Despite my very best efforts to hide my face from the cameras of Flag Live, (I once managed to go two years with just a picture of my bike—without me—at the top of my column), every now and then an intrepid Flag Live editor will manage to capture me on film. (Sort of like Bigfoot, except that it’s usually not one of those blurry long distance shots, but a real, live, close-up. Which, actually, is kind of a drag: I’ve always thought those grainy Bigfoot shots were rather flattering, or at least slimming. If I were Bigfoot, I’d definitely post one of those on my Facebook page.)
Anyway, what this photojournalistic documentation means for me (I won’t presume to speak for Bigfoot), is that every now and then people will recognize me. Usually, this is no problem—I actually enjoy having people come up and talk to me about my columns. I especially like it when they try to tell me a competing story about how their children are even more dreadful than mine. (It’s not a competition, folks, but if it were, believe me: this is one you don’t want to win.)
Being recognizable, however, does come with some definite disadvantages. (Just ask Bigfoot). For one thing, it makes it twice as embarrassing when you get caught (and recognized) doing something wrong. In Bigfoot’s case, it was that oh-so-embarrassing unintentional cameo he did in Girls Gone Wild XXIV. In my case, it was trying to sneak beer into a venue where they were already selling it.
Now, I don’t know about you, but in my world sneaking in your own beer is a time-honored tradition. Even if you don’t ultimately end up drinking it (and really, who wants to drink a Bud Light that has been nestled up in some guys BVD’s?), it’s the principle of the thing. I mean, isn’t that what this country’s forefathers fought and died for? Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness (in the form of cheap, watery, warm beer?)
So anyway, yeah—I did it. I tried to sneak in a couple of Tecates—and I got busted. No big deal—it’s all part of the game, right?
Until.
Until being busted meant that everything I was carrying got a thorough searching, and that meant that everything got discovered. Which meant that there was a mortifying moment in line when a certain item was pulled out of my bag and held up for all the world to see. The gate girl must have raised her eyebrows about a foot as she held the incriminating object between thumb and forefinger, looked at me, and in clear and ringing tones said, “Don’t you write for Flag Live?”
“That’s not mine,” I stuttered. “I’m just holding it for a friend.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, staring at the offending object disdainfully.
Without another word I snatched Clementine’s copy of Ok! Magazine out of her hands and shoved it back into the bag. This meant that Rob Pattinson (AKA “Edward”)’s sultry stare was now directed at the blue cheese, hummus and crackers, and not at all the curious people in line behind me. (His new placement was actually kind of oddly appropriate, since according to rumors, blue cheese and hummus is exactly what he smells like.)
Or at least that’s what I’ve heard. From Clementine. Who, as I’ve mentioned before, was the true owner of the magazine in question. But not, alas, the Tecates. Although I suppose that, as her mother, I could have blamed those on her, too. Or at least on Bigfoot. But then again, that probably wouldn’t have worked very well either. I mean, just look at him. Anyone with a mullet like that obviously drinks only PBR.