In 1991 I was 20 years old and working my way through college. Most weekends and holidays were spent driving a cab to make a few extra dollars. The economy was bad, the hours were terrible and the pay was even worse, but since I was working the early morning shift, I had lots of time to study and work on assignments.

Except in peak periods, most cabbies would just sit and wait for their dispatcher to send them to an address. My preference was to wait downtown between the Four Seasons Hotel and the Radisson. There was lots of pedestrian traffic and lots of action on most weekend nights, so I’d take whatever reasonable spot I could find, switch on my dome light, and wait for a call.

One warm dry night in September, I had gone well past the peak time without a fare, and I had less than an hour to go before my shift was over. Suddenly there was someone climbing into the front seat beside me. He was babbling like mad, he stunk, he was soaking wet, and he sure as heck wasn’t supposed to be sitting in the front. I began to ask him to move to the back seat, but he swung around to face me. And even though he had foam at the corners of his mouth; even though he was dirty, and stunk of urine and booze; even though he was wearing clothes that looked like he had found them in a dumpster, I still had no trouble recognizing Kurt Cobain.

Kurt Cobain. He’s in my cab. He’s cursing, he’s babbling, he’s filthy, drooling, stoned, smelly, half crazy and absolutely the most frightening person I had ever seen, but he is still Kurt Cobain and he is sitting in my cab. Beside me, in the front seat. Kurt Bloody Cobain. Maybe I won’t ask him to move to the back seat.

“Terzy’s” it sounded like.
“Where?”
“Terby’s! Fzking Vergy’s, for fzksake!! Gdammit, let’s go!!” The man was out of his mind.
“What’s the address?”
“KIRBY'S, YOU ZZHOLE!! IN NORTH FOREST! LET'S GO!!”

I decide it might be best to drive like mad to Terzy’s/Vergy’s/Kirby’s in North Forest and get the details later. Besides, Kurt Cobain is busy making a bubble in his left nostril., while he watches an imaginary tennis match between the ashtray and the door handle. He’s bobbing, nodding, twitching, scrubbing his hair, and he’s wound up like a top. Then, out of nowhere, he clearly says, “487 North Forest Crescent. At the end of the street”

The bobbing, nodding and twitching resume. We have about an eight minute drive, and Kurt doesn’t stop moving for a second. He punctuates his time with a few bursts of foul language aimed at the windshield: “FZKING JZS GODMTHRFZKING FZK!!” He looks at me like I had said it, then wipes his nose with his sleeve. Two more similar outbursts, and we’re finally at North Forest Crescent, a quiet cul-de-sac in a very wealthy area. I drive to the end of the road, and start heading up the steep driveway with the number 487 in front.

Kurt says, “Blchmn.”
“Pardon?”
“Balching. Backnig!! BACK NIG!! BACK IN, YOU FZXKNG ZZHOLE!!”.

Got it, Kurt. Don’t have to be told twice. I turn around, and back up the driveway. Kurt says, “Wft”
“Wait?”
“Uhhuh.”
Kurt jumps out, runs into the open carport, and disappears into the dark. I wait.

Still waiting. My shift ends in ten minutes. Ray will want his car back, and he really hates it when I’m late. Those early morning airport runs are gold. Even the tips go on the expense account, and if Ray misses one of those runs because of me, he’ll absolutely kill me. And who cares if this is Kurt Cobain, he’s a drunken smelly stoned idiot. I’m getting out of here.

Just as I start the car, the door opens and another Kurt Cobain climbs in. This man is clean, shaven, smiling, normal looking. He’s wearing clean jeans, sandals, and a crisp white t-shirt. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Can you take me to the Four Seasons, please?”

