(no subject)
Some stories are meant to be shared.
Perhaps this is one.
It's long, but read it.
On Super Bowl Sunday this year, I found myself with no one to watch the game with (reasons ranged from "I don't care about football" to "I'm just gonna stay in with the wife"). Well, if I was going to watch the game alone, then I was gonna watch it at a bar. I drove downtown right around kickoff, so I had to find a relatively empty bar, or else there was no way I would have a decent seat to see the game. Rum Runners in Wilmington was just that, so I popped in, sat down and ordered a Newcastle. Two seats down from me, an older gentleman motioned to the bartender that he would buy it for me. Confused, but not looking a gift-horse in the mouth, I looked at him, nodded, and said "'preciate it." He nodded back and continued with his drink.
Well, I soon noticed that this guy was buying everybody's drinks. As soon as anyone ordered, he was right there to pick up the tab. No joke. He was paying cash and hooking up the bartenders (the special was everything behind the bar: $2, and like I said, the bar was pretty empty, but it still adds up). Moments later, the bartender announces to everyone that this is Mr. Bill Cavenaugh, and he played Raphael in the "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" movies. Cool, but I was somehow skeptical.
So Raphael was also at the bar by himself, and eventually, he decided that I was going to be his best friend for the night. He takes the stool next to me and starts telling me all about life in L.A. and what a big star he was. Things that I learned: Everyone in L.A. is cool. People in Wilmington are Assholes. Apparently he didn't pick up that I, too, was from Wilmington, but I let that slide.
So Raphael had been scheduled to do an autograph signing at Rum Runners the night before, but his agent (who was apparently in his limo which was being parked and would be here any minute) screwed that up and he ended up signing autographs at Camp Lejeune. I can see how easily those two locations can be mixed up. One is a bar in downtown Wilmington, and the other is the largest marine base in the south. The marines were offering him 20 bucks to fight him, and he would tell them that he would not waste his time for less than a grand. People from L.A. are just that personable, I suppose.
I also learned that he is currently working on a movie with Tom Cruise, set to come out in April. Now, for those of you who don't know, if a movie is still being shot in early February, it will not come out in April. Raphael was either mistaken or lying, and I was going to go with lying. I wondered how I could possibly doubt such a big star. I mean, after all, he was the high roller of Rum Runners. About twenty minutes later, he told a couple that he was working on a movie with Jackie Chan and Wesley Snipes. Damn, why haven't those two been paired up yet, I thought. It seems like a natural fit to me.
So Raphael was beginning to try my patience. I didn't care about anything that he had to say, and he apparently didn't care about the game, which was, at the time, the single most important thing in the world to me. He had overheard the bartender say that Jackie Chan "wasn't shit," and promptly called him over to tell him that he was offended. He told me what an asshole the bartender was, called him back, shook his hand, made sure they were still cool ("of course" the bartender said), then turned to me and said, "he's still an asshole."
"You're gonna shake his hand and then call him an asshole?" I asked.
"Well, he's an asshole," came the reply. People in L.A. are so much better than the people here. Each time another bar patron refused to let him buy their drinks (presumably because he was creepy), he would ask them if they knew who the fuck he was.
No. They didn't. You're Raphael. You're not a star. You're not in a movie with Tom Cruise. You're not in a movie with Wesley Snipes and Jackie Chan. You cannot "buy and sell that guy's ass." What's more, you don't get a stunt man, like you say. If you played Raphael, then buddy, you are a stunt man. You probably weren't signing autographs yesterday, and, in all likelihood, you're probably not Raphael, but some stupid girl let you sign her boob anyway. Please just let me watch this game.
Meanwhile, his agent and that limo hadn't shown up for about an hour now to take him back to the Hilton. He kept checking his watch, though. Wonder what the hold up was...?
So Raphael asks me if I have ever thought about being involved with movies. Of course. Everyone has. He asks me how old I am and tells me that I could pass for much younger without the beard. I agreed. It's true. He asks me if I could perform a roundhouse kick with proper training. I could. Shoot, anyone could if they were taught. He then asked me if I would be interested in auditioning for a martial arts movie, and told me that I looked age-appropriate for the role. He told me that if I showed up to have some pictures taken for the director, then whether or not I was cast, he would give me two thousand dollars cash, tonight. But he was flying back to L.A. the next morning (he didn't remember what time - that's his agent's job), so it had to be tonight. . . .Right.
