United for Equality; Separated by Police Escort.

I don't get too worked up about the prospect of meeting famous people. I don't hound them for autographs. I don't wait in crowds behind theaters and arenas hoping to catch a glimpse or snap a photo. For heaven's sake, I felt nothing but guilt over trying to get a snapshot of Cyndi Lauper recently, and when the images didn't turn out, I thought: "Serves me right."

Let them be famous and worlds apart from me. Let them be extraordinary, in my mind, to a degree only I can know. And let them live their real lives without me. They are the performers. I am the audience. Let us not break this sacred boundary.

So it is a particular irony that my first interaction with Broadway phenom Idina Menzel was not only a complete fiction, but also an unfortunate and unpleasant experience involving the NYPD that I hope never to repeat again in my life.

I have never seen Wicked, but I own the soundtrack. I saw the movie version of Rent. Didn't care for it. A lot of people whining about the consequences of the bad decisions they've made, I think. But I guess I admire Ms. Menzel, and enjoy her work. A fan? Eh... not really. She was the headline performer at last night's annual NYC Gay Pride pier dance, where I was a volunteer. And truth be told, I was more looking forward to the fireworks than her techno remix of "Defying Gravity," but after seeing her sound check earlier in the day, I could admit to having a mild curiosity to see her performance.

Once again, my rugby teammates and I were bartending for the slick, gyrating masses of manflesh that make up the pier dance. On my way to the volunteer port-a-johns toward the end of the night, I ran into a crowd behind the main stage area, just a few tents down from ours. I tried to skirt around the edge of the crowd near the fence, and someone from behind me grabbed my arm just above the elbow and yanked me violently backward. I assumed it was just someone telling me that I couldn't go past that point for some reason, so I shook off the hand and stepped backward, with my hands out, trying to see what was going on. "Whoa! OK. No trouble. I can wait."

"What do you want to do with him?" I heard someone say.

I had my volunteer shirt on, and my credentials on me. Whatever was happening, I assumed I could just wait it out. At least they knew I belonged there.

But suddenly I was aware that I was being surrounded.

"He's out of here," said someone else.

Two police officers snapped to attention and guided me away by the arms. They marched me past my team's tent. A few of them saw me being led away, but the cops wouldn't let me stop to tell anyone what was happening. They were not rough, but they were direct and very clear about me moving along. I still had no idea what had just happened. And I still had to piss like a racehorse. So I asked them to explain.

"The head of security saw you," said one of them.

"Saw me?" I said. "I don't even know what it is that I've done. Can you at least explain to me what's happening?"

"He saw you go right for the talent," said the other one.

There had been volunteers and security folk and cops all around — as there had been all over the pier all night long — and there was no one turning people away or stopping anyone from passing. A slip in security allowed me unwittingly too close for comfort, and now it looked like someone was overcompensating for his error by making a spectacle of kicking me out. Maybe the security folks were starstruck, themselves.

"OK," I said. "I'm not going to try arguing. Clearly I'm out of here no matter what. But I have to tell you, I was just walking to the bathroom. I swear I didn't even know she was there. I didn't even see her. I don't understand how this is even happening."

One of the officers, perhaps beginning to believe me, explained to me that it didn't matter if I had done something wrong or not. The head of security wanted me out of there, so they were obligated to take me out of there. End of story.

"You're seriously telling me that I need to be escorted out of here like this?" I said. "I need to completely leave the pier?"

Yes. I did.

They walked me to the front gate. They allowed me to get my bag from the volunteer bag check. They made a guard cut off my wristband and said that I was not to be admitted back in. The whole thing was very humiliating and confusing. So I walked off down 14th street, ripped off my bar crew badge, stripped off my volunteer t-shirt and dropped it into a trash can.

I won't speak ill of Heritage of Pride as a whole. I know they're very careful and serious about safety. And they do a phenomenal job of organizing and coordinating the volunteers. But clearly some of the volunteers can be a little overzealous. I felt a lot better after speaking the next day to the volunteer coordinator, a very nice man, who asked me a lot of good questions and made sure he got the story straight before he apologizing and saying it shouldn't have happened. He was surprised that there was no first warning. My first indication that I was in the wrong place was being yanked out my skin.

I never even laid eyes on Ms. Menzel, let alone a hand. I didn't even get a chance to see who this security guy was. And perhaps the worst part of it is I still had to pee. Badly. So I high-tailed it to a bar nearby and answered nature's subtle call. I couldn't make out Ms. Menzel's voice from across the West Side Highway, but the fireworks were not half bad. Then I met my boyfriend and got roaring drunk.

Solstice

Today is the first day of summer, the longest day of the year, but you'd hardly know it. It doesn't feel much like summer. New York has been blessed with a mild spring this year. I desperately hope the lower temperatures continue.

It is the summer solstice. Basically, it all has to do with the position of the sun — which is way over my head. And everyone else's too. (Heh heh... get it?) Twice a year, the sun's path around the earth is the farthest north or south it can get from the Equator. On June 21, the North Pole is tilted toward the sun. Six months hence, on the winter solstice (to us Northern Hemisphere folk), the South Pole will be tilted toward the Sun. On the first day of summer, everywhere north of the Arctic Circle has 24 hours of sunlight, and the length of day at all places north of the Equator is more than 12 hours.

It amazes me to think how much of human belief has been shaped by the length of a day. It's all down to the accidental 23.45° tilt of Earth's axis, and its distance from the sun. One or two degrees in either direction, and the whole of human existence could have developed completely differently.

Who knows: If we were tilted a bit further, the polar ice caps would be bigger, we'd all be a little cooler year-round, sleep patterns would be different, biological rhythms would all be different.

