Jared Leto

So, yesterday was St. Patrick's Day. An All-American holiday that has made it socially acceptable to get wasted in public, wear green and be an annoying douchebag in large crowds.

I usually try to stay home and away from any drunken shenanigans (haha) but I was guilted into going to my friend's bar by another friend who said I owed him or some such shit.

So I'm at the bar drinking a non-green beer like a normal adult when out of the corner of my eye I see Jared Leto taking sips off of other peoples drinks while their backs are turned. What a cock-ass, I think to myself as I throw back a shot of tequila (I can't do the whiskey, it makes me confused and when I get confused I get angry and you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.) and finish off my beer. I get up and walk over to him as he's shaking a plastic cup with liquor soaked ice cubes that he found in a trashcan into his mouth.

"Hey, Jared!" I call out to him over the roar of the crowd. 

"Fuck Subway!" he yells at the air and looks around wildly, trying to place the location of the voice.

"Over here, Jared!" he finally sees me and with a completely faked look of recognition on his face, he smiles and gives me a big wave.

"Hey buddy! How are you?" I squeeze past several patrons who are attempting to out-Irish each other with horrible accents and get right in front of Jared Leto so I don't have to yell anymore.

A quick note: I'm very rude and sarcastic, but normally I'm not a man of violence. But seriously, tequila? Come on.

This fucking guy. Seriously.

"Hey Jared Leto, why do you have to suck so fucking hard all the time?" The smile goes right out of his eyes and for a split second he knows something is wrong. He can't place his finger on it, but I can see the goosebumps flash across his skin and he puts one foot behind him in the beginning of an attempt to turn and run. I don't let him.

I grab onto his shoulders so tightly that I feel my thumb pop out of its socket. I ignore the pain and with a big smile I drive my forehead into the bridge of his nose.

The blood shoots out and down like a broken faucet and the gargle that comes from him must have been a scream, but it doesn't matter now. With his foot behind him he doesn't have proper footing and starts to lose his balance. Before he goes completely down he spins, spraying blood, snot and tears all over a short woman who can barely keep her breasts tucked into her too-tight 'Kiss Me, I'm Irish' shirt. Her boyfriend is not happy.

There is blood in the water now and on the day when 'Everyone is Irish' it doesn't take more than the smallest spark to ignite this powder-keg of booze soaked idiocy.

I take my leave and return to the bar as the storm of fists and feet begin to rain down on Jared Leto.

I only saw him again for a brief second, but after the lights came up and everyone was herded out to taxis or police cars to take them either home or to jail, there was no sign that Jared had even been there except for the puddle of blood, urine and a few misplaced teeth.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

I know you were hoping to see this picture anyways.
You're welcome.

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.

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.

Kevin Spacey

So I'm walking around London on Ufford St trying to get back to Blackfriars Rd when I come upon a man jiggling the handles of every car he's passing by. I stop and light a smoke (this was back when I smoked, but I can't remember when) and wait for him to notice that I'm watching him looking for an unlocked car that is obviously not his.

He doesn't notice me and passes within 2 feet of me. Finally, two cars down from me, he stops and looks back. It's an obviously inebriated Kevin Spacey. Not surprising, really, considering the Old Vic is somewhere around here. His head bobbing in the haze of whatever he was drinking (I'm no pro, but I think it was absinthe mixed with Jose Cuervo), he looks in my general direction, gestures to the current car he is trying to break into and mumbles something about his dog was in the car, so he needs to get her out.

I smile and nod politely then continue on my way. I hadn't taken more than 3 steps when I hear the smashing of a car window and turn to see Mr. Spacey frantically crawling through the newly opened window.

I DID IT!! I DID IT ALL BY MYSELF!!!

I wait for a minute and smoke the rest of my cigarette. When it was clear that he wasn't going to accomplish much else inside the car, I crept over to the window and peered in. He was passed the fuck out, head in the backseat, feet resting on top of the steering wheel. There was no dog in sight.
I made it back to my hotel in one piece and American Beauty was available to rent.

London was nice. The food, not so much.

Ben Foster

So my wife and I decided to go downtown for a drink, which was a horrible choice by the way because apparently Sting is in town so there's nothing but douchebags out and about.

Anyways, she tells me she needs to run to the little girls room except how she said it wasn't cute or anything. She was gone for no more than a few seconds when I hear someone clearing their throat next to me. It wasn't a quick, normal throat clearing, but it was over and over, like they were obviously trying to get my attention. I look over and it's Ben Foster.

I accidentally said "Oh, shit." out loud, but only because he's scary, not famous.

"Hey, Nate. How's your night going?" He doesn't look at me when he says this, he just rubs his throat and then takes a sip of his beer.

It takes me a second to get the words 'pretty good' out, and the moment I do, he responds with 'that's good, man.'

Then he looks at me.

Super duper.

Then my wife came back from the restroom. When I turned to introduce her, he was gone.

She still doesn't believe me, but whatever. 

That guy is intense.