Vladimir Putin

Some of you may have noticed my absence by now. Most of you are probably nodding politely while thinking 'What? You've been gone?' and I appreciate that.
I've been hesitant to write anything lately, and the reason is because a visit I had from a very powerful man almost a year ago.
Even before my hiatus, I haven't been going out much lately, all the regular reasons you can think of are probably to blame, so I won't go into much detail there. But here's the story of what kept me in hiding for a bit. Enjoy.

Around July of last year, my wife was out of town visiting family and I was left to my own devices. Usually this would mean I barely wore pants while drinking boxed wine and playing video games until 2am with the only company being my small, depressed dog. This night was different. This night I looked in the mirror and said 'No drinking alone tonight, old chum!' Then I slapped myself on the back, donned some trousers and hastily made my way to the only smoking bar in Colorado (that I know of) in search of a friendly face to share a brew with. It was 10pm. I was stone cold sober.

The bar was empty except for the bartender, three bikers, and a young man playing pool by himself in the corner. I sidled (like you do) up to the bar, said my hellos to the bartender and ordered a bottled beer with a shot of Espolòn Blanco, my usual. While I am, unfortunately, still a smoker, I find it hard to stay in a smoky room for too long so I made my way to the patio. The sun had been gone for a few hours and traffic was minimal, so I was alone with my thoughts again. What was I doing with my life? Where was I going? What does it all mean? Why do I feel more comfortable with my back to an empty, pitch black parking lot and alley and not to the door leading back into the bar, when it is moderately safe and well-lit?
I leaned against the railing of the patio and put a cigarette in my mouth, as my left hand dug into my pocket in search of my lighter. Just as I had found it and was about to light my smoke, I heard the familiar click-fwoosh of a Zippo being opened and ignited behind me. I spun around just in time for it to close again, the light illuminating the face behind it for the briefest of seconds before it was plunged back into the dark.
My heart hung in my throat, the rapid flow of blood through my veins and in my ears was the only thing I felt or heard besides the all too sudden realization that I was a good fifteen feet from the safety of the bar, and the figure in shadow was within arms reach of me. I felt my skin grow cold, my forehead burst into beads of sweat and my bladder threatened to try its best at warming up the lower half of my body if I didn't take it inside very soon. I was frozen in a state of fear I haven't felt since... Well, that's another story.

Then, suddenly, the light from the patio spilled across their face as they took that last step closer to me.

It was Vladimir goddamned Putin.

You've got a little something right there.

I had never been more relieved in my life.

"Добрый вечер, Nate. Как дела?" He said with a smile.

"Jesus Christ, Vlad, you almost made me piss myself. What are you doing here?" I laughed as my shaky fingers managed to light my smoke finally. The call of the toilet was still loud, but I could hold off for an old friend. For a little bit.

"Вы не должны быть в покое, если вы боитесь темноты" He chuckled to himself. Funny guy.

"I'm not, I just wasn't expecting anyone out here. And you're still as quiet as ever."

"Я должен держать острый. Никогда не знаешь." He looked around as if expecting some assassin to drop out of the sky.

"Yeah, well, you made your bed." I needed to get to inside before I ruined these pants, and they are my favorite pants.

"Да, но вы также кровать . И вы, кажется, есть много людей, в нем с вами . Я хотел бы быть осторожным , если я вам." He flicked the lighter again, just opening and closing it, he didn't smoke. Maybe the sound was supposed to be an intimidation factor.

"Different situation from yours, I'd say. But seriously, what are you doing here? Not just to see me, I hope?" Time was running out. I needed to wrap this up.

"Нет, конечно нет. Хотя это всегда хорошо , чтобы увидеть старого друга . Я здесь ... другой бизнес. Не беспокойся." He smiled, but there was no light in his eyes.

"I'm not worried. Look, Vlad, I really need to go inside for... a thing. Can I bring you a drink when I get back?" I hoped I wasn't being too rude, but it was now or never.

"Нет, спасибо , я полностью облажался прямо сейчас. Если я больше пить я мог умереть." He rubbed his hand across his forehead and put the lighter back in his pocket. "Приезжайте меня в ближайшее время. Это было слишком долго."

