You’ll never guess who I saw…insert celebrity’s name. For example: I was getting my hair did, I hear the door chime, and in walks fucking Tyler Perry. You know, the guy who does all those comedies that no one you know has ever seen but rakes in jizzlions of dollars? But what could I say to Tyler Perry? He’ll know by my questions that I’ve never even seen one of his movies. That my friends, is exactly the point. When you see a celebrity, talk to them. They’re people, just like you and me. And your story will be a million times better when you retell it a million times later if your tale involves just a little bit of conversation.
And without further adieu, I present you with the fourth installment of Starfucking.
It’s Friday night. We’re in the city of Lights. L.A. Or is that Paris? Or is it Vegas? Who gives a shit. We’re in Tinsel Town and we’re having dinner at one of Hollywood’s most Starfucky restaurants. The venerable Mr. Chow’s. Here, it’s not an uncommon occurrence to run into the likes of that old bastard Jack Nicholson. Usually he’ll be accompanied by a bevy of greased up Thai hookers. Or his children, no less. But this night, my night, was a hell of a lot different. Replacing the alte-kacker, JNichs, was the white contingent of Raptors, representing my hometown Toronto team, and central-to-eastern Europe, where these gangly ballers originate.
Let’s keep going, Talvid. This story is losing its momentum.
When Talvid, that’s us, sees a star, they’re going to do whatever it takes to get a noteworthy story. Remember, when it’s a star, anything makes it noteworthy. Talvid, at the behest of his dinner table mates, chugs a half-flute of Veuve, spills the rest on his nipple chafing J. Crew button down, and musters the courage to approach a table that hosts a combined more-than-35-feet-of-human-being. And that’s just Bargnani. I kid, relax. At this table sits, Rasho Nesterovic, Andrea Bargnani, Hedo Terkoglu, and some new white Raptor that I had trouble identifying. Perhaps it was Zan Tabak after having undergone skin-rejuvenating botox injections. Letting the alcohol do the talking is something that generally has worked for me in the past. Not this time. The restaurant crowd is quite thin at this point and no one other than our table seems to have recognized these overgrown whities. “Hello fellows”, I eke out. “So nice to see you here. I’m from Toronto, as you may have guessed and we’re so glad to be in the company of other fellow Canadians. Congratulations on beating the Clippers tonight, might I add”. Silence. No eye contact. Silence. “That being said, can we offer you guys a drink”. Silence. No eye contact. Silence. Hedo then raises his head, tilts it first toward Rasho, then toward me, and hisses, “neeeeyet. Gyed oudda heeir keed, gedoosh”. I’m pretty sure that means “no, get out of here kid. gedoosh”. So my colleagues don’t think I’m a total awkward fudger, I offer each Raptor my hand. Surprisingly, none decline. Tail between legs, I return to my table. Raptors 110, Talvid 72.
Still one quarter to go. A comeback is not out of the question. In walks Raptors’ GM, Jerry Colangelo. He should be less difficult to talk to I tell myself. And he is. I shout “Jerry”, and shoot him an exaggerated slow-mo reverse fist bump. His look tells me he thinks I’m a little but nutty, yet he still obliges. Ten days later I realize it’s because his name is Bryan and it’s his father’s name that is, in fact, Jerry.
Later on, we get our rather staggering bill. The waiter informs us that our beloved table of Raptor giants has indeed “accepted” our drinks offer. Those punks. They ordered, on our dime, 1 Lemon Mojito, 1 Grey Goose+Cranberry, 2 bottles of Mulberry Vex, and a tumbler of Yoohoo Chocolate Milk? I like the way you roll, ZeeTabby.
The moral of the story: always offer a handshake or fist bump to a celebrity. They will always reciprocate.