David Lynch was at the Virgin Megastore in SF recently, signing Inland Empire DVDs for those in need of a Lynchian fix. Dude can be such the showman; when he got wind of a $2.8 million Oscar publicity campaign for an actress last year, he lost his lid. So homes sat at a busy intersection with a real, live COW to generate buzz about Laura Dern’s performance in his own film. Said Lynch, “Academy members love show business, and this is show business, being out with the cow.” As that ultra-nerd in Superbad exclaims after firing a cop’s piece at a flaming cruiser… “tight.”

Speaking of autographs, there are a few memorable tales of John Hancock-seeking from my maelstrom-like past.

Noteworthy is the time my three older brothers and I hounded Conan-era Schwarzenegger ‘round every square-inch of an airport. But he was with that Kennedy broad and kept giving our little Jewish quartet the air. (Not a surprise. Mr. Muscles is Austrian.)

Fast-forward years later: this same foursome of siblings crossed paths with Doobie Brother Michael McDonald in yet another airport. I believe one of us scored his signature. McDonald brings the love.

But nothing beats “The Weaver.” It was 1986 and my obnoxious friend Jason Conley’s birthday. So his mom took Jason and his posse to lunch at Pedro’s, a swank Mexican restaurant that once stood at the Stanford Shopping Center in Shallow Alto, CA.

The lads were enjoying every bit of the grub when it became evident a Tinseltown starlet was in our midst: Sigourney “Ripley” Weaver. We decided that Conley must have her autograph as a present.

Our pal Danny Weinshenker (AKA Shenk) got a pen and rose from his chair, ready to hit up Weaver’s table of three. (The others were absolute nobodies.) Nearby, a picture-perfect Pee-Wee Herman impersonator was rocking his schtick for another b-day party in the joint. An odd tableaux to background the moment in which I wrangled the courage to join Shenk.

As the two of us neared her table, Weaver made eye contact with Shenk. She was far from psyched yet he asked anyway, “It’s our buddy’s birthday and he’d totally like your autograph.”

She frowned a barely audible, “No.” Guess she didn’t see us as two young Bill Paxtons. What an arrogant dish. Crestfallen, we retreated and with regret, recanted the grim tidings to our bummed table.

Bit later, a savvy couple with an adorable little three-year old boy was hit with the same starfucker bug. They wisely deployed the little tyke solo to get her ‘graph. Our table watched the impossible transpire: Weaver smiled, laughed, and gave the kid the goods.

Unjust.

Shenk and I jettisoned from our seats and returned to Weaver. Guilt spread across that famous face. “Thanks a lot,” stated Shenk as he solemnly gestured to the boy’s table. He turned and walked back. I followed.

“Wait!” exclaimed Weaver.

“Naw,” muttered Shenk. “Forget it.”

So top-shelf. Back at the table, we all had a hoot about how Shenk got the best of Weaver.

By the end of our meal, a bloke who was lunching with her came over to us. “Whose birthday is it?” he asked. He then issued Conley a Pedro’s napkin with Weaver’s birthday wishes and signature. A first rate job.

Then he got preachy, “We were eating, and it’s not polite….” Yeah, yeah. Weaver and co. are bitches.

But Conley got the prize, which he tacked to his bedroom wall for a great deal of time. I told him I was writing about this event, and asked him to scan the Pedro’s napkin for an image, but he couldn’t find the thing. So it goes with ephemera. If he does track it down, I’ll plug it in here fo’ sure.

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