He mentioned a studio in Ogden (there's no studio in Ogden). He also offered the two grand in cash right after I noticed him open up and look into his empty wallet. He wrote his number down on a napkin (I guess big stars don't have business cards these days), and told me that he didn't believe that I was going to show up. "this guy must be a friggin' psychic," I thought. I told him he was a confident mother-fucker, to which he got in my face and replied, "I'm confident, but I ain't no mother-fucker." Explanations that this was not meant to be an insult were hopeless, I let it go, and told him that I would call.
I looked at the number: area code 910. Wilmington. Not L.A. I asked him if this was his agent's number. It was his personal number. He lives in L.A. with a wilmington phone number. Man, this guy's a baller. He finally tells me what I would be doing for this audition.
I would be getting pictures taken. I would have to shave my beard. I would have to be wearing spandex on my lower body, and no shirt. I would have to shave my chest and stomach. ("then," I thought, "I would get my ass knocked out and raped." I kept that thought to myself). I told him I would call after the game.
I asked him where I would be going. Travelodge on Market Street. Travelodge?!? Raphael is staying at the Hilton and auditioning young-looking 25-year-olds for a martial arts movie at the Travelodge?!? Limos don't go to the Travelodge. People with agents don't stay at the travelodge, and this guy was not staying at the Hilton.
He left at half time. There was no limo to pick him up.
My older brother called me back (I had called him to tell him about Raphael earlier in the night). No, Raphael was not played by a man named Bill Cavenaugh. This guy was a psycho. How exciting. I didn't call, and, amazingly, I am not disappointed at not getting that 2 grand, which didn't exist.
I called the bartender over. I told him what the guy had just offered me. The bartender closed his eyes, shook his head and said two words: "Fucking Sundays." I will not go back to that rum runners on a sunday.
Epilogue: I told this story to a coworker. She said he sounded like a child molester. I go to thinking and went to the SBI web site to the sex offender page. Sure enough. "Indecent liberties with a minor." He got 2 years. He served two months. He had been out of jail since November, and he thought I was pretty. I'll take the compliment. He lives on Market Street. His address is, you guessed it, right next to the travelodge.
This story, ladies and gents, I honestly could not make up.
Happy St. Patty's Day.
Perhaps this is one.
It's long, but read it.
On Super Bowl Sunday this year, I found myself with no one to watch the game with (reasons ranged from "I don't care about football" to "I'm just gonna stay in with the wife"). Well, if I was going to watch the game alone, then I was gonna watch it at a bar. I drove downtown right around kickoff, so I had to find a relatively empty bar, or else there was no way I would have a decent seat to see the game. Rum Runners in Wilmington was just that, so I popped in, sat down and ordered a Newcastle. Two seats down from me, an older gentleman motioned to the bartender that he would buy it for me. Confused, but not looking a gift-horse in the mouth, I looked at him, nodded, and said "'preciate it." He nodded back and continued with his drink.
Well, I soon noticed that this guy was buying everybody's drinks. As soon as anyone ordered, he was right there to pick up the tab. No joke. He was paying cash and hooking up the bartenders (the special was everything behind the bar: $2, and like I said, the bar was pretty empty, but it still adds up). Moments later, the bartender announces to everyone that this is Mr. Bill Cavenaugh, and he played Raphael in the "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" movies. Cool, but I was somehow skeptical.
So Raphael was also at the bar by himself, and eventually, he decided that I was going to be his best friend for the night. He takes the stool next to me and starts telling me all about life in L.A. and what a big star he was. Things that I learned: Everyone in L.A. is cool. People in Wilmington are Assholes. Apparently he didn't pick up that I, too, was from Wilmington, but I let that slide.
So Raphael had been scheduled to do an autograph signing at Rum Runners the night before, but his agent (who was apparently in his limo which was being parked and would be here any minute) screwed that up and he ended up signing autographs at Camp Lejeune. I can see how easily those two locations can be mixed up. One is a bar in downtown Wilmington, and the other is the largest marine base in the south. The marines were offering him 20 bucks to fight him, and he would tell them that he would not waste his time for less than a grand. People from L.A. are just that personable, I suppose.
