The theme of this post can best be summed up in the first few lines of "Bust A Move" by Young MC:
This here's a tale for all the fellas
Try to do what those ladies tell us
Get shot down 'cause you're overzealous
Play hard to get females get jealous
Basically, this is a story about a minor brush with fame, and how that minor brush was just as bad as some of you regular guys out there feel you are in the "pick-up line" department. I tell you this to make you feel better about yourselves, guys. Because if this B-lister can't knock the socks off of The Big E, then you've still got a shot. It's also a little bit of a lesson in how to avoid coming across as a douchebag (now in a convenient 2-pack)!
So I was out a couple of winters ago with a couple of girlfriends in Nashville, and these girls and I were looking to "straighten up our act and boogie down" as it were. I'll call my friends "Fran" and "Kat" for posterity's sake. Fran, Kat, and The Big E are a sophisticated bunch, and we are diverse enough to offer a little bit of something for everyone. Fran is oh-so-lovely, lithe, and boho chic; Kat is glam and straight out of Junior League. The Big E, as you know, is a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll. So we went to dinner at Sambuca, and then headed over to a dance club/bar called Layla Rul. The upstairs area is where all the action happens--there's a bar (natch) and along the walls are couches and seating areas, and then there are some tables scattered around the dance floor. Fran, Kat, and I perched our fine selves at a table near the dance floor and got us a frosty libation to enjoy whilst we watched all the white people try to shake it like a pen out of ink. And then he appeared....
It was like he just materialized at my elbow. I was sitting by myself across the table from Fran and Kat, and when I looked to my left, he was standing there, all five feet eight inches of him, looking at me. I was about eye level with him because the chair I sat in was one of those high top bar stool jobs. He looked like an aging frat boy with too much hair gel for his rapidly receding hairline, and a unlimited visit membership to the local Suntan Station. He was reasonably cute, but not enough to make The Big E lose her wits. THAT would take someone like, oh, Paul Walker. So he reaches out a hand and says, "Hi, I'm Stephen, I'm from L.A." Now, gentle reader, keep in mind that The Big E has a reputation to uphold, and since I am pretty fab I don't want just any old person knowing my true identity. I mean, Batman doesn't go around introducing himself as Bruce Wayne when he's in full crime-fighting regalia does he? Absolutely not. The Big E is always "Amy from Atlanta" when she is out on the town and surveying her domain. Those who dare approach don't get the real story until they prove themselves worthy.
So I shake his hand and say, "Hi! I'm Amy, I'm from Atlanta." To which he replies, "That's cool. I was born in Atlanta. So how are you ladies doing?" I made small talk with him for a minute before he turns to appraise my two lovely ladyfriends, who I must say were absolutely non-plussed at our visitor's appearance or demeanor. He attempted to make small talk with Kat and Fran to no avail. They rebuffed him as if he were not a B-list star with a questionable taste in fashion and dating choices.
This whole exchange was rather innocuous until he made the mistake of revealing the inner-douchebag too early....
After a couple of dead ends, he looks at Fran and says "Why are you being so mean? I'm like, the best looking guy in here." And then, without warning, he whips his head around in full Blue Steel Zoolander fashion, and gives us his best "reeeally reeeally good-loooking" face as he takes a sip from the teeny-weeny straw in his cocktail and stares us down. It was just like the movies, in slow motion, where the disco ball drops out of the sky, the smoke machine starts churning, and "Dreamweaver" starts playing in the background. He really, honestly, thought he was the shit. He thought that his Magnum look would be all it would take to turn three lovely, confident females into steaming pools of slavering jello. And while I admire his bravado and swagger, alas, he was mistaken. Sorely mistaken, I might add. Homey don't play that.
It was all we could do not to do a spit-take right in his face. Being the calm, cool-as-a-cucumber-in-a-bowl-of-hot-sauce gal that Fran is, she wittily retorted, "I'm not being mean, I'm just not into boys." And somewhere in the distance, I heard the immortal words of Bon Jovi ringing out through the streets of Nashville: SHOT DOOOOOOWN, IN A BLAZE OF GLOOOOORY.... Let me tell ya, brother man could not make his exit stage right fast enough. He skulked off to the other side of the room, behind some roped off section of couches more or less concealed by the security staff. We tried to look and see who else was back there, but we were unsuccessful.
Afterward, I looked at my lady friends and I said, "uh, girls, I think that was Stephen Dorff. Or it looked a lot like him." They were incredulous. So I did some research on the internet, and his stats matched up to what he has listed on imdb. You can check it out here:
Fran checked around with a few reliable local gossip sources, and sure enough, Our Boy Dorff was in town that weekend, chillin' with Kid Rock. I guess perhaps they had bonded since they both dated Pam Anderson, and consequently probably both have Hepatitis now. Sucks for them, but thank GAWD we didn't fall for it and end up with a terminal liver illness. We prefer the kind of liver illness you can sleep off and re-hydrate to prevent. Now every time I go to Nashville to visit Fran, I tell her, "Hey! Let's go get Dorffed!" and we just laugh and laugh at how lame he was.
So, like I said, a minor brush with a B-list celebrity, but the moral of the story is this....fellas, if you're genuine, sincere, and friendly, we can't fault you for that. Even if you're not our type, you won't get shot down too harshly because we appreciate your effort. However, if you attempt some serious cockery, acting like you're hot snot on a silver platter when you're just cold boogers on a paper plate, your justice will be swift and it will be blindingly painful. A simple, "Hi, my name is (insert name here). What's yours?" or even better, "I saw you over here and wanted to say hello. Can I buy you a drink?" will suffice. No need to pull out your best David Beckham impersonation, no need to be arrogant, just chill til the next episode. Otherwise you might be asked to borrow your lighter. And when we flick that little flame up in the air and sing "Dream On", you know you've been dismissed.