"Will do, gotta go. Really great seeing you." We both waved and he shrank back into the shadows. 

I'm not proud of it, but I did not make it to the bathroom in time, but it wasn't enough to be noticeable. I spent the rest of the night inside the bar and took a cab home at the end of the night.

So that's why I haven't been out more. I'm slowly getting over my fear of wetting myself in public, so I should be out and about soon. Stay tuned.

THANKS, GOOGLE TRANSLATE!

Neil deGrasse Tyson

I do not claim to understand a lot about astrophysics. I do not claim to grasp even the slightest concepts of most of the stuff they talk about in science and whatnot.
But I have read a lot of stuff. If something interests me in the slightest, I usually never forget it. This explains why I'm so bad remembering the names of people I have met dozens of times and birthdays for family members and friends. I have countless little facts stored in my head about science and astronomy and comic books and movies. It's like autism, except I'm an asshole and I drink too much.
That being said, my Sundays are religiously spent on my couch to catch the latest episode of Cosmos hosted by the amazing Neil deGrasse Tyson because he talks about space and science and I like things like that.
If the topics discussed on this show were in some kind of basketball bracket office-pool thingy (I don't sports) then I would be at a 90% success rate of already knowing the basics about them at this point.

I can't name all 50 states. I barely understand how laws are made, even though I know I watched that cartoon about it when I was a kid. And, gun to my head, I would never ever be able to say the alphabet backwards unless I wrote it down first.

With all of that in mind, I am able to access and vomit up these random facts no one cares about at any point in the day, without fail. The only caveat being that I turn into a drooling lobotomy patient if someone asks me about something I know without warning. If I'm playing 6 Degrees of Separation and I'm working on John Malkovich to Macaulay Culkin, I'll be trucking along just fine and then someone randomly says 'Hey, what's the name of the actor who played Magneto in the new X-Men movie?'. You'll then need to give my brain fifteen seconds to rewire itself to that part of storage. Any other time I can spout it off no problem. Michael Fassbender. Sexy man. Great actor. Can't wait to meet him.

I'm rambling, so let's get on to the embarrassing part of my story.
Cosmos. Awesome show. Awesome host. I have always wanted to attend one of his appearances, but since they go for a hundred bucks or more and I don't even let myself buy brand name toilet paper, that's never going to happen.

So lucky me, I am strolling through some department store downtown, looking for cheap luggage (I think it was a TJ-Maxx, I'm fancy.) when I round the corner near housewares and almost head-butt Neil deGrasse Tyson in the chest. I'm not tall but I'm not that short.
The lizard part of my brain that is apparently from Canada instantly makes my mouth mutter a quick apology and I start to step around the man, when the semi-smart part of my brain says 'Dude, dude, dude, dude, DUDE!' and I say 'What?!' except I say the last part out loud and Neil steps back a foot or two, eyebrows raised and probably figuring out which Paula Deen frying pan to brain me with (that would be hilarious) if things get hairy.

Thankfully, since I've met literally DOZENS of famous people, I regain my composure fairly quick and manage to let out an actual apology for almost smearing my face across his suit. He waves it off, no big deal and asks how I'm doing. He seems so friendly and warm, his voice a comforting blanket coaxing me to let my guard down and say something ultra-tarded.

It does not fail.

"Cosmos. Space. Time. Timey wimey. Odd." These words fall out of my face before I can do anything to stop it. Neil doesn't respond at first. "Good stuff. I'm fan. Big one. Yep." That was a good finish to an awesome start. Neil nods. He gets me. It's cool.
"You like the show then?" He's allowing me the chance to make up for my face-hole noises. Nice guy. Should have walked away when he got the chance.
"Oh yeah. Like. Every day. Every Sunday, I mean. Unless I watched the show over and over again throughout the week. That would be weird. I don't. That's not me. That's not what I'm about."
Boom. Nailed it. My lizard brain and semi-smart brain are high-fiving the shit out of each other and my stomach brain decides now is a great time to tell me that we needed a toilet four minutes ago.
I will not be deterred.
"But yes. Sunday night. Me and the wife. We do. I explain things to her. Sometimes. She's not stupid. She's just... she like things. Other things. Twilight. I know, right? Horrible. I read too. Books. We have a bunch of books. I hang them on the wall sometimes. Made them into shelves. Shelves out of books. I've read a lot of them. I really have."

