After I moved from Chicago to Burbank, California, friends from home would constantly inquire, “Met any movie stars yet?” as if around any corner, I’d bump into Cameron Diaz or Richard Gere. I didn’t. My only connection to the celebrity world was an older woman in my water aerobics class who confided to me that she’d once made out with Jerry Lewis.
It could. Dreamworks called to tell me a second day had been added to my junket for a press conference with Paul Newman.
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My mother gasped loudly into the phone, followed by a string of “no”s. When she recovered she said, “You gotta get his autograph for your godmother.” I was struck by her magnanimity. Usually these requests are more personal and involve me as her personal emissary–stuff like “Tell Johnny Depp that your mother really likes him. It’ll make him feel good to know that the older generation likes him.” I remind mom it’s a press conference. I’ll be competing with a hundred other journalists. If I say anything at all I’ll be lucky. And if I get close enough to look into those baby blues, I’ll probably be dreaming.
When I lived in Chicago, Lana was my official movie buddy, so it makes sense that she be my guest at the premiere. After work, she meets me at the Ritz, where we board a tour bus for the ride to the Chicago Theatre.
We take our seats and soon get a close look as Hanks strolls down the aisle with his wife, Rita Wilson. Sitting nearby are Bonnie Hunt, Anne Archer, Joe Mantegna, the father-son producer team of Richard and Dean Zanuck, and Illinois’ first lady, Lura Lynn Ryan.
“Awww,” says Hanks.