We seem to make a bigger fuss over marking the winter solstice. Winter celebrations predate agriculture. As winter approached and the days grew shorter and the temperature dropped, and plants, animals and people began to die all around, I can see how ancient people might have been afraid that the sun was disappearing and not coming back. I'd do whatever I could do to get it to come back. Apparently, they lit bonfires and had big parties and built religions. (Today, rather than lighting bonfires, we risk housefires and death by electrifying evergreen shrubbery.) This in turn led to the founding of civilizations and nations and economic systems and flying to the moon and realizing that the whole thing is actually not managed by a guy in a glowing horse-drawn carriage.

My hat's off to those weirdos who counted the as-yet-undefined units of time between sunrise and sunset, and to all those who broke their backs hauling enormous stones and such just to tell time and mark dates. It's so easy for us now that they've done all the work.

Little Miss Jocelyn

Besides the rugby jerseys I asked a friend of mine to pick up during a recent trip to London, he scored a little jewel of British comedy on DVD to share: Little Miss Jocelyn. We recently spun through Season 1 over a couple pitchers of guavaberry piña coladas and a plate full of Banbury cakes. (Mmmm... Butter! Sugar! Currants!)

It's a recurring-character sketch comedy show, written by and starring Jocelyn Jee Esien, that aired on the BBC in 2006. It's over a year old across the Atlantic but relatively unknown here in the States. Esein was one of the performers in a hidden-camera stunt show called 3 Non-Blondes. Here she is in some sketches. (That series also featured Tameka Empson, who played the Mama Cass-obsessed neighbor in the coming-out-story charmer Beautiful Thing.")

She's a little French and Saunders and a little Little Britain and a little Dave Chappelle. The show has the added distinction, I have also learned, of being the first of its kind in either the United States or the UK to be written by and to star a black female comedian.

My favorite characters:

• Madam President, the first Black female President of the United States, looking eerily like an austere Condoleezza Rice, who answers questions from the press with a string of quotations from reductive and vaguely exploitive African-American cultural references.
  
• Florence, the overweight weight-loss nurse who treats her patients with ridiculous voodoo cures, always telling them they are beyond hope and "this is your last appointment." She spits on their paperwork to punctuate some sort of hex and chases them out of her office, calling after them "Save yourself! Save yourself!"
  
• Fiona, the only black woman in a typical office setting where she does some sort of typical office job. She is convinced that no one knows she is black, and she goes to such lengths to keep her "secret" that she lashes out at all other black people she interacts with, bringing herself to the point of nausea, tossing out horrifically racist accusations, which she reduces to politically correct euphemisms when she thinks she might be overheard. This clip features hottie British actor O.T. Fagbenle.
  
• Helen, perhaps my favorite, who appears normal by all accounts until she suddenly drops to the floor or the sidewalk and begins dragging her butt along the ground. She looks up at her incredulous companions or astonished strangers and shrugs, "I've got worms."
  
• Sheson, a bus driver whose Nigerian-flavored Cockney accent betrays her attempts to learn English in a pub. She sings hymns while driving and berates riders for standing too close or asking for directions — or ringing the bell to request a stop. "I'm not an A to Zed!" she'll say. She berates a gay couple who boards the bus in one sketch for not saying thank you. "'Eh!" she calls. "Sodom and Gomorrah!"
  
• Lillian, the territorial hairdresser, whose salon is across the street from a bitter rival. One often visits the other to start a hairdo duel, which always ends in a spaghetti western style, revealing their customers' overwrought hairstyles as if they're drawing their weapons. Lillian always wins, causing her rival to choke back shock and curse her until they meet again.
  
• Jiffy, a Nigerian immigrant who works as an overzealous parking attendant so desperate to be seen as a loyal subject of Queen Elizabeth II that she constantly reminds the recipients of her many parking tickets that she works "for queen and country." She wears huge swaths of bright blue eye shadow and an oversized uniform, and her officer's cap sits jauntily to the side of her afro. She sometimes shows up in unexpected places, such as the screen of an ATM or the glove box of a parked car, to issue guerilla tickets.
  
• Julia, whose social awkwardness causes her to behave in wildly inappropriate ways in serious situations, totally ruining the moment — licking the face of her friend's mother at her husband's funeral or biting her brand-new boss on the nose.

Esien is of Nigerian heritage, and most of the sketches clearly seem to poke fun at Nigerian immigrants. I'm not sure many American comics could get away with the tricks she pulls. Diaspora comedy like hers treads a delicate border. The self deprecation is so obvious and obscene, she's as much making fun of the people who uncomfortably laugh at it (e.g., me) as she is the cultural establishment that led to the creation of the stereotypes she is lampooning. Laughing at myself rarely feels so good.

Paris Hilton: Not Even Interesting Enough to Make Me Sick

Paris Hilton is sent back to jail screaming, weeping and wailing, and calling for mommy.

I detest her and her ridiculous attitude of special privilege. She's so boring. Yawn. Seriously. To quote from one of the greats, Cher: "You're not even interesting enough to make me sick."

The only notable aspect about the media frenzy over this, I think, is that unlike the O.J. case, where there was a real, dramatic murder investigation and trial that turned into a media farce — who can ever forget the aerial shots of that white bronco? or of course the dancing Itos? — this is petty and stupid on its face from the very beginning, and all the coverage is centering on her idiotic and childish behavior. Bravo, I guess. But again: Who cares?

She's not even acting like a rich, spoiled 26-year-old. She's acting simply like any tedious 6-year-old. She's a total psychological retard. If this is what immense wealth and a life lived without consequences brings to you, then I'm glad I'm solidly middle class with little hope of ever raising my tax bracket.