Goddamnit. I better have talent, because I sure don’t have the schmooze thing going for me.

Last night I performed in a fundraiser for John Kerry for President. It was a lot of fun. Anyway, I decided my wardrobe for the show would involve this T-shirt: (from which I have since cut the sleeves).

It being July and all, I walked to the show, through the streets of Cambridge without a jacket and my message clearly visible. One block from my house, a guy with a shopping cart asked me if I were a “Bush basher.” I said I was and he congratulated me and then muttered stuff under his breath about our Commander in Chief. I think the mutterings were negative, but who the fuck can tell. En route I got a couple of smiles and/or nods of, I assume, approval. I don’t actually know, since I was half happy to be marching around with “Fuck Bush” across my tits and half forgetting that I was wearing such a thing, tits or otherwise.

When I got to Mass. Ave., I crossed in Boston style–jaywalking diagonally as the cars stopped at red lights and got to the other side. A gray sedan of well-suited folks waved and rolled down their windows to shout their approvals. Right behind them, an SUV-ish mini-van kind of thing completely stopped. The rear door opened, and a man with red hair and a vaguely familiar look insisted on shaking the hand of the woman wearing that T-shirt. I crossed back into the street and gladly obliged. Then, an older gentleman in the front passenger seat also insisted on shaking my hand. He presented me with his baseball card It would seem, I shook the hand of the Speaker of the Tennessee House, because he ain’t voting for Bush.

Meanwhile, all night I was thinking the first guy looked a bit like Matthew Modine But, his age looked wrong, since I would have given him more than just a few years on me.

I also kept thinking about the character who commits suicide in An Officer and a Gentleman, who would be a few years older (50 to my 40).

Tonight, I flipped through boston.com’s DNC celebrity sightings. RIGHT THERE, there was THE MAN WHOSE HAND I HAD SHAKEN. WOO HOO.

A quick check of his bio on imdb.com and I learned he’s a native of Knoxville, TN. So, yeah, makes sense if he’s tooling around with the Tennessee pols.

Now, if I had an ounce of the self-promotion juice that fuels folks I see every week in comedy, I would have fucking jumped on that shit. I would have introduced myself, told them about the show I was about to enter, invited them in, guessed at David Keith’s fame and gotten myself a party invite leading to discovery as the fabulous raconteur I am. Connections, networking, fame.

Instead I chuckled to myself, turned around and entered the basement of a rundown bar to perform a little comedy. I guess the rub of celebrity brought a little luck, since the folks at the show seemed to be digging what I had to say and my set went smooth, like leather seats in a celeb-studded SUV.