The Willow Glen Resident

Why don't stars spot me?

By Mary Ann Cook

I'm always amazed when celebrities don't recognize me. After all, I know them. It's quite a shock, actually. And it usually takes a significant lump of time before I realize that no matter how long I stand in front of them blocking their exit, they still won't acknowledge our friendship. Considerable time passes before it dawns on me that my recognition caliber isn't anything like theirs.

Because of this time interval thing, I've been known to blurt out invitations before the dull fact sinks in that these people don't know me from a load of wood. Or hay. Or anything else organic and portable.

I once asked tennis star Ken Rosewall and his wife to join us for bridge. I thought he was someone I knew well, since his face was so familiar and I saw him so often. I just didn't realize the viewing was over the ether, not in the flesh. Of course I couldn't think of his name, which might have helped curb this excess of sociability. Or maybe not.

At any rate, his response to the invitation was to murmur something I couldn't make out, but it was obviously not an assent. I thought it strange that he was that distant, that inaccessible. It wasn't until a few yards later that I realized my mistake. We were staying at a New England resort: he was the sponsor of the tennis program there. So eventually I spotted his name on something waving in the wind, or I might still be harboring resentment about what a disdainful acquaintance what's-his-name was. 'Twas decidedly a jolt that he didn't know me, even by my backhand.

Since TV makes so many people instantly recognizable, it's hard to accept the fact that this isn't a two-way street. When you've spotted a celebrity whose name you can remember, it's even more challenging. The satisfaction of recognizing a face and putting a name to it is so strong, it's hard not to be imbecilic about your achievement.

I said a hearty hello to Barbara Walters and was shocked to get a tepid response. I asked Bob Newhart how he was doing, and he looked pained. But my closest call was in a boutique in Menlo Park. I spotted someone I knew, hadn't seen since childhood, and was overcome, basking in the warmth of remembrance. An alert friend was barely able to restrain me from embracing Shirley Temple Black. I still think she might have remembered me.

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