Yesterday was Dodai's birthday (Happy Birthday!) and a bunch of us went out for karaoke to celebrate. After the birthday girl went home, the rest of the party went to Happy Ending, a massage parlor converted into a bar on New York's Lower East Side. It was there that I saw Ryan Gosling (pictured left). Or at least, I'm like 99% sure that it was Gosling. I debated about it with friends and strangers, the majority of whom agreed with me. If I could take a ride on any celebrity, Gosling would be my absolute number one choice (with Mark Ronson in second, and Flight of the Conchords tying for third). So, needless to say, I was on cloud nine. And I talked to him! Albeit, very briefly. But we made eyes for several hours. Or maybe he just happened to notice my intense, creepy staring. Anyway, click the picture to get the full story.
I was gripped with a crippling shyness last night, when confronted with my dream screw. It's just one of those things that you never think will be an attainable goal, like right in front of your face, drinking a PBR. When I said that I was only 99% sure that it was actually him, it's because he was kinda in disguise. He was wearing fake hair (long dreadlock fusions that were attached to the back of his short hair, held together in a ponytail), and using a fake accent that I couldn't place. It was unclear whether he was just fucking with everyone or whether he was like researching a role or something. (He's a Method actor, right? He was awfully thin and strung out looking in Half Nelson. And very, very hot.) I know that it was indeed a fake accent because toward the end of the night, when I finally talked to him for real, he started talking normally. I had lost all my friends (they had gone home) so I somehow befriended a couple of gay dudes, and talked to them about Ryan. They were a lot less shy than I was and forced an introduction. I can't remember what was said, to be perfectly honest. Not necessarily because I was drunk (which I was), but because I was so friggin' excited that I was temporarily lobotomized.
At this point, it was about 12 minutes before last call, and I was beginning to feel really ill, and Ryan was beginning to dance up on a bunch of girls who had asked to take their picture with him. I didn't want to be that pathetic. Instead I took a picture of him when he wasn't looking, like the scary fanatic I apparently am. I'd been chugging dirty martinis [I told you to stop drinking those. -Ed.] and I was hanging on to the walls to prop myself up, so I knew it was time to leave. (I went home alone and ate buffalo wings at 4:30 AM and now I am so hungover that I want to die.) I didn't want to fight off some other girls in order to fuck him. And I also didn't want to fuck him while he was pretending to be someone else.