Friday
Jan132006
Celeb Sighting In Urban Country..Would I Kid, Man?
I am not too cool for school. When I spot a celebrity, I am agog. I am a drooling, slavering idiot. PRIVATELY, of course. I keep my idiocy within the confines of my immediate company, or, if alone, I proceed to call everyone I know and hiss "I am behind Liam Neeson at the Starbucks! His pants are dirty!"
As far as the celebrity I have spotted is concerned, I am a very hip, happening New Yorker who regularly mingles with stars. My nonchalant facade is in top form. New Yorkers who shrug shoulders when you excitely gabble your latest sighting are full of shit. They're diggin' a celeb sighting as much as the next moronic citizen.
I dig sightings mostly because the sentence "she is so fat in person" or "she has terrible acne" works wonders for my saggy self esteem. So when country crooner Keith Urban clippety-clopped past me and my computer shopping accomplice Dave while we were on the Upper West Side yesterday, I knew exactly what to do.
"Follow him."
Normally I wouldn't know Keith Urban from Kenny Chesney or Tim McGraw, until they started turning up with their famous, blonde, significant others. That, coupled with the fact that The Surge and I once entertained ourselves for a good half hour while watching some awards show by making fun of our man Keith's perfectly highlighted do, (the streaks are so perfect you can envision him squatting in the hair chair at his posh salon, tinfoil atop his scruffy mug) made him instantly recognizable.
The wee fella clomped by me, boots with three inch heels tapping a staccato rhythm on the sidewalk, as he chattered into his cell phone. The Aussie accent confirmed my suspicions.
"That's Keith Urban." I tell Dave.
"Who's Keith Urban?" Dave, a reputable fellow who doesn't pay B-list celebrities any mind, queried. (Yes Dave, you queried)
I sigh, whip out my cell phone and dial someone who will appreciate the star sighting.
"I am following Keith Urban at Columbus Square." I tell The Surge.
"What's he wearing?" He responds. That's my fellow. The Surge can always be counted on for a scandalously joyful celeb gossip natter.
"Damn, I think we lost him," I tell The Surge. "He's walking fast."
I hang up and Dave and I continue our stroll uptown. A few minutes later we're crossing the street when we walk smack into Keith Urban, camped out in front of a Starbucks. "Let's go get a coffee." I manhandle Dave into the Starbucks, shove a fiver at him and plop onto a stool in front of a window that overlooks Keith's perch.
Moments later Dave returns with my coffee.
"So he's dating Nicole Kidman?" Dave asks.
"Yup." I reply distractedly as I surreptitiously snap photos of Keith with my cell phone.
"What if he's waiting for her?"
"Do you think--" I ask. "He's obviously waiting for someone."
Dave, suffuciently cheered by the specter of a Kidman sighting sips his coffee contentedly.
I am in the middle of telling Dave something or other when I notice, as usual, that he's not listening. He's looking over my shoulder. Now this is nothing new in our friendship. I'm often talking, Dave's often looking over my shoulder. But something in his look prompted me to turn around.
There, strolling through the doorway is the thunder from down under herself, ladies and gentleman, Ms. Nicole Kidman!
I'd like to say she was fatter in person.
I can't.
I'd like to say she is much prettier in the movies.
I can't.
I'd like to say she looks like a normal person.
I can't.
The woman is fucking STUNNING. She glows like she swallowed a spotlight. Luminescent.
She strolled with Keith, arm in arm, before seperating so she could hide in the corner while he ordered coffee..
As quickly as they came, they were gone.
"Did you see how coyly she avoided me?" My pal Dave whispered. "Prentending like I wasn't here. Good actress, she is. Deserves that Oscar. I know she was crying on the inside that she couldn't acknowledge her devotion to me."
As far as the celebrity I have spotted is concerned, I am a very hip, happening New Yorker who regularly mingles with stars. My nonchalant facade is in top form. New Yorkers who shrug shoulders when you excitely gabble your latest sighting are full of shit. They're diggin' a celeb sighting as much as the next moronic citizen.
