Friends with Benefits

I've always wondered what it is about celebrities that enthrall people. The best part is, it doesn't even matter what kind of celebrity it is. From A-list to Z-list, the reactions are always the same: Swoon and stare like a starstruck idiot in awe of someone that probably has no higher than a high school education. But, I guess that's the world we live in. A world dominated by Britney, Gaga, and Miley Cyrus. And who am I to complain? These days, it seems the dumber you are, the further ahead you move in life. It's fucked up, but it's real. This is why I sit in my room and kill brain cells every night after work, in hopes of striking it rich and/or famous. Plan B is welfare or zookeeper.

Of course, last weekend I was standing in line to get into one of the most over-priced and over-hyped gay "hot spots" in DC and, as I turned to pay, I saw a familiar face. Not the kind that you see and think, "holy shit he looks familiar, I hope I didn't sleep with him and leave my underwear at his place." No, this was a far different type of familiar face. One you only see on television, and as recently as the previous weekend. As I stood there, I mouthed to my friend, "Is that Ana Gasteyer from the old SNL cast/the mom from Mean Girls?". He looked at me confused. I turned around and asked, "Aren't you Ana Gasteyer?". She responds with, "Why yes I am! What's your name?" Immediately, I turned into the type of person that I never ever EVER want to be. I swooned and babbled on about how I loved her in the Betty White Mother's Day special of SNL. Something took over me, and it was not pretty. She smiled and nodded a disinterested nod, and I instantly felt awkward and transitioned into the "I don't give a shit who you are" phase. I think it's a defense mechanism so that I don't seem like a crazy, adderal filled teeny bopper. Of course, my friend Matt (who is always a relentless train wreck of a human being) screamed like a flaming homosexual. This wasn't your ordinary scream. This was the type of scream that you let out when you either a.) see a tarantula in the shower while nude and armed with only a bar of soap and a low-pressure shower head, or b.) see the ghost of your dead grandmother walking into your room in nothing but a sarong and unbuttoned nightie, exposing saggy and withered breasts that not even God himself would stare at on judgment day and say, "Ok you're in. But first things first, go see Dr. Goldstein to fix that freak-show under your shirt. He's in suite B, located in the Medical Malpractice section just beyond the entrance gates." As a result of this scream, poor Ana expressed a look on her face that could only be interpreted to mean, Dear Obama, please keep the ban on gay marriage. They're just not ready.

For some reason, it seems the less you care about someone, the more they are willing to approach you. Yet another odd parity of life. This seems to be the common trend in relationships as well. The less you seem to care about someone, the more they chase after you. I guess amidst our own stupidity as human beings, this sort of makes sense. I suppose it provides for cheap thrills in an otherwise monotonous daily life consumed by work and fake smiles to strangers. It was because of my new lack of interest that I was able to carry on almost a 45 minute conversation with Ms. Gasteyer, who eventually ventured off to the velvet room in the back (dubbed the "quiet room"), where the gays were less likely to harass her for a photo wile screaming "I love you bitch!!". In fact, as she entered the establishment, the gays swarmed her like crows on a dead deer, begging and pleading for pictures. Directly next to me, I heard a gay scream, "Oh my god I want a picture for my twitter!". This was immediately followed by him turning to me and asking, "Who is this bitch anyway?" And that, right there, made me seriously doubt Darwin's theory of natural selection/survival of the fittest. With any luck, this homo will appear on American Idol in full make-up and tranny boots and still land himself a record deal. Within the year, he won't be able to enter any mall without people swarming him for pictures, all the while someone will be posing for a picture with him and wondering, "Who is this fruitbasket?"

Eventually, my new friend Ana Gastayer and I had quite the interesting conversation. It turns out she was here for her 25th high school reunion at the Sidwell Friends School (she's actually an intelligent celebrity!). Immediately, I pulled out my pretentious private school card and told her I attended Georgetown Prep. This is probably one of the only times in my life where that $20,000 a year private school education my parents paid for actually paid off. It gave me 5 minutes of fame where I can forever claim Ana Gasteyer as my personal friend and confidant. I even shared with her the story of my broken foot as she laughed hysterically (hopefully with me, and not at me. But who even cares, I was successfully entertaining an entertainer). Had she provided me a healing remedy that included a gallon of lube, a hot tub full of men, and a sacrificial goat, I would have certainly gone along with it. That's how close of friends we became. At least, in my delusional head. I can only hope that next time I'm in NYC, I can drop by her apartment and perhaps be invited to stay for dinner. Or at the very least, get kindly escorted off the premises by an attractive doorman that falls in love with me. When people ask how we met, I can reply confidently with, "Oh, well we met through my good friend, Ana Gasteyer. She's such a sweetheart."

~ F.A.G.