I met Portman earlier today. I went to San Francisco (all the way from its cesspit in Stockton) because he was going to be there for whatever reason (I never bothered to look up the reason). Turns out the reason was an awards ceremony. Fair enough. I climbed over a bunch of seats in order to sit behind him (like any proper stalker would). And right before the ceremony started, I fired off all my courage with this: "Frank?"
He turned around.
"Hi. I'm Courtney Jensen." At this point he could have just turned back around, but he didn't. Instead, he pretended as though this fine piece of information I just disclosed to him was of some consequence - as if to say "oh, right, Courtney, I almost didn't recognize you" only in gesture. And I have to be honest; this felt nice. It's the exact move I do to people all the time – literally every day of my life. The only difference is that I am supposed to know the people talking to me. I think Frank has yet to appreciate his level of literary celebrity and the uncanny crowd that it inevitably brings (me). Anyway, I harassed him further: "I started wagbog.com." I announced this proudly, as if expecting a response.
"Okay." That was his response, but he said it as if my explaining was pointless – because he already knew that. And again, this made me feel good, though I was completely aware that it was all part of his act. And I can describe this act as nothing shy of extremely successful. Obviously he must have been enduring some level of terror that a Mark Chapman-like stalker had managed to hunt him all the way to the seat behind his Asian girlfriend, who couldn't be bothered with the whole experience (the experience being me stalking him). And the potency of his theatrics covered up every last vestige of this terror. Success! Success to the tone of me obliviously continuing the dialogue: "Compliment, etc." I actually don't remember a word of what I said to him. Probably because it was all completely incoherent.
Anyway, at a pause in the conversation (I'd say "awkward pause" but the whole thing was awkward), I gave him the drawing I did of my WAGBOG (Jake). Now, I kind of explained this already, but I drew Jake a couple nights ago on a piece of computer paper while drunk in my office at 1:00am. I have no doubt this makes its caliber as a gift marginally less than "totally cool" – thus making discomfort the manifestation of its giving. Still, I deem my gesture just as creepy as it was worth it. It was a lot of both.
After I gave it to him, I asked if I was even close on the definition I came up with for WAGBOG (see first entry). Until he answered, I was offensively confident that I had nailed the definition on account of the sheer weight of my genius. His answer: "Actually I hadn't really thought about it on a psychological level – not enough to really define it" or some such (polite) dismissal of my question. If this wasn't his way of saying "you're totally, totally wrong" I don't know what else he could have meant.
But I didn't have any time to think about it because (right then) the ceremony started. And this made me pissed that I was now locked into sitting through ninety minutes of ritual crap. But then a little twist of luck made this happen: Frank won during the fourth minute of the event. The luck isn't what caused Frank to win – but rather what caused the promptness of his winning. So I left immediately (minute six).
If you want to hear about the ceremony and his victorious finale, you can read about it on his blog, HERE. My blog on the other hand, is about WAGBOGs specifically.
Notice how this entry didn't contain anything about WAGBOGs? That's because I drove to San Francisco with the hope that I would extract a nice little profundity on the subject. And then obviously I didn't. If I had, I would have written about that instead of this (a big entry about nothing). But on the bright side, what a nice guy he is (i.e. WANG-HI).