Gawk-her

I am not a celebrity gawker.  The main reason being that in my fourteen years as a New Yorker, my brushes with the glitterati have been limited to spotting that guy who played Paulie in the Rocky series.  Yeah, I’m not even going to look up his real name on IMDB because really, would you recognize it if I told you?  I spotted Jeannine Garofalo coming out of Crunch Gym several years ago.  Oh yeah, and once, I was annoyed by Jim Carrey who can’t seem to cut the over-the-top-aren’t-I-funny-schtick even when the cameras aren’t rolling.  Until today, my friends, my celeb run-ins have been strictly B-list.*

There was that one time I was Val Kilmer’s sex slave flight attendant and served him drinks and dinner at 40,000 feet.  But my flight attendant celebrity sightings don’t count.  I’m talking about walking down the streets of NYC.  My streets. 

But today, today I was a gawker.  Today, Dingo Girl and I stalked Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell.  Dingo Girl and I rounded a corner and there was Kurt in all his rugged handsomeness and Goldie in all her Goldiness.  Being a New Yorker I played it cool and acted all unimpressed while inwardly I was doing cartwheels and back flips.  Note that, had I decided to show my inward glee outwardly by actually performing a cartwheel or back flip, this blog entry would be about that miracle or, more likely, my subsequent visit to the emergency room.  Sorry Kurt and Goldie. 

Dingo Girl was either truly unimpressed or intent on helping me to maintain my façade of normalcy by stopping to pee every five feet.  Although I take my camera everywhere, I just couldn’t bring myself to snap a picture of them.  They were trying to enjoy a beautiful day in the city and I was trying to maintain my masquerade as a cosmopolitan city girl. I think Dingo Girl pulled it off better than I did. But, because I’m all about pleasing you, I did find a picture someone else took of them today.  Readers reader Mom, meet my friend Google Maps.  Can you see Kurt and Goldie? 

*As in: Please be gone; I can’t believe someone would pay to see them; I am befuddled that they have managed to make a career of this; etc.

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The Vampire

I am so freakin’ tired today.  I have no idea how I’m going to stay awake through the endless rounds of meetings that are on my schedule.  I think it’s going to be a Red Bull kinda day.  Today, the bags under my eyes and the zzzzz’s emanating from behind the closed doors of my office are brought to you courtesy of the nocturnal habits of our upstairs neighbor. 

I’m not really sure what he’s doing up there but he keeps some very odd hours.  Vampire hours.  Without fail, between midnight and 5am it sounds as if he’s trying to gouge out a life-sized replica of the Grand Canyon by pushing the entire inventory of our local IKEA across the hardwood floor of his apartment.  At 5am he either crawls back into his coffin or he has finally decided that the chiffarobe actually does look better wedged between the mini-fridge and the sink and all is quiet until the next evening.  Lather.  Rinse.  Repeat. 

Being the nosey parker that I am, I once asked him what he does for a living.  I got some vague entrepreneur, actor, model, type answer.  I’m thinking that maybe he’s in the witness protection program or he’s a secret agent and he hasn’t fully worked out his cover story.  Now, I’m not a vindictive person but if he doesn’t STFU so that I can get some sleep I’m going to put his picture in a full page ad in the New York Times with the headline, “Here he is.  Please come get him.”

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