I generally have no interest in famous people. Living in New York I imagine I pass by one every now and then, but I'm more likely to notice dogshit than Tom Cruise walking down the street in loafers with 5 inch heels and an attractive male accessory. (This actually happened--I thought I saw someone who looked like Tom Cruise coming toward me and was about to make mention of it to my boyfriend at the time when i was suddenly distracted by dog crap in the shape of the Virgin Mary. My boyfriend later confirmed that it was, in fact, Tom Cruise).
When I do happen to encounter famous people, I have this automatic aversion to them. If I am in the same room as a famous person, I go out of my way to ignore him or her. If I am introduced to a famous person, I pretend I don't know who he or she is and make them repeat their name. I do this, I guess, to make a point that, you know "fuck you, you are famous, but I don't care," but I'm sure it comes across as "I'm not only deaf, but I'm also an asshole."
Like the time I met Matt Dillon. You may remember him from when he was molten deliciousness in the classic films "The Outsiders" and "Rumblefish" and "Singles."
Rio, 2005. I was there for New Years with my ex-boyfriend, we'll call him M. We were in a restaurant/bar having drinks with a group of his friends who happen to be well-known Brazilian artists. I always felt uncomfortable around them, I guess because we all felt like I was beneath them...so I liked to make things more comfortable for everyone by getting shithoused to the point where I called them pretentious douchebags without souls. Actually, come to think of it, maybe that's why they didn't like me. Ah, well. We'll call it a catch 22.
So there we were, drinking some colorful drink loaded with sugar and liquor at a long table. M and I were at the end of the table. There was an empty seat next to him and surprisingly one next to me. All of a sudden there was a big cheer that rippled across the table. I looked up to see a familiar, tan, bloated man, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and smoking a cigar, accompanied by a thin, much paler man. M kicked me under the table. "Is that Matt Dillon?" he whispered.
I looked again.
The tan, familiar man, who had just taken his place in the middle of the table, was most certainly the grown up, blown up version of the teen sensation who gave me my first wet dream...or the equivalent of a wet dream. I am aware that girls don't actually get wet dreams. Do they? Did I miss out on something? Shit. *Mental note: Ask girlfriends with normal sex lives if I was supposed to have a wetdream*
His companion took the empty seat next to me, unaware of my "untouchable" status. I forced myself not to look over at the middle of the table, and distracted myself by playing a drinking game with myself. The game was "How much can I drink before I puke?" I play this game a lot.
SIDEBAR: SOMEhow, I ended up thumb-wrestling Matt Dillon's companion (who M swears to this day was Ethan Hawk, but I'm FAIRLY certain he was not...but, then again, I was definitely winning my drinking game). I, of course, cheated and won.
We eventually left the bar as a big group and we were standing outside figuring out our next move. The group decided to split in two. M and I ended up in Matt Dillon's group. Matt Dillon turned to M, and says:
"I love your accent. You must be from Brooklyn."
"Yeah, born and raised. Yourself?"
"Westchester, around there."
Matt Dillon then stuck out his hand and says "Matt."
I'm standing there furious. Matt Dillon has not even looked my way, but is apparently hitting it off famously with M. Did M masturbate to the thought of Matt Dillon? I think NOT!!! (Well, maybe).
So, as they are in the middle of their love-fest, I, sort of like a deaf asshole, forcefully stick my hand out and blurt
"I'M COOKIEFACE. WHAT WAS YOUR NAME AGAIN?"
*tumbleweed rolls by*
M looks at me and rolls his eyes. Matt Dillon barely glances at me and then takes my hand and shakes it...WITHOUT repeating his name, of course, and then continues his fascinating conversation with M.
I awkwardly backed away. My eyes darted for my nearest escape, but I was in Rio and I spoke zero Portuguese and I wasn't fond of "walking alone in the dark through a foreign city known for its horribly violent crime."
Some highlights from later that night:
1) We tried to get into an exclusive club using Matt Dillon's "star power," however the club had no idea who he was.
2) I attempted the Samba for the first time and knocked over a table filled with semi full drinks with my hips.
3) I picked a fight with M because I thought Matt Dillon sucked and he didn't...obviously, because Matt Dillon LOVED his accent. Dumbass.
Stay tuned for "Famous Persons Encounters II: Cindy Lauper"