For Amos I am Eternally Thankful

I’ve had a fair amount of encounters with celebrities that people don’t often think about. I bumped into Jeff Garlin in a Las Vegas hallway once and he screamed at me but then smiled and patted my back. I’ll bet you haven’t thought about Jeff Garlin in a while. And, unless you’re some sort of fucked-up weirdo, you probably haven’t thought about Wally Amos in a while. In fact, I’ll bet cock-shots to cookies you don’t know who I’m talking about. Perhaps I should now employ the one word that defines all celebrities in order to jog your brittle, incapable brain to memory. FAMOUS.

Fuck yeah. Famous Amos. Of the cookies, the same. ‘Twas shortly after moving into the dorms back in freshman year of college, those golden days before things like the iPhone, Facebook, and, uh, 9/11, I guess. Anyway, I had been made aware that dormmate and potential new friend Sarah down the hall was the daughter of Mr. Amos and, presumably, heiress to a substantial cookie-based fortune. But I was not prepared for the day I would see Sarah leading a kind-looking man with big eyeglasses and a watermelon-shaped hat (I am not making this up; check Google Images he wears it all the time) down the hall past my room.

“Hey, Sarah.”
“Hey, uh… you. This is my dad, Wally Amos.”
“I just shat myself. Wally Amos?”
“Good to meet you, son.”
“Pleasure to meet you as well, cookies- I mean, Mr. Amos. Give me some cookies.”
“Now where is your room?”
“Uh, right here, sir.”

I opened the door to show him my room, which at that time was a shrine to movie posters and my high-school girlfriend. I pointed at the objets d’intereste in the room as I casually noted that no cookies were strewn about the room, indicating of course that perhaps the man should give me some cookies and go. Mr. Amos had a good look at the place, shook my hand and did not put cookies into it, and left. Although I enjoyed meeting the man, perhaps you can guess I kind of wanted some cookies.

Holy fuck. That very night, Sarah was hanging out in her room and munching from a GIANT FUCKING BAG of irregular tossaway Famous Amos cookies. The kind that you don’t get to see in stores. The…. Deleted Scenes of the cookie world. I began to drool. She offered me some of the cookies and said her father tends to send her several pounds of the cookies from time to time. I forgot about my own father who, at best, would occasionally send me the latest sale information on new and used Hondas, and imagined for a good amount of time that I was raised by Famous Amos. Of COURSE I imagined it in the voice of Garrison Keillor.

Summers were warm in Hawaii, but away from the hustle-bustle of the tourist alleys and sexy beaches, things were simpler. My father would come home from a long day, smelling of cookies and fine cigars (from the constant celebrating), hang his watermelon near the door and gather us ‘round for a story or two. We weren’t rich, we weren’t poor, but there were always bounteous misshapen cookies to eat, and for this we were thankful. For this we were thankful.