Was it really my name? Had I finally arrived after all these years?
I can tell you this. It’s been a wild 48 hours.
As luck would have it, I was surfing the web at the very moment the news hit. Shocking news. I sat dumbfounded for a moment trying to take it in.
Computer hackers broke into Paris Hilton’s electronic address book. They posted its contents on a web site.
Fingers trembling, I typed in the URL. In a flash I was there. Thank goodness for broadband. Yes! Her address book. Right there on the screen. Mama Mia! Names, phone numbers, e-maiil addresses. Hurriedly, I began scanning the list, hoping against hope.
Suddenly, the computer screen blinked. The list was gone. But just before the electrons flitted off to who knows where, I thought — just for an instant — I thought I saw my name.
Yes! Yours truly. My name. Right there in Paris Hilton’s T-Mobile Sidekick. My name, phone number, and e-mail address alongside those of movie stars, rock stars, porn kings, television producers, celebrity groupies, chihuahua breeders, pimps, talent agents, baseball stars, and minor members of Congress.
Could it be? Had I finally arrived after all these years? After all my sacrifices, my obsequious entreaties?
If one site with the address book had just been shut down, surely others would have it. I urgently surfed the net, looking, looking.
Then… Bingo! I found it again. I scrolled, I scrolled. Yes! There it was… No… Groan… It was gone. The dratted Secret Service, stifling freedom of speech once again. But I thought I saw it.
Then the reports began to come in to the chat groups. The Feds had stepped in with giant feet and drove the list underground. Search as I might, I couldn’t find it again.
That began the hardest part of my ordeal — the waiting.
If my name was on the list, along with my phone number and e-mail, it would be just a matter of time before my phone began ringing like crazy as people who had the list called. Maybe some would be cranks. But there was bound to be others who would offer me money, offer me a high paying job that didn’t require any work, ask for my autograph and pay for it.
The calls would become so bothersome that I would stop answering the phone and my voice mail would fill up. Maybe it would fill up so that it would knock out phone service to my neighborhood, maybe even my town.
My e-mail in box would fill up with messages from people who wanted to offer me high paying jobs that didn’t require any work. Maybe they would want my advice. Perhaps they would be lonely and just want some encouragement, learn how I managed to get myself into Paris’ address book. Maybe I would get so much e-mail that my Internet service provider’s computers would crash. That would be thrilling.
But, alas, silence. No phone ringing. No “ka-ching” sound from my e-mail program each time a new message arrived.
The hours ticked by. I sat at my desk. I lay on the floor with a cold cloth on my brow. So as not to miss anything, I brought a full box of Cheerios and a gallon of milk upstairs to my office. I dozed.
Periodically, I would use all my search engine boolean query skills to search for Paris’ address book. Surely, far off in some dark corner of the Internet someone had it posted and the Secret Service guard dogs had missed it.
More time passed. I slept fitfully on the floor. Occasionally a “ka-ching” from spam would rouse me. No thank you, I don’t wish to purchase discount Viagra.
Eventually, disappointment set in. Then despair. No calls. No e-mail. I needed a shower. I needed some sleep in a bed. I needed a hot meal.
At the 48-hour mark. I rose from my prone position on the floor, slammed my fist down hard on the desk in anger and frustration, and brought my vigil to an end.
I faced up to the truth.
I’m not in Paris Hilton’s address book.