A lot of people ask why I never got into actors, why I just stick to athletes and dudes who play sports. Why not try and push my way into B list actors (or rather, let them push their way into me) and get on that whole scene? It's all the same spotlight, right?
Sure, I'll buy that. More money, more fame, at times better longevity of career. But there's also puppets. And I got the fucking puppets.
I was in LA with Chris a little over a year ago. Two months previous, I had been in London for some work and ended up at the Cartier Polo Match. I scammed my ass into the VIP Cartier tent, where I was lying about being an FHM model in London for work. Please don't ask me why people believed it, seriously.
I'm standing in the tent drinking a glass of Champagne and I see this tall dude. He looks super familiar. I'm texting my Gay, Karl, and I'm like "yo, I think the guy from (this funny movie) is standing in front of me and looking at me...but I don't want to talk to him, because if it's not him, he's not attractive enough to banter with."
Lo and behold, I hear him speak and I'm 100% sure it's the dude from this movie. I bust my way outside and walk right up to him, because I apparently ca do anything when drinking Champagne.
"Hey, you're (dude's name), right?"
"Yeah," he's totally stoked I came up to him. He's smoking, which is gross. Dude, is, HUGE. Like, GIANT.
We start bullshitting, he tells me I look beautiful (everyone at this shindig is in like 800 dollar designer dresses and suits, I'm wearing this hideous floral dress that was on sale for 45$ at Abercrombie that I dressed up with a good belt), we exchange numbers. We hang out the next night at The Ivy (I had to drop it, I'm so gay) but nothing happens. He Google searches me (apparently the ladies aren't the only one who've Google stalked my ass, way to be in good company girls), texts me and compliments me on my writing, whatever. Obviously he was Googling me to see if he could find the FHM photos that clearly DO NOT EXIST.
Two months later, I'm in LA. Easily the 2nd most bender vacay I've ever had in my life. My friend Chris and I were basically famous in our own minds for five days. We were staying at The Roosevelt and hit up Teddy's the last night we were there. We were at like, the shadiest fucking d-list table ever. Cedric the Entertainer, CHris Evans (who I tried to hit on and is a huge fucking dbag, btw), one of the dudes from Puddle of Mudd (that's a band, apparently), the chick who had a sex tape with Collin Farrel...yeah, we were like "how the fuck did we get here?" Anyway, actor giant calls me and asks me to come over. I haul ass to his place, and he comes out, clearly drunk.
I'll give him credit, his house is amazing. But I walked in and he offered me some shitty rose and I sit down on his couch. We literally insult each other for 45 minutes. At one point he told me I was "one of the biggest assholes he'd ever met" and that he was "seriously thinking about asking me to leave". To which I responded "dude, you're in baby blue velour pants and I'm sitting next to a puppet."
Obviously we fucked. Like, I wasn't paying 20 bucks for a cab and treking all across West hollywood on my last night in LA to come out storyless. So we bang, and it's shady. There are puppets in his room. On his desk.\
I left his house at 8 in the morning. He called 411 for the cab from my phone. Didn't walk me out. Nothing better than that asshole afterfuck routine. As I left I saw a room on the second floor landing. I stopped dead, holding my heels, and stared.
Muppets. Puppets. EVERYWHERE. Like, an entire playroom dedicated to puppets.
When the fuck did I sign on to be in a made for TV movie based on a STEPHEN KING NOVEL?! Like, holy fucking Return of the Puppet Master, I'm in an episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark. These little bitches are going to chase me out of his house with butcher knives in like, five seconds. Someone's going to find my body in a dumpster strangled with marionette strings.
Needless to say, despite the dude hitting me up on multiple occasions when he was in New York, I've yet to need a good story so desperately again that I'd go there again.
And that has since turned me off actors. If Chase Crawford or that dude from Star Trek the movie were hitting me up, yeah, I'd be all about it. But I've got the whole "fuck him because he's famous only" thing out of my system. I have my one story, and it's pretty fucking unique, and for now, I'll stick to embarrassing my ass with athletes who have hockey sticks and shin guards in their bedrooms, not Kermit the fucking Frog replicas.