luiggi's lunchmeat pizzas. All the pizzas at Luiggi's are lunchmeat. Even the "cheese" pizzas come with thin shavings of salty deli ham. The restaurant has many signs that point out this unflinching commitment to sticking it to vegetarians, but no signs explaining why.

Luiggi's offers no such thing as a "dining experience." If you asked one of the middle-aged counter workers about "ambiance" they would laugh you out the door. There's a counter, where you order your pizza or spaghetti or sandwich, and there are some booths and tables, where you eat them. The lighting is fluorescent, the decor wavering between non-existent and bizarre. There is no memorable color to the plasticky tables and chairs, no pictures - and no visible health department rating - on the walls.

This was a cherished piece of my childhood. Though I had not intended to fill Gerard's head with visions of little me as a grimy street urchin, I was sticking by it. This time around, I would not be embarrassed by Gerard's compassionate gaze as he stared deep into yet another Bell family vacuum of reason and good taste. I braced. I set my eyeballs to "blazing with pride" mode. I stared him down, and...

Club Famous

I saw Paul Giamatti on my morning commute the other day. Or maybe it was just some guy who had the misfortune of looking just like Mr. G (only without that very handsome sheen of fame and the flattering glow of cash money lighting up his face), but that's not nearly as exciting, so I'm sticking with the famous-guy story.

New Yorkers want everyone to think that they run into celebrities so often that it's more of a nuisance than an event: "Of course!" they heartily guffaw at all you silly, midwestern rubes. "They all live here! They're practically swarming the streets! Gosh, sometimes I wish all these kooky celebrities would just go somewhere else and leave me alone, you know?"

These aggressive exclamations are nothing but bald-faced lies. Seeing famous people is still really freaking exciting, no matter where you live. Being a cool New Yorker just means you're very much aware (and afraid) that you'll look like a tool if you talk to them. New Yorkers, in my observations, often skip the chance to touch the famous in favor of quietly judging them as they pass by.

That doesn't mean it's not totally rad to see someone recognizable.

I live in Park Slope, a neighborhood with a celebrity-to-boring-person ratio of approximately 1.37:2.5 (babies, who are only kinda people but a large segment of the population here, make for some weird numbers). Sure, some of these so-called "famous" are not entirely recognizable -- a lot of writers, for instance -- but, according to all the reports, they are here.

HOWEVER, in nearly a year spent wandering our lovely, stroller-filled streets, I have managed only once to see anyone of note in the area. Granted, that one glorious vision of stardom was John Hodgman, and, when you love NPR as much as I do, a Hodgman sighting is rather like the average person catching a glimpse of, I don't know, John Stamos (sorry, he [as Uncle Jesse, no less] was just the first person to pop into my head -- but do you see what I was going for?). It was kind of amazing.

The reason why movie star/model/really rich person-spotting still manages to send our little hearts a pitter-pattering -- even in the big fancy city (or the big...Brooklyn-y...Brooklyn) -- is that famous people may be our neighbors, but they are certainly not "just like us" -- no matter what those lying minxes over at US Weekly are trying to tell you .

The most stunning difference between the famous and people who are just like us is not the swimming pools full of money or the all-night orgies or the secret stables full of flying unicorns. No, no. It's that they manage to have exciting, decadent, must-watch lives while never leaving their houses.
It's true.

Aside from The Hodg (and wouldn't it be awesomely douchebaggy if he actually called himself that?), I have never seen even the shadow of fame peeking from one of the Slope's brownstone fortresses. I imagine that this is because the "talent" sticks together, going to other famous houses for famous people dinners, playing famous softball in the Prospect Park Famous-Only Softball League, building famous forts with large "NO NON-FAMOUS ALLOWED" signs nailed to the outside.

I mean, really, where ARE these people? What do I have to do to score some face-time with Paul Auster? Sure, Buscemi (of the Steve variety. He's supposed to live a few blocks down from me) may have a great pitching arm, but, really, can we not share the famous? Maybe I want him on my softball team for once. Dammit, Auster, let Buscemi do his own thing!

Confession: I don't really have a conclusion for this post. I mostly just wanted to say, "Hey, famous people, why don't you show yourselves to your resident pretty pretty princess?" I can keep a secret, and I'm really fun at underground hot tub/unicorn/gold outfits parties.

SO, famous people -- those of you with faces that I may have seen on the gossip blogs or on your books -- come to me. Because you're not really famous until I mistakenly identify a random, ugly dude on my morning train as your golden, blessed famous self.