I must (gulping air) see Clooney

George Clooney's latest movie, “Up in the Air,” is getting a lot of attention — Golden Globe awards, chatter from the Sundance festival folks and much buzz about the ever-coveted Oscar.

Of course, like many other women on the planet, I would give George an Academy Award for trimming his fingernails or perhaps showing off his stamp collection. But if he's made a truly praiseworthy film, then all the more reason for us to focus on him.

Seriously, Nebraskans should be excited about this film and its success because part of it was filmed right here in Omaha. I'm quite certain that with George on screen, not one woman, and probably very few men, will ever notice a single Omaha landmark or identifying feature, but at least we can boast among ourselves that George came here to make his big hit.

And I can personally attest to this.

I had just arrived at the Omaha airport last April. It was my first trip to Nebraska, so you can imagine my curiosity at things like the Omaha Steak kiosk just 40 yards outside the gate, the glossy photos of Warren Buffett around the terminal, and Huskers paraphernalia everywhere.

Then I headed downstairs to the rental car counter, where I got in line with everyone else while checking for tornado warnings on my cell phone. I was here to interview for a professor position at Wayne State College, and I was absolutely certain I would encounter a funnel cloud between Omaha and Wayne, my rental car spinning Wizard-of-Oz-like over the cornfields. I was very excited about the college opportunity, but I was not so sure about the whole Nebraska part of it. Most people on the West Coast mistakenly believe that all Midwesterners do is hide in their basements from twisters and grow a lot of corn.

Then I thought I heard the rental car agent say to a woman a few spots ahead of me, “George Clooney's right down there making a movie.”

There is simply no way to adequately explain the effect that kind of proclamation has on any woman coherent enough to see lightning and hear thunder. The idea that George Clooney is even on the same continent is unsettling enough, but to think that he is in the same airport and apparently in plain sight — well, suffice it to say that a hush came over the rental car crowd.

I was the first to speak. “Excuse me, did you say George Clooney is right down there?” The agent confirmed it: “Right down there. You can't miss him.”

No, honey, I can't, so let's get this rental car business wrapped up so I can flee in his direction ASAP!!!! The line surged, tempers flared, women immediately began thinking of alternate plans — bag the rental car, deal with it later, ask George for a ride — anything to get down there.

And then, as if on cue, every woman in line went scrambling. Anyone left in line (two men) saw nothing but a dust cloud created by all these women peeling out with their wheelie suitcases like crazed estrogen-infused NASCAR racers. We arrived at the set all at once, screeching to a halt in unison, and breathing in a collective gasp that George Clooney was, in fact, living and breathing a mere 20 yards away. We were mesmerized.

Then the cell phones came out.

Must …get … a … photo ... of … George. But just as quickly as we deployed our phones, a security guard was on us like we were screaming teens at an Elvis concert.

He even chastised an obviously elderly woman, like she was going to jump the rope around the set and demand that George autograph her AARP magazine. She probably was, but that was beside the point. We were indignant.

Just then, another star-struck, dreamy-eyed fan showed us how to get our photos by appearing to be on a call, pointing the phone ear toward George and stealthily operating the camera function while saying non-Clooney-related things (very difficult in this situation, but absolutely necessary). It was like suddenly everyone was checking in with the office or, even more outlandish, with the husband or boyfriend (right).

So we were not only a bunch of wheelie-dragging, star-struck wackos, we were scofflaws to boot.

I eventually composed myself, rented a car and made it to Wayne for my interview the next day. All went well despite my Clooney hangover, until the chief of police stopped me on my way out of town for speeding. But that's another story altogether, especially considering that I was interviewing to teach, among other things, a class on criminal law.

Back to Omaha that afternoon to catch my return flight, but not before I took everyone's advice to visit the Old Market. I had to park a mile or so away and walk in because there was some commotion near the brewery I wanted to visit. The waiter seated me right out front, where I planned to reflect on my impending job offer and whether I could really move my life out to the rolling cornfields.

And then, for the second time in 48 hours, there was George — filming in the Old Market, just yards away from my streetside table. My choice became clear.

My beer arrived and I toasted heavenward to whatever force was clearly trying to sell me on Nebraska. Truth is, I would have come anyway, but the Clooney Effect sure didn't hurt.

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