“You got it, Kurt. Hey, man, I have all your cd’s. In Vitro absolutely ROCKS, man, and y’know, I’ve even got a promo single of yours from a guy I know who works at The FOX it’s called “Smells Like Teen Spirit” have you heard of it? Oh man I didn’t mean that. Oh man that was stupid. Hey, I really like … bla … bla … bla … bla … but the sweetest stuff you ever did was that early stuff you did with Krist Novoselic. Man, that was the absolute best. Here we are. Fifty’s fine. Change? Hey thanks, man, take care. See ya.”

Once upon a time, in my younger days, I was employed on a movie called He ain't heavy. Later named The long road home, then renamed Brothers destiny.
During my employ I was assigned the task of babysitting the stars of the show under the guise Trainee Assistant Director. The movie had a few stars, namely Kris Kristofferson, Mickey Rooney, Danny Aiello etc, but this story has a different focus. Vincent Schiavelli. (You have seen him in One flew over the cuckoo's nest.)
This was a very low budget, no budget really, film that was mainly shot on either distant locations or any mud bog that we could find. I was assigned to all of the actors, but most of the time I was with Mr. Schiavelli. I would have to walk them to their dressing room (trailers) follow them to hair/makeup, basically make sure that they don't get lost or go AWOL.
Every single day of that show Mr. Schiavelli got me yelled at for taking too long getting him to set when they were ready to shoot, he loved nothing more than to stroll along taking his time while the crew waited and waited for us to arrive.
I wore a headset so that the ad's (assistant directors) could talk to each other privately without the whole set knowing when there was a problem. So every day Vincent and I would take our time walking to set with Jacques (the first AD and big boss man on set) yelling in my ear "get that long faced prick down here in the next 2 minutes or you are fired!" "We're five minutes away Jacques, be right there." I'd say in a nice calm voice as not to upset the "talent". "You said that 10 minutes ago!" Jacques would scream at me. He was French Canadian and not afraid to use volume to get his point across.
This went on day in and day out, 16 hours a day in the pouring rain I'd get screamed at while trying desperately to hurry up this man who had all the time in the world to saunter on up to set.
One day, actually the 2nd to last day of the shoot, word came down that the show had lost its bond and that no-one on the crew was going to get paid for the previous 2 weeks that they had already worked. Then we found out from the company accountant that they had actually lost the bond earlier and wanted to get the movie in the can before they told anyone. Well the crew went ballistic, transport ran off with the film and the crew went on strike. This was a really ugly scene, everyone was furious, I basically just took off my headset and just sat down in the circus (that's what they call all the trailers). A door opened. It was Vincent Schiavelli, he looked at me and said "you want a brandy?" I said "sure, doesn't look like I'm on the job anymore"
We went into his trailer and drank brandy and smoked his cigars for a couple hours. The whole time he told me stories of movies he had worked on. There was one common theme in all the stories. Patience.
He told me never to get too excited about anything on a movie set because one way or another it was all going to get in the can. This guy that made my life a living nightmare for weeks on end turned out to be one of the wisest movie people I have ever met. Now when I see people tearing their hair out, on set, and worrying about this or that, I tell them about the brandy and cigars that made my life a whole lot easier. Vincent Schiavelli, not such a bad guy after all. It's amazing how people can surprise you sometimes.

I was drunk and deeply depressed. I had just gotten laid off…again. My life had gone from worse to pathetic. I grabbed the shot of tequila and rammed it down my throat. It felt like someone was piercing my whacked brain with a hypodermic needle full of Drano. That burning sensation eliminated yet another portion of my screwed up memories. I looked up and he was there. Mr. Slick.

It was obvious that he didn’t belong at Joe’s. He was the only person wearing clean clothes. Hell, he smelled pretty too. He looked at me with the vacuous eyes of a deer about to be blown away.

He tilted his head with a wooden lurch that mocked humanity when he said, “Wull, hello citizen. I’m Al Gore and I’m running for President of these fine United States! I’m here to learn about America and what you need to have a better life.”

I peeled my arm from the bar and noticed that Joe hadn’t bothered spraying for flies again. Not that it mattered, I hadn’t taken the trash out of my place for weeks and it was a relief to be away from that buzzing infestation that I called home.