I also learned that he is currently working on a movie with Tom Cruise, set to come out in April. Now, for those of you who don't know, if a movie is still being shot in early February, it will not come out in April. Raphael was either mistaken or lying, and I was going to go with lying. I wondered how I could possibly doubt such a big star. I mean, after all, he was the high roller of Rum Runners. About twenty minutes later, he told a couple that he was working on a movie with Jackie Chan and Wesley Snipes. Damn, why haven't those two been paired up yet, I thought. It seems like a natural fit to me.
So Raphael was beginning to try my patience. I didn't care about anything that he had to say, and he apparently didn't care about the game, which was, at the time, the single most important thing in the world to me. He had overheard the bartender say that Jackie Chan "wasn't shit," and promptly called him over to tell him that he was offended. He told me what an asshole the bartender was, called him back, shook his hand, made sure they were still cool ("of course" the bartender said), then turned to me and said, "he's still an asshole."
"You're gonna shake his hand and then call him an asshole?" I asked.
"Well, he's an asshole," came the reply. People in L.A. are so much better than the people here. Each time another bar patron refused to let him buy their drinks (presumably because he was creepy), he would ask them if they knew who the fuck he was.
No. They didn't. You're Raphael. You're not a star. You're not in a movie with Tom Cruise. You're not in a movie with Wesley Snipes and Jackie Chan. You cannot "buy and sell that guy's ass." What's more, you don't get a stunt man, like you say. If you played Raphael, then buddy, you are a stunt man. You probably weren't signing autographs yesterday, and, in all likelihood, you're probably not Raphael, but some stupid girl let you sign her boob anyway. Please just let me watch this game.
Meanwhile, his agent and that limo hadn't shown up for about an hour now to take him back to the Hilton. He kept checking his watch, though. Wonder what the hold up was...?
So Raphael asks me if I have ever thought about being involved with movies. Of course. Everyone has. He asks me how old I am and tells me that I could pass for much younger without the beard. I agreed. It's true. He asks me if I could perform a roundhouse kick with proper training. I could. Shoot, anyone could if they were taught. He then asked me if I would be interested in auditioning for a martial arts movie, and told me that I looked age-appropriate for the role. He told me that if I showed up to have some pictures taken for the director, then whether or not I was cast, he would give me two thousand dollars cash, tonight. But he was flying back to L.A. the next morning (he didn't remember what time - that's his agent's job), so it had to be tonight. . . .Right.
He mentioned a studio in Ogden (there's no studio in Ogden). He also offered the two grand in cash right after I noticed him open up and look into his empty wallet. He wrote his number down on a napkin (I guess big stars don't have business cards these days), and told me that he didn't believe that I was going to show up. "this guy must be a friggin' psychic," I thought. I told him he was a confident mother-fucker, to which he got in my face and replied, "I'm confident, but I ain't no mother-fucker." Explanations that this was not meant to be an insult were hopeless, I let it go, and told him that I would call.
I looked at the number: area code 910. Wilmington. Not L.A. I asked him if this was his agent's number. It was his personal number. He lives in L.A. with a wilmington phone number. Man, this guy's a baller. He finally tells me what I would be doing for this audition.
I would be getting pictures taken. I would have to shave my beard. I would have to be wearing spandex on my lower body, and no shirt. I would have to shave my chest and stomach. ("then," I thought, "I would get my ass knocked out and raped." I kept that thought to myself). I told him I would call after the game.
I asked him where I would be going. Travelodge on Market Street. Travelodge?!? Raphael is staying at the Hilton and auditioning young-looking 25-year-olds for a martial arts movie at the Travelodge?!? Limos don't go to the Travelodge. People with agents don't stay at the travelodge, and this guy was not staying at the Hilton.
He left at half time. There was no limo to pick him up.
My older brother called me back (I had called him to tell him about Raphael earlier in the night). No, Raphael was not played by a man named Bill Cavenaugh. This guy was a psycho. How exciting. I didn't call, and, amazingly, I am not disappointed at not getting that 2 grand, which didn't exist.
I called the bartender over. I told him what the guy had just offered me. The bartender closed his eyes, shook his head and said two words: "Fucking Sundays." I will not go back to that rum runners on a sunday.
Epilogue: I told this story to a coworker. She said he sounded like a child molester. I go to thinking and went to the SBI web site to the sex offender page. Sure enough. "Indecent liberties with a minor." He got 2 years. He served two months. He had been out of jail since November, and he thought I was pretty. I'll take the compliment. He lives on Market Street. His address is, you guessed it, right next to the travelodge.
This story, ladies and gents, I honestly could not make up.
Happy St. Patty's Day.