You can read?

And I'm supposed to be good at meeting famous people.

Neil smiles and I'm pretty sure it was genuine. "Well, it's always nice to meet a fan. You have a good day now, Nate."

"Thanks, Neil. You as well, wait... Do you know me?"

"Nope." Neil looks me right in the eyes and backs out of the aisle, disappearing around the corner.

A split second later the fire alarm goes off and I run to the exit, scanning the crowd for a tall, dark genius. 

I never saw him again.

And that was the third worst day of my life.

**EDIT**
Macaulay Culkin to Eliza Dushku to Matt Damon to Brad Pitt to John Malkovich.
If anyone can do it better, I really don't give a shit.

Long Time Since I Met Anyone...

Almost an entire year has passed since I have posted.
Life, work, family, pets; all of these annoying things have kept me from my true goal of posting fictional stories of meeting loved and loathed 'famous' people.
My sincerest apologies to all of my (what, 5 now?) fans. Readers? What do I call you people? Peasants?

Anyways, here we go, I am back, you will be slightly entertained if you have a few drinks before reading.

Please stay tuned, for I have met a man who has no equal anywhere in the universe. And he will totally find me just as interesting and awesome as all 3 out of the 5 of you do.

Wheeeee,

Nate Grey

This is not who you look like, asshole.

John Travolta & Tom Cruise

This is going to be longer than usual. My apologies.


Do you ever get that feeling that you're being watched? Standing inside your house, you glance at the blinds to make sure they're closed. Expecting to see the shine of a single crazed eye peeking in at you in your home.
Or on the streets, the hairs stand up and you turn to look behind you. Perhaps some bum glaring at you for not giving them your spare change. Perhaps the person with the clipboard you passed by and they know damn well that you weren't really on the phone.

I know that we all get that feeling every now and then, but how often is that feeling right?

I have a large list of things that bother me. Reality television. Cover charges for local bands who no one has ever heard of.  Non alcoholic beer. And sitting neatly on the very top of my list, never worried about being replaced by anything else, ever, is religion.
I won't bore you with the details, but let me say this: many countries around the world all have their versions of Santa Claus. But how many Santa Claus stories are the real one?

So it's a Tuesday, like it is on occasion, and I'm walking through a mall in some town (does it matter?) and boy, does my spidey-sense start going crazy. I'm not like most people who look behind them when they get that feeling, I always take a quick glance up. In my experience, most dangers come from above: birds, meteors, ninjas, etc. Nothing there, time to look around me. It doesn't take long to figure out what the problem is. Like two nightmarish, overpaid glory seekers, here comes Tom Cruise. And right behind him? John Tra-goddamned-volta. They are power walking their way towards me. Without a second thought I throw the few bags of stuff I just purchased right into the trash, spin on my heels and start booking it in the opposite direction.
I dig my cell phone out of my jacket and have just dialed the nine and the one when a vice-like grip clamps down on my wrist. I feel something pop and white-hot pain shoots up my arm all the way to my shoulder. Tom Cruise has me and is showing no intention of letting me go. One arm around my wrist, the other pushing against the small of my back to keep me moving forward, he shakes my arm and the cell phone that I couldn't even feel that I was still holding drops to the ground. A split second after it hits the floor, John Travolta kicks it across the path and it slides behind a coke machine.
Travolta grabs my other arm and with a big, crooked, toothy smile, he says "Let's have ourselves a little chat, Nate." Looking at Tom Cruise, he seems to not understand what a mall is. He looks confused, angry and his nostrils won't stop flaring.
"Hey guys, I was in the middle of something. Can we do dinner later?" I don't scare easily these days. Not after meeting Megan Fox. That's another story.
"No, Nate, I think now is good for everyone." Tom Cruise takes a quick right and shoves me into a Baby Gap. Real discreet.
Actually, it kind of was since there was literally no one in the store. Not even a sales associate.
With the two of them blocking the front, arms crossed and legs spread, they look like the worst idea for a buddy cop match up flick since Bruce Willis and Tracy Morgan (Sorry, Bruce).