I squeezed my eyes shut, really hard, and long. Sometimes the haze fades when I do that. This time when I opened my eyes, he was closer, violating my personal space. He was intent. He looked desperate. He had the same look that my dad used to have when he had blown his paycheck at the track. Payday had come and gone and he was more than broke. All I ever got from him was a half empty bag of popcorn that he had fished from the garbage can.

“Tell me your name fellow American. I’m here to listen and learn. You can teach me about America.”

I was so drunk that I had to look at the tattoo on my arm to remember my name.

“Elvis, my name is Elvis.” I didn’t mean to drool, but that was a side effect of the shakes.

“Wull, Elvis, I’m running for President and I want your advice. It’s a tight race and I’m thinking that America has the answer for me.”

I stared. Greasy foreheads make me uncomfortable. His ears seemed to take on the characteristics of Dumbo’s. They fluttered when he spoke.

“I’m not really sure what I can do to help you, Mr. Gore.” I wasn’t even sure what I could do to help myself. I was broke, jobless, and without a woman. Puking was going to be the highlight of my day.

He spoke without breathing, “Wull, first of all, you can call me Al! Second of all, I’m in a pickle, if you know what I mean. I need to beat this guy, George. Any advice? I mean, how would you focus your attention?”

By now, the tequila was reaching it’s potential. Just to be sure, I spiked another and let my ulcers bleed. I was feeling kinda smart and I did watch the news…sometimes.

I grabbed his stiff shoulders and gave him a good hard shaken’.

“Looky here, Al, baby. Here’s whatcha gotta do big boy. Take whatcha got and make it happen! Show’em your smarter. Talk it up so he can’t even figure out watch’er sayin’. AND don’t even worry about the votes of yer HOME STATE! You got that one in the bag! And looky here, dress like you mean bisness.”

With that, I grabbed Joe’s copy of Hustler and opened it up to the editorial section. I ripped out a page and handed it to him. There was Larry Flynt, my hero, dressed for success.

“Now that’s dressin’! Look at them women hangin’ on him. You dress like that and you got the womin’s vote in the bag!”

I have to admit, Larry was sharp. Black suit, dark green shirt and NO tie. That’s my type of President.

I was on a roll. Al had ordered a drink and was just sippin'it. I pointed at the door, he looked, I grabbed his drink and slugged it down like an oyster.

My eyes were blurrin’ and burning…Everclear! That tanker was launching loaded missiles!

I had him now. Here’s what I said, “Kick the bum offa your ticket. Don’t let Bill OR Hillary spoil yer run. Don’t EVEN talk about’em ceptin’ for trash. That’s it!”

I started getting the jerks, you know, spasms that don’t stop unless you bathe them in tequila. Al looked at me. That old bonehead of his lit up.

He looked at me and grabbed my hand and shook it up and down like it was his own personal toy.

He said, “That’s America speaking! I’ll do it!”

I saw Al the next week on TV and he was LOOKING good!

