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.