Don't Feed the Celebrities

by Elizabeth Keenan

You can’t walk ten blocks in the city these days without spotting someone famous. The prospect that I may run into Ed Burns in my pajamas while buying tampons and a Crunch bar (which I have) is all part of the urban adventure. My problem: I never know if I can trust myself to uphold the cardinal rule of being a New Yorker—NEVER acknowledge the stars.

A few Sundays ago, I walked into my favorite bar and great underground celeb sighting spot, the Corner Bistro in Greenwich Village. There I've seen John Stewart, John Lithgow, Philip Seymour Hoffman, John Hawkes, Chad Lowe, and Monica Lewinsky. As I was about to go inside, I spotted Peter Dinklage, the star of The Station Agent and Nip/Tuck, and I was overcome with the urge to call out to him and tell him how kick-ass I think he is.

But he looked tired, annoyed, and on a mission. Knowing how irritated I get when someone steps right into my path and asks me a stupid question, I stopped myself. Compelled to maintain my status of unimpressed urbanite, I reluctantly kept my mouth shut and didn’t look directly at him until he was walking away from me. What if someone saw me? My residency could be revoked, my status as a true New Yorker sullied for all eternity.

My sightings have ranged from the brag-worthy—DeNiro, Pesci and Keitel eating dinner so close to me I could have nabbed a shrimp from Pesci's plate—to the absurd, when I saw the entire Hulk Hogan clan posing with Japanese tourists in the West Village. On all occasions I have kept my eyes averted, my mouth shut and never once reached for my cell phone camera to capture the moments for myself or potentially skeptical friends.

The question of why most New Yorkers keep up the act of not recognizing celebrities fascinates me. Is it because we respect that these stars choose to live in our down-to-earth city as opposed to L.A.? That they appreciate Sunday brunch and cheap beers, sidewalk fairs and live music as much as the rest of us? Or is it because New Yorkers regard themselves as celebrities compared to the rest of the world. Thus, they are impenetrably unimpressed by actual celebrities?

Recently, at a friend's birthday celebration at the magical bar Peter McManus, my friends and I found ourselves in a celebrity clusterfuck. Surrounding us was SNL star Amy Poehler, her husband (and star of the Oscar favorite Welcome to Prison) Will Arnett, Joey Slotnick from Nip/Tuck and Boston Public, SNL vets Kevin Pollak and Horatio Sanz, and John "Jim" Krasinski from The Office. Like usual, I tried to observe the group without staring.

Unbelievably, John K. was literally standing in the same circle of people I was, due to the birthday’s boy chutzpah of introducing himself and befriending him. I controlled myself as best I could, smiled like an idiot while silently musing about how nice and normal and like his character he seemed. And then I lost control.

I grabbed his hand to shake it like those crazed, fainting-prone Beatles groupies. Then I actually attempted to engage him in a conversation about having a similar hometown. I moved out of his hometown when I was eleven, so it was hard to sustain a meaningful “we are soul mates” kind of conversation with him, but I tried. Thankfully, he was kind and humored me much longer then most probably would, but the damage was done. I actually said “I’m a huge fan of your work.” Someone should have killed me right then and there.

The aftermath was regret. Interestingly, more regret then letting Peter Dinklage walk into the sunset without a word.

My conclusion: it is always better to remain the oblivious New Yorker coexisting with the famous. This is as much our town as theirs, so there’s really no need to let them think otherwise. If they don’t like it, they can go back to L.A.

(Article originally published 12/1/06. Image from glaisterstag06's flickr.)

Comments

[peter]

thanks for the shoutout, Keenan. Although I'm still trying to find the perfect "in" with celebs because I may live in New York but dammit I'm just too stupidly starstruck.