Michael Showalter stared me down
Sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, we happen upon a celebrity or pseudo-celebrity in the wild. Removed from the pedestal of the screen, big or small, or stage, these larger than life living stories almost become human. Quite possibly for long enough to weird you right the fuck out.
As an adorer of “The State” and its members, I love Michael Showalter. But, for the purpose of backstory and stage-setting, I must admit that, seven or eight years ago, I really loved Michael Showalter. It was a strange period of time where I had broken up with my boyfriend, now husband, yet again and was fully in the throes of a kind of co-dependent near-psychosis that meant I was ready to move to New York and become a stand-up. It was, like, an official decision, and I had even applied to and was *certain* I was about to be hired by Best Week Ever. So, this combination of 22-year-old confidence and total delusion, which are not wholly dissimilar things, coupled with that equally strange period in social media, known as The MySpace Years, when we all truly, for the first time, felt a connection with celebrities, that by regularly commenting on their pages and blogs, we played some role in their lives, I not only loved Michael Showalter, but was pretty certain he dug me, too. Not *in that way* mind you, I wasn’t completely gone. But I could imagine a world where he had smiled once or twice at my comments and would totally know who I was if I ran into him at a Park Slope Starbucks or something.