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!

Morgan Freeman

I don't really have a lot of clothes that require dry cleaning, but from past mistakes I have learned that I am not smart enough to clean my own sweaters unless I want to go into business selling little argyle sweaters for dogs or Kate Moss.

There is one dry cleaner that I go to and I refuse to go to any others. Not because they are the best or the owners speak the most English, but because I can see them from my front door and I didn't feel like Google-searching dry cleaners reviews. Same reason I pay $2 extra for a 12 pack of shitty light beer than other people: I'm lazy.

I open the door on a lazy Tuesday afternoon and in the corner next to the shreds of decades old Newsweek and Time magazines with a few plastic lawn chairs is Morgan Freeman idly sipping on a coke.

I walk over to make sure I'm not just seeing things, but yes. It's Morgan Freeman. Just hanging out in a dry cleaners.

"Hey, Mr. Freeman. Are you picking up an order?" And in his worldwide recognizable baritone that is both comforting and yet a force to be reckoned with, he answers "No, Nate. I'm just wasting time."

"Wasting time at a dry cleaners? I think your options for time-wasting activities would be a little more exciting, no offense."

"Oh, none taken. I just like going to dry cleaners from time to time and judging people."

"I'm sorry, judging people?"

"Oh you know. A lady comes in. Picks up her clothes. Turns and sees me. As she gets that gleam of recognition in her eye, I look down at her shoes or her dress, or whatever, then back to her eyes and sadly shake my head."

"So the joy of seeing Morgan Freeman in public is quickly replaced by the crushing depression inflicted by him hating on your outfit?"

"Precisely."

"That's odd. Are you drunk?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"No reason. Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Freeman. See you around. Maybe."

"Aren't you picking up some dry cleaning?"

"I'm not gonna risk it. My day is going too good."

And just then, Morgan Freeman's eyes quickly glance down to my old pair of Wal-Mart jeans that don't fit right on my pale little chicken legs, and then back up to my eyes. His lips draw to a tight thin line and, almost imperceptibly, his head gives a little shake.

That was a shitty day.

"Maybe shop Target, you cheap sonofabitch."

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.