I dig sightings mostly because the sentence "she is so fat in person" or "she has terrible acne" works wonders for my saggy self esteem. So when country crooner Keith Urban clippety-clopped past me and my computer shopping accomplice Dave while we were on the Upper West Side yesterday, I knew exactly what to do.
"Follow him."
Normally I wouldn't know Keith Urban from Kenny Chesney or Tim McGraw, until they started turning up with their famous, blonde, significant others. That, coupled with the fact that The Surge and I once entertained ourselves for a good half hour while watching some awards show by making fun of our man Keith's perfectly highlighted do, (the streaks are so perfect you can envision him squatting in the hair chair at his posh salon, tinfoil atop his scruffy mug) made him instantly recognizable.
The wee fella clomped by me, boots with three inch heels tapping a staccato rhythm on the sidewalk, as he chattered into his cell phone. The Aussie accent confirmed my suspicions.
"That's Keith Urban." I tell Dave.
"Who's Keith Urban?" Dave, a reputable fellow who doesn't pay B-list celebrities any mind, queried. (Yes Dave, you queried)
I sigh, whip out my cell phone and dial someone who will appreciate the star sighting.
"I am following Keith Urban at Columbus Square." I tell The Surge.
"What's he wearing?" He responds. That's my fellow. The Surge can always be counted on for a scandalously joyful celeb gossip natter.
"Damn, I think we lost him," I tell The Surge. "He's walking fast."
I hang up and Dave and I continue our stroll uptown. A few minutes later we're crossing the street when we walk smack into Keith Urban, camped out in front of a Starbucks. "Let's go get a coffee." I manhandle Dave into the Starbucks, shove a fiver at him and plop onto a stool in front of a window that overlooks Keith's perch.
Moments later Dave returns with my coffee.
"So he's dating Nicole Kidman?" Dave asks.
"Yup." I reply distractedly as I surreptitiously snap photos of Keith with my cell phone.
"What if he's waiting for her?"
"Do you think--" I ask. "He's obviously waiting for someone."
Dave, suffuciently cheered by the specter of a Kidman sighting sips his coffee contentedly.
I am in the middle of telling Dave something or other when I notice, as usual, that he's not listening. He's looking over my shoulder. Now this is nothing new in our friendship. I'm often talking, Dave's often looking over my shoulder. But something in his look prompted me to turn around.
There, strolling through the doorway is the thunder from down under herself, ladies and gentleman, Ms. Nicole Kidman!
I'd like to say she was fatter in person.
I can't.
I'd like to say she is much prettier in the movies.
I can't.
I'd like to say she looks like a normal person.
I can't.
The woman is fucking STUNNING. She glows like she swallowed a spotlight. Luminescent.
She strolled with Keith, arm in arm, before seperating so she could hide in the corner while he ordered coffee..
As quickly as they came, they were gone.
"Did you see how coyly she avoided me?" My pal Dave whispered. "Prentending like I wasn't here. Good actress, she is. Deserves that Oscar. I know she was crying on the inside that she couldn't acknowledge her devotion to me."
Celebrity
Reader Comments (11)
1. I never, ever "query." I don't care what you say.
2. Nobody buy it. Monica was not nearly as outworldly "cool" as she claims. However, she was MUCH better than the freakish stalker chick who went up to my wife Nicole, asked for a picture (declined), then whined about the "mean" woman. "Who is she, anyway?"
3. Monica was so busy dreaming about the $100,000 she could make taking a picture of Nicky & whatshisname-- she forgot to take the picture.
4. I'm sorry, were you talking?
5. Perhaps most important: I PAID AT STARBUCKS. You owe me $22.50 for a tall coffee (not latte) with milk and sugar.
Dave - you do to query. AND you muse! And I don't care what you say - I would sell my soul and a stupid pic of Nic and Keith for a cool hundred grand.
By the by, she is way taller than him.