I don’t remember much about the first time I met a celebrity, except that I was in a small plane that crashed somewhere in a remote area of the Rockies. I was about two or three years old traveling with my family, and I remember the plane going down and seeing the flames and hearing the screams and somehow knowing that my family was dead. I don’t remember much after that. Somewhere along the way, though, a kindly fur trapper found me and raised me as his own. I guess he could’ve just left me alone to starve in the wilderness easily enough, but he didn’t. Some of my friends say that he just wanted somebody to do chores for him or he just wanted somebody to push around, but I think he just wanted some company. Eventually I got to know him and call him by the affectionate term “Uncle J”. The rest of you know him simply as Mr. Jon Lovitz.
Things were easy and soft at first. I remember Jon would cook flapjacks and sing for me and occasionally put on twisted puppet shows with beaver pelts. He was just like a father to me, maybe even better. Every now and then I look back and wish that those beginning times could’ve gone on forever, but they couldn’t. There was much to learn.
I learned how to set up bear and raccoon traps. I learned how to skin animals and how to prepare their hides, but mostly I learned how to live off the land. I was a quick learner, and I’m proud to say I saved Jon’s life a few times whenever he got in a jam. Jon had his moments as well, I remember him fighting a bear to the death with his bare hands on more than one occasion. When we had an adequate amount of furs to sell, we’d go to the open-air market in some small town nestled between the Rocky Mountain foothills. Sometimes business went exceptionally well and then we could really have a night on the town, and how. I don’t think any college kid can even dream of some of the stuff we did.
Things weren’t always carefree and fun, though. I’m not sure if anybody’s believed or even heard the rumors about Jon’s dark streak, but believe me, they are true. I remember one occasion when I was about ten years old and found an injured sparrow. I thought maybe I could nurse the bird back to life and give something back to the land that gave us our living, so I brought it to Jon. Wise old Jon, I thought, surely he can do something to restore this poor creature to his former health. Instead, I had to watch while Jon snapped his little neck and tossed it in the fire, screaming something about natural selection and the superiority of humans over “stupid little animals”. After his drunken ranting and raving, he decided to throw empty liquor bottles at me to teach me a lesson. I was quick, and only one of them hit me, but it still hurt. I guess I could hate Jon for that, but I don’t think he meant any real harm. Some people just have a spark in them and it doesn’t make them monsters.
I can remember the day when my time with Jon came to an end. We were out in the woods, checking to see if we had caught anything when I noticed that some poor soul had stepped into one of Jon’s bear traps. That poor soul turned out to be an actor filming a movie. The actor was out of commission, but the film crew still needed to shoot the movie on time. Jon took his place, and the rest is history. He left with the film crew to start a new life and a new career in L.A. when the shooting was over. He invited me to come along, but I declined. The life of a movie star is not the life for me.
I live in the city now and I have a good job and a lovely wife and kids. It’s a satisfying life, and a happy one at that. Though sometimes I catch myself thinking of the good ol’ days, out in the woods with Jon. It was a time of adventure and intrigue. It was the time of freshly made flapjacks and warm fires. It was the time of Lovitz.

My parents graduated from college with John Glover, an actor who has been nominated for the Emmy, the Oscar, and the Tony, but is still unknown to the majority.

Then in the early 70s their college theatre group had a reunion. John was there, mostly to brag about his two-line role in the movie "Annie Hall." My parents brought me along.

During dinner John turned to me and said loudly "My darling, do you realize you have potato salad in your eyebrows?"

Humiliated? You bet! I was six then, and was fairly competent with utensils. There's no way I can explain how potato salad ended up in my eyebrows.

John is still in touch with my mom and occasionally holds workshops at his Alma Mater. Any time he sees me he makes a point of dramatically examining my eyebrows for stray food.

Sitting amid a sea of occupied seats on the train journey to London I sat back and closed my eyes. First break in months. Time to relax and let the blood pressure down. Or so I thought...
As more people were let on at the next stop I was in the process of pouring an OJ when all of a sudden one of the new passengers crashed to the floor, their ankle entwined around my rucksacks many straps. As they were rising from this mishap in rather a fluster I was about to apologise when I was stopped dead in my tracks by the realisation that...wow, it is! Woody Allen himself....Hmmm, I thought to myself.

Having done the decent thing and offered him the seat across from me we were soon talking about ...well about stuff is the best description. I say we, when actually I mean 'he'. Non stop chatter that had me smiling politely at first, clenching my fists later, glaring at him next, writing death threats on napkins before finally feigning my own death. He came over and gave me the kiss of life. Considering the 'Vinegar enhanced Sulphuric Acid Gum' he'd been chewing on the past 2 hours I could have throttled the swine.

Guaranteed that my attention would be all his now that my nerves had been severed, he told me about his ‘situation’. This "situation" involved a fish of the large haddock nature that had become tightly wedged down his trousers.