FANTASTIC IDEA!

"Listen, Nate-" Travolta starts.

"Please, call me Nate." I can't help myself.

"Ok, but... Wait. Shut up! Let me talk!" Some of Travolta's spit lands on my forehead. I feel my skin itching. 

"Calm down, John. Let me do this." Tom Cruise takes a few steps towards me, arms slightly spread, attempting to look human, I guess. "Nate. Buddy. You know why we're here, right?"

"In the Baby Gap?"

"No." Tom Cruise cocks his head and gives me that 'come on, man' look. I think I usually see it right before he punches someone in the gut. I cross my arms and try to tighten my stomach.

"You wanted me to spare a few minutes to talk about our Lord and Savior Xenu?"

"Don't do this, Nate."

"I'm sorry, I meant our Lord and Savior L. Ron Hubbard."

"Dammit, Nate!" Travolta spits again, thankfully missing me by an inch. I say a quick prayer to Xenu for that small blessing.

"You know why we're here, stop bullshitting!" Tom Cruise steps aside and lets Travolta work on his aim.

"I haven't even done anything!" I take a step back, glancing around again for any sign of life. "Yet!"

"Yet! See Tom? He said it! He said 'yet'!" Travolta points viciously at me. His fingers look fat and wet. I shudder.

"I heard him, John. Keep calm." Tom Cruise takes the lead again. "Seriously, now. We can't. Let you. Say anything. About the church."

"Which church?"

"You know. Which church."

"Why are you talking like that? Is that a thi-" A sharp pain is in my cheek and Tom Cruise is wiping his hand on a silk handkerchief. I didn't even see him move. I just got bitch slapped by Tom Cruise. Suicide it is then.

"I'll level with you. The church gets enough bad press as it is. We don't need some guy writing in some obscure blog about how we suck or just want money and use fear tactics to strong arm people into doing what we want."

"Hey, you said it, not me." Tom Cruise twitches his arm and I totally flinched. Suicide for sure now, if I ever get out of here. I try to recover. "But, hey! It's not like they say you molest choir boys, right? Do you guys even have a choir?" Travolta pushes over a rack of baby tee's and throws a completely telegraphed left hook directly at my temple. It wasn't even like slow-mo, I just moved my head a few inches and he whiffs past me, grunting as he stumbles and almost falls. Tom Cruise and I both stare in shock, wondering if that was for real or not.

"Jesus, John. I thought you said you had been training." Tom Cruise shakes his head.

"Don't say the 'J' word and I have been! Last month. Twice."

I take a couple more steps backwards and say, "Look, guys. I'm not saying I'm going to write something, and I'm not saying I'm not. But when I do, who's name is going to be first in the title?"

They glance at each other then back at me and in unison say, "Mine, of course." They look back at each other. 

And that was that. They started arguing. Tom Cruise slapped Travolta in the tit, which was weird. Travolta threw a few more sloppy punches that never connected. And me? I threw a smoke pellet and vanished out the back door in all the confusion.

That was over a year ago and the feeling of being watched has never gone away. And I'm too much of a sissy to kill myself.

Happy Mothers Day, Mom.

Nathan Fillion

I sent Nathan Fillion a tweet once, as a courtesy, seeing as how we share a name.

I have not heard back and I am scared to say anything further on the matter until I get word from him*.

In this picture I am Alicia Silverstone. Too afraid to say anything to those arms.

I imagine that when we meet it will be pleasant for all parties involved.

P.S.

Bring back Firefly!

*I kept looking behind me while writing this.

Anne Hathaway

So Target can be an interesting place. While not as colorful as Walmart at any hour of the day, it holds a few gems that any experienced people-watcher would love to see.
One of those unexpected gems would be our lovely Anne Hathaway.
Everyone seems to love her. She's goddamned everywhere and it seems that most studios are now legally required to send her their scripts regardless of whether they want her for a roll or not.
I'm not here to complain about how Hollywood seems to latch onto the 'next big thing' and saturate the big screen with them so much that we eventually end up hating them, no matter how talented they are/could have been.
I'm here to bitch about Anne Hathaway and her obnoxious inability to comprehend spatial awareness.

