WARNING: The following product of cerebral consideration was born as a consequence of a recent post concerning a national celebrity, the very paragon of a benevolent Philebrity and, perhaps, the ne plus ultra of a local success story. I’m not entirely certain that the following tale is 100% true, given that central events mentioned herein are twenty years old, but it makes for a damn good story.

An old girlfriend in Barcelona claims that I have a type – brunettes – and her coy derision in that regard has always been a matter of debate. Judging by the scorching beauty of the unfortunate soul who currently resides with yours truly, I must confess to be guilty as charged.

Walter Sobchak, a sage of the ages and lettered expert in cross-ethnic romantic catastrophe, vaguely alluded that the tenets of National Socialism were a matter of dubious substance. As a purebred Fenian myself, I would have to agree. I simply will not ride in the covered wagons of society, and be corralled around the fire of similarity. Staying with your own kind can lead to severe hip dysplasia, inflammatory distemper, and in the case of Irish Catholics, long nights in Old City with gaggles of women flinty beyond their years, and phalanxes of the untucked minions who love them.

After the jump, Conor’s curious tale continues.

Women of a Mediterranean provenance have long held a certain fascination for me. A friend from Los Angeles once justified his fascination with South Philly beauties on the basis that they were “doe eyed beauties who can’t chew with their mouths closed.” World class moxie coupled with local charm. Who could ask for anything more?

The first bit of innocent, graceful attention I ever received was at the age of 11 or 12, in the summers of the late 1980s. I was working as a lighting and sound grunt for the Summer Stage program at Upper Darby High School.

At the risk of being more insufferable than usual, I was a gregarious kid, and anxious to garner the attention of the cool kids in high school. I was geared towards the women, and this included a cauldron of Summer Stage girls around the age of 18 or 19, who allowed me to tag along as a bit of a mascot. Being that this was theatre and I doted on them, hugs and kisses abounded.

Ever since, I’ve always remembered one girl in particular. I never could remember much about her, other than she was of Italian or Greek extraction, with a scar on her cheek, and very sweet to me. At the conclusion of one magnificent day, as I headed out the door, she grabbed me and said “Give me a kiss.” To paraphrase Bill Cosby, I was only a gentleman, and so I had to oblige.

Never in the history of one young boy’s life has such swift, nonchalant innocence rendered such rapture.

And so here we are – some twenty years later. Once in a very, very blue moon, I fondly recall my time in that tremendously formative, community youth program, and with great affection. And, of course, my first experience of teenage affection. But her name has long since vanished from memory.

Some years ago, I sat in the writers’ room at Saturday Night Live for a taping. Billy Bob Thornton was the host, and SNL cast paraded through the hallways and into the room all evening. At some point, I passed Will Farrell and Tina Fey. I was introduced to them both, but it was like a quick hello at a wedding procession. No time to fawn or gush, let alone talk about our mutual hometown. And it just never occurred to me. Until 8 a.m. this morning.

On our beloved Philebrity, there’s a post about Ms. Fey, and this month’s Vanity Fair profile that revealed a tale about a feloniously delivered childhood scar, matched with a flattering photo of the same, on her cheek. Further research reveals that her formative years were also spent at Summer Stage.

And it hit me like a briny wave on a Jersey beach.

Hindsight in these matters is notoriously diluted by time, especially by two decades. And, I might add – to save my self-respect – the list is long and occasionally distinguished. So while I cannot be entirely certain, I suspect that I owe my friend in Barcelona an admission, to confirm that my type is rooted in a superlative foundation, indeed.

Here at Philebrity, we are no strangers to reaching for the telephone in a cold sweat, fingers trembling in fear, punching in a few numbers and asking as soon as someone answers, asking “Fuck! Are we gonna get sued for this?” Always, on the end of the other line is one Conor Corcoran, Esq., our resident go-to guy for all things scary and legal. Read more of his missives to Philebrity here.

This entry was posted on Thursday, December 4th, 2008 at 12:14 pm.