My name and office number came up in the fine print on every single url the Walt Disney Company owned. Thousands of websites. My phone was forever ringing with people really mad about something or other. Once back in the mid nineties J Lo’s publicist called me. I’m sorry, I said, who? J Lo, he said. I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with the name. I was extremely polite about it. It didn’t help. Her publicist could not believe that I did not know who J Lo was. He took it as a personal affront. He screamed. He ranted. He threw a really spectacular New York City hissy fit. She had just been on TV, he said. You do watch TV, don’t you? I lied. No I didn’t, I said, I couldn’t, because my television had busted. You could almost hear his eyes roll three thousand miles away. Maybe you should buy a new one he hissed and slammed down the phone.

I had no idea what the call was for. I turned to the lady next to me. Who is J Lo? Jennifer Lopez, she said. Who? With the big culo, she said. Oh, her. Why didn’t he say so?