At any rate, things got so desperate that I eventually found myself trolling outside of Pulse’s Chicago avenue offices, trying to catch a glimpse of riotous Senior Editor Frank Fuller. When that proved fruitless –I still have no idea what Fuller even looks like—I did what I always do when I’m feeling hopeless and miserable: I went looking for the biggest game on Budd Rugg’s list, the one celebrity in these towns whose star power is so awesome that I can’t even read her column without the backs of my trembling hands breaking out in fat beads of sweat –My God! The glamorous life of Skyway News society columnist Margot Siegel! Every time I even think of her I practically retch with envy! Slim chance, of course, that I’m going to bump into Dame Margot with every planet and star in the sky aligned against me, and I ended up at the downtown public library catching up instead on James Lileks through his exhaustive and wonderfully generous web page (www.lileks.com), "The Daily Bleat." Daily journal entries, novel excerpts, travelogues, photos of his wife and dog, as well as a sampling of photos of James himself (as one more indication of how cursed this summer has been for Budd Rugg, I learned that I apparently recently missed a snapshot of James in a snug Speedo, on a beach somewhere in Mexico). It’s like a one-man Tiger Beat. If only all of my local media dream friends (that’s a hint Garvin Snell! Hello Kristin Tillotson!) could be as considerate and giving in allowing their fans such full and completely gratuitous access to their private lives! Bless you, James r Lileks, you brave and shameless man!

An innocent-enough Brian Lambert sighting in Edina –of all things—finally ended my slump. I was getting gas at the Amoco at 50^th and France when I spied Lambert, looking jaunty in a bright color-coordinated ensemble of black slacks and matching tropical blue socks and shirt, hustling west along 50^th. I immediately abandoned my car and scurried across the intersection, but in the instant it took me to cross the street Lambert appeared to have disappeared. I desperately searched for him in the various shops and restaurants along the block, but to no avail. So certain was I that he had ducked into the D’Amico brothers restaurant on the corner that I even looked for him in the men’s room there. "Did Brian Lambert just come in here?" I breathlessly asked the young woman behind the counter. "Excuse me?" she said. Despite the disappointment, the Lambert sighting was a lucky harbinger of sorts, because when I returned home an hour or so later there was a message on my answering machine from a friend. It seemed a woman of said friend’s acquaintance worked at a local animal shelter and was going to be taking some death row strays up to visit Paul Douglas on the roof for WCCO’s 10 p.m. newscast. Any chance Budd Rugg would care to tag along as a dog handler? "ARE YOU KIDDING?" I shrieked into the phone an instant later. "I will kill you if you’re putting me on!" It was no joke, and after several hours of trying on every outfit in my sad little wardrobe I had finally settled on an all-white sort of athletic/aquatic get-up –recreational therapist on a cruise ship meets nursing home boy nanny, Budd Rugg. I swallowed a handful of Valerian and set out to meet the animal shelter woman in Golden Valley. Suffice it to say that the rest of the evening was an absolute anxiety blackout. The three dogs were wonderfully cooperative little angels, but poor Budd Rugg was a complete nervous wreck. I’m sure the two women who accompanied me were mortified by my behavior, but I couldn’t help myself. By the time we made it to the WCCO studios I had sweated right through my white outfit, and was horrified to see that my nipples were clearly visible even in the dark reflection from the street front windows. I frankly don’t remember much else, other than that I was dry heaving in the elevator on the way up to the roof, and actually, I think, spit up a little nervous bile in some bushes that had probably been planted by Rebecca Kolls. I had my mother tape the appearance, and if not for the existence of that tape I would likely have no recollection of the experience at all. I have watched that very brief segment at least fifty times now, and I have only recently made my peace with it. There I was –perhaps you will remember it—rigid and wide-eyed and gleaming with sweat, crouched next to one of the dogs and clutching it like it was the only thing saving me from drowning. The truth was that dog was the only thing preventing me from taking a flying leap off the roof. On the tape you can actually see that the poor dog in my arms is terrified and squirming. Paul gave us the briefest of attention –a mention I believe of some dog walk for charity—and with the exception of a quick pat on my dog’s head he wisely ignored me altogether and addressed himself entirely to the two women. As awful and traumatic as the experience was, I nonetheless cannot deny that I consider it to have been one of the true highlights of my life, and celebrated the next evening by taking my dear mother to dinner at the fabulous Rain Forest Café.

THE OCCASIONS ON which I manage to creep out even myself are exceedingly rare, but I must confess that I have been somewhat chilled by an unconscious little habit of appropriating celebrity damage which I seem to have developed in the last year or so. It all started about the time of Diana Pierce’s equine misfortunes, when I found myself calling into work sick one day and, before I even realized what I was saying, telling my boss that I had been injured in a fall from a horse. It was one of those embarrassing little lies that required another elaborate succession of lies to cover-up. I had to purchase one of those bulky and hideous cervical collars and wear it at work for several weeks, and the questions prompted by its appearance meant that I had to repeat the initial lie –that I had fallen from a horse—dozens of times a day until I actually began to believe it. I thought I had learned my lesson until last week, when a friend called complaining that he hadn’t seen me around for weeks and wondering where I had been. Let me just admit that my listener couldn’t have been more astonished than yours truly when he heard Budd Rugg claiming that he had been laid up from a terrible rollerblading injury, just like thin-skinned super pro Neal Karlen! I actually heard myself repeating all the details of Karlen’s tragic story –exactly as I had read them in C.J.—and claiming them as my own experience! How strange!

POOR BUDD RUGG is so far out of the loop that he was apparently the last person on the planet to realize that aging, rat-faced Pioneer Press cutie Joe Soucheray had basically given up his storied career in journalism to become the mayor of an imaginary little hillbilly village, where he hosts a radio show and crazy old men call in every day and bitch about taxes! It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard in my life! Every time I listen in I’m reminded of my own wonderful and lonely childhood, where I had my very own town in my backyard –Ruggville. Every afternoon in the summertime little Mayor Budd Rugg –Boy Caesar, actually, would be more like it-- would make an appearance at the Ruggville community stage, entertaining all the little neighborhood girls with, say, a ball routine to Styx’s "Miss America" or a roaring medley from "Paint Your Wagon," all while under constant siege from apple-chucking bullies who rode their stingrays from blocks around. BUDD RUGG HAS heard that Eric Eskola has finally broken down and purchased his first pair of loafers. Yours truly recently spied dear Eric, sporting a full-length yellow rain slicker, hustling along in the rain, looking for all the world like a man late for school patrol duty.

FINALLY, PLEASE, I beseech you: send any and all media sightings, gossips, slander, innuendo, and speculation to your lonely friend Budd Rugg, care of BuddRugg@cursor.org

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