He decided the best course of action to try remove the fish was to throw in, none too subtly I might add, many varying pirate clichés in an inane attempt to get me to pretend im a parrot and thus snatch the fish away from him (I severely started to wonder about the mans sanity at this point).
I started to glower at the passing ditch outside with extreme envy. You may not be top on peoples holiday wish list but damn if you don’t have to listen to this git.
The situation was becoming desperate, I had to act. "Hey Allen look, a flying monkey potholing for badgers" I sneakily declared.
Allen turns to find the wondrous creature people have talked about for umpteen decades..."strange I don’t seem to....hey what th---"

As soon as Allens eyesight had left my by now dishevelled face I grabbed the "Is someone talking crap to you? Then use this brick to brick the window and escape" brick and competently bricked the nearest window. On my fourth blow I realised I had missed and managed to slaughter a whole seat load of Mormons. Well not the result I was looking for, I thought, but I think that evens up all those times they put up 'I just LOVE Jesus placards' on my lawn.

The window now had a gaping hole in it and as the train sped down the line at over 200mph, shards of glass detached from the frame and hurled themselves at the passengers in the line of fire. Luckily I was to one side of the ensuing death ray and could only watch is complete and utter DISBELIEF as every single goddamn shard completely missed Allen. Christ what next I thought, a damn halo’s going to pop up from his head and start singing postman pat JESUS CHRIST!
You may think the above would have given Allen ample time to notice my antics. In reality he was still mid turn and wondering whether the piece of chewing gum stuck to someones butt would understand Shakespeare if given the right training.

Launching myself as the window I realised I was going to land a tad too short, and so in the milli seconds I had available to me I did what every man would have done. I booted Allen in the head and with the extra momentum lent to me grabbed hold of the window. Gaining access to the shard infested window sill was not the easiest of tasks but when there's a mad man not 5 feet away trying to get you to stuff your hands down his personals to have a good 'rummage around' to 'pull the fish out' you just find a way.

Jumping out I was free and looking back at the now diseased train I gasped in horror....horror changed to a look of confused incredulity. A piece of celery a metre in diameter and a good 5 metres in length was emerging from the window, with Allen sitting snug on the back of it. A relaxed maddening grin spreading across his face.
Deciding upon something that should really have happened a good few hours ago,
I pulled out the 12 gauge...and awaited the piece of celery.

My husband and I had just moved to southern California, and we immediately started looking for a house. It's not that the motel we were staying wasn't satisfactory; in fact, our son kept exulting over the "free movies" they show on the television. "It says they're 'adult movies'", said Joe with a toothy grin. My husband Frank ruffled his hair affectionately. "Looks like you're really growing up, m'boy!" Frank said with a smile. I remembered they had shown The Shining last night. I opted not to watch it, remembering how frightened of it I had been when I watched it in high school. I asked Joe if he had watched any of the Shining. A funny look crossed his face and he started to answer, "No, but I did see a ..." when a knock on the motel door sounded. It was our real estate agent, Fwanny Bao. We stepped into her car and started that day's quest for a new house. It was the third house we approached when I met the famous actor Jack Nicholson. The house was not near being finished; it was basically just a wooden outline. As I wandered around the vast living space alone, I felt a pair of eyes on me. Whirling around, there was nothing to be seen but the bottom piece of a wooden wall. Just then, a loud "thump" sounded. Still seeing nothing, I ventured closer to where the noise had occurred. Then, all of a sudden, a bearded face broke through the wood and screamed, "HERE'S JOHNNY!!!"... and everything went black.
...

