I didn’t meet my hero, but I avoided a knife fight. Call it a wash.
I was stumbling out of a bar between championship games on Sunday, nursing a not-insubstantial buzz and walking backwards while talking to a friend, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a guy walking up the street behind me and veered to miss him. As I spun around, I came face to face with none other than Danny Trejo, the most hardass Mexican of all time. I had only a few seconds to react, and the only thing that went through my brain was, “Holy sh*t, I own a t-shirt with your face on it!” Even in my addled state, that seemed like a really stupid thing to say, so I just froze and let him pass by. It remains the biggest regret of my life. *peels rose petal, stares out window*
“And this has to do with Geronimo?”
“No, the porn convention.”
“And she was like, ‘Oh, I heard about you through the graffiti and fixed-gear circles.'”
[My friend Ryan, to a girl wearing a white fox-fur vest] “I like your, uh, pelt.”
[Girl, who claimed to work ‘in fashion’] “Thanks! People are always bashing fur, but… I don’t get it. Isn’t that, like, what animals are for?”
[Girl’s super-bitchy gay best friend] “Ugh, can we go? We’re just like, standing in a bar. I could do this anywhere.”
“Man, Philip Seymour Hoffman does not know how to dress, shower, or shave.”
“So in your movie… do you ever explain why there are dinosaurs?”
That’s all for now. Expect a Howl review tonight or tomorrow (it was better than I expected).