>>> Bang for Your Buck
By staff writer David Nelson
January 27, 2008
Essential New Word of the Week: ginwalk (definition hint: the road to inebriation)
A few days ago, as I was arriving at work, I shared an elevator with NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman. I don’t know what he was doing in my building, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t there to interview Zamboni drivers, or else I’d have been first in line. It was kind of a weird moment for me. For the first time, I wasn’t the most famous person in the elevator.
I’ve always thought fame is a tricky thing to quantify. Having a column on the internet does not make you a celebrity, no matter how many awesome fat jokes you make. Even so, I have to think that I’m somehow more famous, even if by .00001%, than the guy who sat next to me on the bus today, with his backwards hat and camouflage pants.
So, I like to pretend I’m famous, but until Gary Bettman writes an article in which he gushes about meeting a real live PIC columnist, I’ll know it’s just a fantasy. And if I’m being honest, that wasn’t much of a celebrity encounter anyway. In terms of sports celebrities, meeting the NHL commissioner falls somewhere between meeting Bob Uecker and the Phoenix Suns Gorilla.
“My gf made it clear that future fellatio prospects were hinging on Mike Myers' autograph.”
Even if you live in a town without a Starbucks, chances are you’ve had at least one noteworthy encounter, as long as you acknowledge that fame can be measured microscopically. Maybe you know a guy who was once interviewed on the local news. Maybe you live next door to someone who tried out for American Idol. If you’re female, chances are you’ve already had sex with Scott Baio, and he’s famous, allegedly.
These stories are fun to swap, because you can kind of keep score, and debate whose roster of encountered celebrities is better. However, if you do this in a genuine effort to impress someone, that’s just name-dropping and it’s kind of obnoxious. No girl is going to give a fuck that you met Steven Seagal’s ponytail-wrangler. Trust me on that.
Living in Toronto, I’ve encountered a number of minor stars over the years. Unfortunately, most of them were Canadian and not worth mentioning unless you’re a big fan of Degrassi High. On an equivalent scale, Canadian celebrities are about as famous as American street mimes, so I’m not exactly bragging here. Nevertheless, there are a few names you might recognize from an old game of Trivial Pursuit or something.
Once, on a family road trip, my dad pulled into a gas station alongside the guy who played the hapless camp director, Morty, in Meatballs. I hadn’t yet discovered the “zany summer camp” genre, and its seminal shower room scenes. Years later, those scenes would be my gateway to the twin pleasures of slow-motion and masturbation. But at the time, Morty’s sad eyes made me want to gather a team of scrappy underdogs and take on those snobs from the other side of the lake in some kind of wacky obstacle course.
I was surprised to see a movie actor pumping his own gas, but then again, I was kind of a naïve kid. It seems my dad went to school with him. They wanted to catch up on old times, but I was more interested in finally learning just whose underpants Bill Murray ran up the camp flagpole. I was surprised when he landed a recurring role in the Law & Order franchise.
Speaking of summer camp, working as a counselor would later would bring me into contact with the finest ballplayers 1992 had to offer (mostly Toronto Blue Jays). Someone must have had incriminating photos involving farm animals and/or root vegetables, because that stupid little camp brought in a parade of stars.
Some were cool, like John Olerud, who gave useful batting tips to the kids. Some were dicks, like Roberto Alomar, whose indifference and Puerto Rican accent left kids confused and angry. And if anyone ever tells you that Dave Winfield won’t get into a water-fight with a 10-year-old, he’s lying.
Years later, I found myself working for a natural history museum. Normally, I’d be opposed to any institution that dared to suggest Earth wasn’t created in seven days by The Almighty™. But the museum offered lots of quiet corners to take paid naps, and besides, I ran into the odd celebrity.
I remember meeting comic actor Dave Foley. As I once mentioned, his character on NewsRadio happened to be called “David Nelson.” For some reason, I thought this was enough of a pretext to strike up a conversation. In reality, I just pointed to my nametag like an idiot, waiting for comprehension to dawn on him. When it didn’t, I was forced to make small talk about dinosaur skeletons.
One time, I was approached by none other than Mike Myers. Austin Powers had just been released, and shouting “Yeah, baby!” was still more likely to cause laughter than a lynching. What a dark time. After I answered his question, he went about his business, probably talking in a hilarious fake Scottish accent.
I called my girlfriend to let her know who I’d just met. She said she wanted me to get his autograph. More than that, she made it clear that future fellatio prospects were hinging on the transaction. I really didn’t want to bother the man who gave us “Schwing!” and “Not!” But, given the current fellatio economy, I had to try something.
So, I turned to my co-worker and asked “Would you mind scrawling ‘Have a shag-errific day!’ on this napkin?” This is the sort of thing I imagined Mike Myers would sign in 1997. Come to think of it, if I had to forge a message from him today, I’d probably make the same choice. The girl never doubted the autograph for a second. And since eBay hadn’t been invented yet, it was a perfect crime. My dong got away, scot-free.
So, my own celebrity encounters don’t exactly achieve a lofty Q-Score, unless the Q actually stands for “qualms,” which is what meeting them left me with. I wanted to have the best celebrity encounter of anyone I knew. But it seems I could never score any higher than “Mediocre.”
The band “Barenaked Ladies”? Check. Champion sumo wrestler Musashimaru? Check. Prize-winning novelist Yann Martel? Check. All decent folks, but nothing to write home about. Meanwhile, my peers were kicking my ass at this game that only I knew about. A friend ran into James Earl Jones at a noodle shop. That’s fucking Darth Vader. If he asks for extra soy sauce, you better listen.
Even my own parents were breaking out stories I’d never be able to match. Back in the 60’s, my dad owned a club which brought in a lot of folks who went on to do (and smoke) big things. Once, a young comic by the name of Bill Cosby was invited over for dinner. And knowing how much my dad loves his Jell-O, I’m almost sure he served it that night, perhaps altering the very course of advertising history.
I just remembered; I have a friend who makes this whole competition kind of pointless. She’s in the TV business, and on a regular day, she’ll interview the Prime Minister before having lunch with the American Gladiators. Even her Facebook photo shows her just hanging out with Bono. And he’s not only a well-known musician, he’s the savior of mankind. Goddamn it. Ah well, maybe the future holds some better encounters for me.
Meanwhile, I’d be interested to hear what celebrity stories you, the PIC readers, can tell. For the best one, maybe I can provide a PIC prize pack, including the elusive shoes, and a personalized phone call from Xavier Holland.
Essential New Word of the Week:
ginwalk n/v [‘džInwak]
Sometimes, you feel like a drink, but not the bustle and expense of a bar. On the other hand, drinking alone in front of Golden Girls reruns is just depressing, and a little frightening. To split the difference, some friends of mine have come up with an activity sure to revolutionize the drinking world. By which I mean, the world.
It’s a beautiful concept; a nice long, leisurely walk with friends, all the while sipping top-shelf liquor and taking in the sights and sounds. If it’s winter, the gin will keep you warm. Even better, you’ll be getting some exercise with your booze. Of course, open container laws are a stumbling block, so the trick is to visit your local coffee place beforehand, order the cheapest item that will entitle you to a cup, and transpose your gin into said cup at the first opportunity.
Lo and behold, you’re free and clear to take a stroll without putting a damper on your growing alcohol dependency. Of course, the ginwalk is only a few steps above lying on a curb with a bottle of malt liquor hidden in a paper bag, but try not to think about that.