The next thing I know, I wake up to see Fwanny, Frank, and a bunch of men, including the man who had broken through the wood peering down at me. Frank looked deliriously happy to see me open my eyes, while Jack looked extremely sheepish. Fwanny explained to me briskly I had unfortunately been a part of a new Candid Camera show on ABC. She, Jack, and the men were (obviously) in on this, and they all apologized profusely, claiming they didn't know I would freak out and faint. Now feeling sheepish at myself for falling for such a stupid prank, I waved away their apology and said I was okay. The men eventually wandered away, all but Jack. He seemed genuinely sorry that he had partaken on the prank. I kept telling him and Frank that I was indeed all right, better than I had ever been. Jack signed autographs for us, and we all had a good conversation about his movies, about our move to California, and about the show I had just been tricked on. Frank asked him about some of the other pranks the show is going to be putting on. Jack hesitated and replied with a cheesy grin and upturned eyebrow, "You can't handle the truth!" We all had a good laugh just as one of the wandering men came up to us and told Jack they needed to leave. I shook hands with Jack and he left, apologizing for scaring me so badly as he walked out the door. Frank, Fwanny, and I all piled up in Fwanny's car again and started to drive to another house. Frank muttered something about how celebrities like Jack Nicholson should have better things to do than run around frightening people for stupid television shows. I just nonchalantly replied, "Well you know, Frank, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

True story, sadly enough...

I'm walking up 5th avenue in New York city, just north of Washington Square Park in Greenich Village. School has just ended, I just got out of my last final, I'm on top of the world, and who do I see but Chris Noth, a.k.a. Mr. Big from Sex and the City. He is talking with a stickthin tanned dark-haired model (or at least I assume she was, nobody would bother being that well groomed, well dressed and poorly fed unless they were being paid to be) and they are both walking in the same direction as me. I fall into step behind them, as celebrity stalking is a hobby of any true New Yorker. After a few blocks the model says goodbye and turns left, while Mr. Big continues north. I speed up to walk beside him, and since I am feeling so good about myself I begin what turns out to be a rather painful dialogue...

Me: Hi. Are you Chris Noth?
Him: *uncomfortable smile* Yes, hello.
Me: I love your show.
Him: Umm, thanks.
Me: You could say I'm a BIG fan *small chuckle to indicate that I made a joke*
Him: Yeah I've heard that one before.
Me: Oh. Umm sorry. *awkward pause* Bye.

Hi, my name is Nick and i'm gonna tell you about the time i won a cruise with Tom Cruise.

It was a friday, not sure what date it was, but it was freezing. I hated to go on a cruise in this weather, but i guess i had to if i wanted to meet Tom Cruise. The Ship was called 'S.S. DON'T GO ON THIS SHIP!'. A common name for a ship i guess.
I went on board and waited for Mr. Cruise, who would meet me in the Restaurant. In 5 minutes... 2 minutes...

(3 hours later)

Damn he still didn't show up. Then suddenly i heard a scream. I thought it was pretty close to the restaurant. Allmost immediatly after that, Cruise walked in. First thing I did was standing up and walking to him. He seemed to be in a hurry so I was to afraid to ask why he was late...

After about 1 and a half minute of talking, Tom Cruise had to leave. I only had the chance to look at the menu, order something, and ask him if he does this a lot. He didn't.
When he stood up, i quickly asked him for an Autograph. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like: 'Damn fans... like i don't get tired wrists from writing...' but he gave me one.

Then, all of a sudden, when he was facing the restaurant door, about to leave, he turned around quickly took out a knife and placed it on my throat. He wispered: 'OK, buddy, you think it's funny to ask for Autographs? Huh? Well?'
I couldn't speak a single word. When i asked him what he wanted he answered: 'I just want people to stop asking me for Autographs! Do you know how much my wrist hurts when I get home from a meet and greet?' I asked him why his wrist hurts after a meet and greet, and he said: 'Do you have any idea how much meet and greets i do per day? And do you know how many Authographs they want? For all their relatives and friends! But not you, you are not gonna ask me last minute Autographs when i am about to leave!' I replied I wasn't. He said he wasn't gonna believe me and i should think of some last words. Suddenly, A dozen of people rushed in.

'SMILE! YOU'RE ON CANDID CAMERA!'

I couldn't speak. I was fooled by Tom cruise.