Last night I went with housemate Dav to my new favorite restaurant: a crazy, cozy, wonderful sushi joint called Country Station. It was a bizarre meal, indeed.
A strange drunk woman told Dav she was entranced by his “look.” She immediately began photographing Dav, and she continued to snap shots and compliment him for about an hour, until we paid our bill and headed out. Then she stumbled along after Dav, babbling and snapping photos on the street.
Later we headed to a bar a few blocks away, and guess who was there? His new groupie lurched over and happily began a new photo session. Then I started photographing her photographing him.
Things became interesting as the other bar patrons tried to figure out who this celebrity was. A smarmy yuppie sidled up next to me and said, “Yo bruh. Who’s your friend? Oh come on bruh, tell me his name.”
So I said, “Come on now, leave him alone. He never goes out anymore because people harass him like this wherever he goes. Do you know what I had to go through to drag him out tonight? I promised not to answer any questions about him; if you want his name you’ll have to ask him.”
“Fine. My girlfriend will know anyway,” he said. “She knows who all the celebrities are.”
Five minutes later, just as Groupie Number One wrapped up her final photo shoot, the girlfriend showed up and began interrogating Dav.
“I know you’re someone famous, who are you? Are you David Morrow? Seriously, you are David Morrow aren’t you?”
(Incidentally, who the hell is David Morrow?)
Dav — who emphasizes now that he did not adore the attention — had to escape eventually, so I hailed a cab and we headed to one of those oddball San Francisco parties where a naked woman lies on a table, and chefs carefully cover her body with freshly prepared sushi for the guests.
Yes indeed. Last night, sushi was the magic word.