Tales from the Back Row by Amy Odell Page B

room. Except his version of backup dancers are middle-aged men in suits.
    This was our moment. The camera light turned on and we moved toward Karl. Because this was fate, Karl moved right toward us, like we were all Brad Kroenig.
    â€œ Karl!!! Karl. Karl, why Brad?” I shoved the mic in his face.
    â€œI thought he had the ease with the camera very, very few people have,” Karl said. He leaned in close when he talked to me. He smelled like soap. “I thought, he can transform himself.”
    When interviewing God at a cocktail party, you have to remember that everyone around you is going to want a little piece of God. Whether it’s a selfie with God, an acknowledgment from God, or a photo of God—he’s going to be an in-demand member of the party. So, if you need a little piece of God—witty banter about an election, for instance—you’ll have to get the obligatory small talk out of the way quickly before God is understandably distracted by a man with abs that look like a freshly baked challah loaf.
    â€œDo you prefer Barack or Hillary?”
    Karl reminded me—and what would probably be our five viewers—that he’s foreign. “There’s nothing worse than strangers having an opinion of something that does not concern them,” he said.
    â€œBut what do you think of Hillary’s pantsuits,” I sputtered as he began to pull away. Was Brad tugging on his ponytail? Fuck off, Brad!
    â€œWomen in politics have a big problem,” he said. “If they are too chic they don’t look serious so it’s very, very difficult. I think her pants are poorly cut.”
    And then he moved away to get his photo taken and gaze at the walls.
    I remember feeling somewhat delirious after the interview. It was like seeing a really good concert from the front row where the artist leans over to high-five you. Also I wasn’t drunk or high and there was no crowd that caused exiting the venue to make you feel like swearing off concerts till the end of time.
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    If I could have such a positive experience with Karl, I could surely have one with Rachel a couple years later, when I had more experience and knew I could get through celebrity encounters without being weird. But I was afraid of what she’d think of me after so many years of blogging about her reality show, her QVC line, and her husband’s affinity for leather jewelry. For all I knew, she could have a voodoo doll that she stuck with an extra pin every time I wrote “Rachel’s husband, who wears more necklaces at once than I own.”
    I arranged to meet Rachel at Saks, where she was doing a launch event for her clothing line. It was part party and part “Rachel tells people who spend a lot of money at Saks what to buy from her clothing line.” I was excited but extremely nervous that I’d be berated for being a snarky bitch.
    When I arrived at Saks, I rode the escalators to the corner of a floor manned by a secretary at a dark wood desk. That’s how you know you’re in a really fancy store—they have secretaries at desksto keep the riffraff out of the secret “backstage” areas that regular people aren’t supposed to know exist. Going to a special area to interview a famous person like this is always a little nervous-­making, because it heightens the differences between that person’s life and your own. But it’s also hardly unexpected. A famous stylist as recognizable as Zoe isn’t going to stand next to the sale rack to talk to me when she could be in a nice enclosed room with comfortable furniture and silver trays of tea sandwiches.
    The secretary ushered me through a door. Behind that door was another desk manned by another secretary. That secretary had a woman wearing all black guide me through a maze of heavy doors and secret passageways lined with plush carpeting. Very often when you are going to meet a celebrity