[1] http://www.thestate.com/mld/thestate/news/local/13265919.htm

Bill Cosby’s on-screen wife, better known as Claire Huxtable (whose real name is Phylicia Rashad), came to Columbia to speak at a black-tie, $75-per-ticket fund raising affair. (See the link in the title for the article by The State.) But that’s not what’s important. I wasn’t there.

I was, importantly, with [2] my honey at IHOP at 01:00 in the morning and saw that the woman we all thought of as our second mom was sitting, eating, and not signing autographs or giving out hugs to all the children she and Dr. Huxtable helped raise (you know, along with Sondra, Denise, Theo, Vanessa, Rudy, and all the rest of the American children of the ’80s with televisions). I attempted—and failed—to control the urge to turn the full 180° in my seat to peer over at her like some jerk who’s never seen a celebrity interrupt Columbia-life before. Forget that, never seen a celebrity interrupt South Carolina-life before! It was surreal.

(Well, it was also surreal because two out of the three girls that we sat with that night [”we totally crashed their party”—sem*] I had flirted with before meeting my now-girlfriend. [Oh, and one of them was married. I didn’t know it at the time!] Turns out they were all friends from back-when. Man. Small world doesn’t even begin to cover it.)

[3] http://www.thestate.com/mld/thestate/news/local/13265919.htm

Bill Cosby’s on-screen wife, better known as Claire Huxtable (whose real name is Phylicia Rashad), came to Columbia to speak at a black-tie, $75-per-ticket fund raising affair. (See the link in the title for the article by The State.) But that’s not what’s important. I wasn’t there.

I was, importantly, with [4] my honey at IHOP at 01:00 in the morning and saw that the woman we all thought of as our second mom was sitting, eating, and not signing autographs or giving out hugs to all the children she and Dr. Huxtable helped raise (you know, along with Sondra, Denise, Theo, Vanessa, Rudy, and all the rest of the American children of the ’80s with televisions). I attempted—and failed—to control the urge to turn the full 180° in my seat to peer over at her like some jerk who’s never seen a celebrity interrupt Columbia-life before. Forget that, never seen a celebrity interrupt South Carolina-life before! It was surreal.

(Well, it was also surreal because two out of the three girls that we sat with that night [”we totally crashed their party”—sem*] I had flirted with before meeting my now-girlfriend. [Oh, and one of them was married. I didn’t know it at the time!] Turns out they were all friends from back-when. Man. Small world doesn’t even begin to cover it.)