It happened thus: I was in LA with some friends, and we were on the Hollywood Walk of Fame being the ultimate tourists, doing what everyone else was doing — seeking out a star with our name on it. With my friend Claire, we had success; of Mandys and Rachels, not a one (although Mandy Moore’s time will surely come). As we wended our way up the length of that legendary boulevard, we saw ahead something of a commotion — a small stage had been erected and it was thronged with onlookers. Naturally, we joined the throng; in fact, we somehow made it to the very front of the crowd, just in time to see the object of all this frenetic excitement.
Steven Spielberg. Steven Freaking Spielberg was getting his star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame on that very day! Utterly unbeknownst to me, I had been standing on the very same street, breathing the very same murky air, reluctantly listening to the very same out-of-tune busker as Steven — if you can believe it! — Spielberg!
Never have I been more overcome with starstrickeness. More aware of my own insignificance. More humbled and yet, yes, proud. I was mere feet away from true greatness. From the man who made E.T. and Indiana Jones. The man who made my beloved Hook. Hell, the man who made Close Encounters. To Claire and Mandy, both of a more mundane bent, this moment perhaps held little in the way of magic or portent. But to me, it Meant Something.
Because, as Dawson once said: “All the mysteries of the universe, all the answers to life’s questions, can be found in a Spielberg film.”
Well, maybe not Crystal Skull.