I’m going to level with you from the get-go: I don’t celebrity spot (read: harass) well. That is mostly due to a lack of practice and a few bad experiences (you know how those things can scar for life). But for some reason I refuse to give up. Probably for the same reason I fail to quit guessing at people’s names – sheer male stupidity. But that’s a topic for another day.
I’ve had run-ins with celebrities. They’ve mostly been D-listers but beggars can’t be choosers and frankly they are waaaaaaay more famous than I’ll ever be so they get instant kudos just for that. Actually one celebrity encounter that went really well was with a famous NZ swimmer. I just happened to be up at the Mount enjoying the hot pools, ran into some friends, struck up some friendly chit-chat with a guy who just happened to be sitting next to them and after a few minutes he left, which puzzled me because I had thought he was tagging along with my mates. My mates by this stage were having a right laugh at me and I had no idea why – turns out the guy I had been casually chewing the fat with was Moss Burmester. Yep I had no idea. Ten points for not coming on to him or asking for a signature but I was awarded no points for celebrity blindness.
My next run-in (and this was quite literally a run-in) was with Elvis outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood. Now you would expect to see celebrities here in L.A. but here’s the thing. Celebrities in L.A. are seasoned pros, they’ve been coached by the best to be invisible. You don’t even see their nannies or gardeners until awards night, and then you’re fighting with a hundred desperate Americans, photographers and bodyguards to see a brief flash of those expensively white Hollywood teeth.
But you will see plenty of fake celebrities. And to be fair they are famous in their own special way. After being the friendly Kiwi and discussing the giant white rabbits of NZ (sheep) with Darth we stumbled across the overfed greaseball that was Elvis who only seemed to know two phrases in English: “Hooooooooollywood” and “wheres my tip”. Our good friend and tour guide Erik Sowman harangued him with the video camera and then got me to ask him some serious questions about his next tour to NZ. He didn’t really understand so we were moving on when he pressed us for money. I’m not cheap (ok just a little) but he hadn’t done anything worthy of a tip, in fact just moments before I had helped him out by taking his photo with someone. Nope, were making a documentary and it would be wrong to bias the interviews with bribes. I think the last thing recorded on camera was him sulking off into the crowd using language I don’t think the real Elvis would have approved of.
So I get to my latest celebrity encounter and it happens to be at some swing dancing class in Armagh St. Now I have to say categorically right here that I could be totally wrong about this but I saw this woman and I thought straight away that that is blogger of the year, Moata Tamaira. I’m not sure why I started getting nervous with excitement because before winning Fairfax’s Blog Idol competition she was like the rest of us, except she worked in a library, which is beyond the scope of most of us because the art of shushing people cannot be learned – you must be born with it. But when I shared my hot celebrity tip with the girl standing next to me I got a puzzled look that told me either (a) I had the wrong person or (b) Moata is not as famous as I think she is. I refused to believe either and am sticking with my suspicions.
I could just ask her but that would take all the fun out of it. I’ll just stalk her from afar and wait for clues that will give her away. I suspect Fairfax have put her up to learning the Lindy Hop for blog inspiration. I get nervous just imagining the sardonic comments that will pepper her retelling of sweaty palms and social awkwardness, as we shuffled around the floor. But I’m getting way ahead of myself here. I need to plan this, carefully rehearse my approach and keep it real. The last thing a famous blogger wants is a wannabe blogger assuming familiarity just because I read her blog, that doesn’t count as an invitation to her inner circle. And, according to my trusted sources, I shouldn’t assume familiarity, or I could come off looking a little nutty. So if you’re listening Moata and we do cross paths, I’ll do my best to pretend I don’t know you. Unless you like nutty? I can do nutty.
So what celebrity crossings have you experienced lately? A-list, B-list or Z-list I’m not fussy. Or maybe you are a celebrity and you’d like to sign my guest book – you may – I won’t be offended if you use a fake email address.