Charlie Sheen

There's this little hole-in-the-wall karaoke bar I go to that's just up the road from my house. It's the kind of place where anything can happen, but usually nothing too bad or fucked up. Usually. I don't even go there to sing, it's just a nice place where everyone knows everyone. The karaoke list is huge too. Whatever.

So I'm hanging out one afternoon, wasting the day, reading a book, when someone places a dirty, shaken, vodka martini in front of me. Now, I'm usually a strictly beer and tequila drinker, but something about that kind of martini just makes me feel good. I might even pass up a free shot of tequila for a $10 martini.

Expecting to see someone I actually know holding the martini, I look up to see the casual, psychotically expectant face of Charlie Sheen. A cold chill runs along my spine and he winks at me then says "Hey, Nate. Thought you could use a nice drink to help that book go down smoother."

Letters and alcohol. Whatever, I can't read.

"Wow, um, thanks Charlie Sheen. That's awesome." 

"Anytime. I'll see you around." He gives me a thumbs-up and walks out of the bar into the sunlight.

The bartender comes over and says "What the fuck. I think he brought that martini in with him."

"Yea, I figured." I turn and dump the martini into a trash can and go back to my beer.

I don't go to that bar anymore.

Nicolas Cage

I was walking around Barnes and Nobles one day trying to discreetly add whiskey to my Starbucks coffee, when I heard a man in the next aisle talking very loudly on his cell phone. It wasn't very hard to recognize the voice as belonging to Nicolas Cage.
Keeping my cool I immediately dropped to my knees, clutching my alcoholic coffee to my chest so as to not spill any on the floor. If it spills on my shirt, I can suck it out, but I don't know where Barnes and Nobles' floor has been.
I pricked my ears to try and determine what direction he was facing so I could sneak past without him noticing me, but as fate would have it, Nicolas Cage was actively searching me out. I was fucked.
He stepped around the corner from the Teen Fiction section clicking his cell phone closed with one hand and adjusting his ridiculous leather jacket with the other.
"Hey, man, you're you." He was smiling. It was making my skin crawl. He took a step closer, I took a step back. I wondered to myself if I had put enough whiskey in my coffee as to make it flammable in a last ditch attempt to escape.
"Yeah, I am me. Thanks." I turned to leave but he was instantly 5 feet closer to me than he had been a moment before. I never saw his feet move.
"No no no. I mean, you're the guy that meets the famous people. That's awesome, man. And now you've met me! That's just rad, man. Rad."
"I'm pretty sure there's more than just me out there meeting famous people." I took the lid off my coffee cup.
"No, come on, I mean you're the guy who WRITES about it! That's so cool!"

"You understand how that makes you sound crazy, right?" I threw the coffee onto the ground in front of me and in one fluid motion whipped out a book of matches, lit one and tossed the whole book onto the puddle. The mixture was just right; we had ignition. A wall of flames erupted in between us. Nicolas Cage had his cell back to his ear and was screaming 'Help! Help!' That was my cue.
"Ghost Rider sucked dick and you're an asshole for making a sequel!" I jumped over the bookshelf and ran across the tops of the rest of them until I reached the front door.

I didn't stop running for a full hour.

I still feel kinda bad about burning down that Barnes and Nobles in wherever I was.

Joan Allen

Christmas of 2006 I found myself wandering around a Virgin Records Superstore in god-knows-what-city. It had been 3 days since I had been back to the hotel where I was staying with some friends from Denver, and I wasn't even sure if they were still here in town. But for some reason, none of this seemed to matter to me, and I was desperate to find some album in the store. I think it was a Weird Al's Greatest Hits or some shit, I don't remember and details aren't the biggest parts of my stories, so get over it.
I'm in the Jazz section which is also fuckin' weird cause I hate Jazz. I need more stability than that in my life, I guess. I turn to find my way back into a section that's more my age range, I see Joan Allen casually reading the back of a Pat Metheny CD case.
"Holy shit." I accidentally blurted out. Her eyes flicked up to me, there was an almost imperceptible twitch at the side of her mouth, then she looked back down at the album.
The gentleman that I am, I quickly offered an apology and was about to continue on my way, but she stopped me by saying "What are you sorry for, young man?"

Meow

My mind was spinning, my palms were sweaty and I was pretty sure I wasn't even drunk, but out of my mouth came "You're so goddamned hot, and this store is so goddamned shitty, it just caught me off guard. Sorry, Joan Allen. I don't usually cuss this much." Bullshit, I thought.
"Bullshit." she said.

We both laughed for a second, then she said "I'll see you around."

I have no idea what the fuck that was supposed to mean.