"WTF AM I DOING?"

For those of you who know me, I hate it when people are oblivious to their surroundings, and as a result oftentimes completely ignore the fact that they ever possess peripheral vision. My main complaint is when someone is in a store of any kind that requires the use of shopping carts and they plant their cart in the middle of the aisle and then browse at their leisure. Unless you make some kind of noise, clear your throat, bump something, etc, nothing will get their attention. The store is theirs. The aisle is their kingdom. Screw you, peasant, for even considering shopping in their realm.

Long story short: Anne Hathaway was in Target and her cart was literally sideways in the aisle. SIDEWAYS. It was if she Tokyo drifted into the aisle and come to a screeching stop right before she destroyed the hand mixers. Staring at price tags, mumbling to herself, my presence was not an issue and I was less important than acting lessons. That last comment was mean, but I was angry.

I now administer a 'break' whenever entering an aisle in a store, regardless if there is someone else there or not. It's like me marking my territory. And impossible to ignore. I pick up the rear wheels of my cart and let them drop to the floor. Usually aided by the linoleum, they make it sound as if I accidentally scraped my wheels against the floor in a sharp turn.

Anne Hathaway does not react.

I do it again.

Anne Hathaway scratches at her nose and continues mumbling.

I roll my cart right up to her and say 'Excuse me, Anne Hathaway, I'm-' and she cuts me off with a wave of her hand and an instinctual 'Please, not now, I'm just trying to blend in.'
I stare at her for a few seconds. She continues to ignore me. I finally say 'Anne Hathaway, get your damned cart out of the middle of the aisle.' That does the trick. She looks at me, eyes flashing anger, but then quickly replaced with recognition.
'You... It's you. The guy who meets the people.'
'Holy hell, did you hear about me through-'
'Nick Cage.' She cuts me off again. 'He warned me.'
'Well, I don't care about that, I just want you to move your cart, for f-'
'Please. Please don't write anything bad about me.'
'I wasn't planning on it, but this is-'
'Please don't write anything bad about Les Miserables.'
'Anne, I haven't even seen Les Mis-'
'Please! Don't say- wait, what? You haven't seen Les Mis-'
'No!' I finally cut HER off! Yay me! 'I haven't seen it because the trailers made it seem like you whine and cry and cut off your hair and sing and these are all things that no one my age and gender give two shits about.'
'Really?'
'Yea. Really. Get your fucking cart out of the aisle and stop sucking all the time.'

Would you believe it? She started crying, so I left.

Kristen Stewart

Last month I was in Manhattan for no other reason than to see these huge rats I keep hearing about. Apparently they can grow up to like cat or raccoon sizes and I had to see it to believe it. So I'm at E 96th and Fifth wondering where all the tall buildings are when I see Kristen Stewart approaching with a cup of coffee and her ever-present vacant expression as she's probably constantly wondering how she can breath without having to think about it.

Now, I hate this drooling, zombie-like, slack-jawed douche-monster just as much as the next person, but I love my wife and for some reason she likes the Twilight movies. I'm considering a divorce on those grounds alone and I'm pretty sure I'd win.

Why does everyone hate my stupid face so much? (Inhale... exhale...)

Anyways, my wife would love to have her autograph and would probably twist my head off my neck with her glare alone if I came back empty handed. Summoning every last ounce of willpower, I approach Miss Stewart and give a small wave.

"Hey, Kristen Stewart, I was wondering if you could sign this for me. Err, for my wife. Dammit."

She took a moment to realize that I wasn't some screaming fan, crying my mascara into a mess and speaking only in vowels.

"Your wife? Sure, what's her name?" I tell her and begin to thank her and carry on, but she continues with "You don't want one for yourself?" I stare at her for about ten seconds straight, trying my best to keep calm.

"Are... Are you fucking high?" Whoops.

"Yeah, I am." Not too sure how to respond to that, I give her the double-bird, tell her to fuck off and walk to the East Meadow where I watch three cat sized rats chewing on what looked like a human hand.

I hate New York.