Despite my work in the high-power field of college journalism, I have only a few encounters… Despite my work in the high-power field of college journalism, I have only a few encounters with politically powerful people to brag to the folks back home about.

One of those few was an interview with liberal humorist Al Franken. This was nerve wracking because Franken is my personal hero. The interview appeared in The Pitt News in February 2004, and was edited to remove my utterances of, “Um uh um,” “Can I start that question over again?” and “Uh, Mr. Franken, I think I just crapped my pants.”

During my internship at the Bloomfield/Garfield Development Corporation, Sen. Rick Santorum, R-Pa., visited the group’s office to discuss their plans to economically revive Pittsburgh’s Hill District. Santorum was then under pressure for his offensive, ridiculous and really, really creepy comments comparing homosexuality to bestiality.

I looked forward to meeting Santorum, and, in a move of solidarity with the gay community, swiftly grabbing the stiff-necked senator’s ass just to freak him out.

But my boss, knowing my political views and sense of humor, expected such a stunt. She ordered me to stay at the group’s youth center down the street for the duration of Santorum’s visit.

“Here’s a juice box and some Spider-Man comics,” she said. “We’ll call you when we need you.”

Months later, I actually met a U.S. senator in a chance encounter in an Arizona airport. And it was a respectable senator, too!

My girlfriend and I were walking to our gate when we saw a familiar-looking, white-haired man moving away from us on the automated walkway.

I turned to my girlfriend and asked, “Is that John McCain?”

It was indeed Sen. McCain, R-Ariz., known for stepping outside of party lines and irking his peers with legislation that tightened-up campaign finance laws. McCain’s maverick style and impeccable integrity make him the only Republican I would ever support for president, excluding the reanimated corpse of Dwight D. Eisenhower.

My girlfriend and I turned around and briskly followed McCain. We found that, despite all of the harsh homeland security measures implemented in the last three years, two people can freely stalk a U.S. senator through an airport terminal.

We met McCain, and he was as polite and gracious as I imagined.

“Where are you from?” he asked. “Oh, Pennsylvania. That’s a beautiful state.”

An aide motioned for McCain to come along to catch their flight. My girlfriend and walked to our gate, as I giggled about McCain like a 1964 schoolgirl who had just run into Paul McCartney.

My reaction led me to wonder: Why is it so exciting to meet a famous person? Why have I told every person I know my Franken, Santorum and McCain stories?

Perhaps my enthusiasm to meet Franken and McCain grew out of admiration for both men. But even encounters with minor celebrities thrill people.

I know a woman who brags about having a beer with Arlo Guthrie, the semi-talented son of legendary folk-singer Woody Guthrie; a high school art teacher whose desk bares an autographed picture of former “Total Request Live” host and massive tool Carson Daly; and a girl who glows when she recounts her meeting with John “Uncle Jesse” Stamos. Contact with the semi-famous brings a degree of euphoria that usually comes about only with the help of drugs associated with rave culture.

Here’s my theory: We live in a world dominated by sitcoms, Hollywood movies and high-cost political campaigns. A strange, seemingly untouchable web of celebrity hype surrounds us and, when we touch it, we feel less small, insignificant and cut-off from the segment of the population who really matter. Meeting somewhat important people makes us feel somewhat important.

The pure physicality of being in the same room as a powerful person reminds us that we live in the same world as they do. Why couldn’t we rise to the same stature?

For the brief, surreal moment in which John McCain and I stood in each other’s glances, the world of national politics did not seem so abstract to me. I imagined I too could be elected to the U.S. senate. I would propose important legislation, hobnob in the halls of power and get another chance to grab me a handful of Rick Santorum’s squiggly little butt cheeks.

E-mail Nick Keppler at [email protected].