There’s supposedly some “movie stars” around town. Big deal – I probably wouldn’t recognize them if I saw them. I never go to mainstream Hollywood movies, only to low budget indie films or documentaries about fracking or the NSA.
They say these “stars” hang out at that bar on First. Who cares? I was there from six until closing practically all last week and didn’t catch a glimpse. It turns out the one time the three of them came in I was out at the Performance Closet in Ypsi watching my friend the brilliant Roxie Davenport, performance artist, piercing her nose and putting a hula hoop through it. Tell me that’s not better than seeing some “celebrity” and maybe being discovered and going to Hollywood or at least hanging out, doing some blow and telling them your great idea for a movie, because I’m not interested in “celebrities” at all, even though it IS, like the best idea for a movie ever, sort of based on my life, O.K., and that is not the reason I’m not talking to Roxie. It’s that blood she got on my Melvins shirt. I could also use an investor for my Ypsipanty clothing line and a new projector light bulb and maybe some Off, for the Movies in the Marsh series, but I seriously doubt I would even take one penny from such gross capitalists.
My neighbor said one of them was at the Dairy Queen, but by the time I got down there she was gone. Not that I really wanted to see her or anything, I would have let her lick her cone like everybody else probably, but I just got this sudden hankering for ice cream even though I never eat the stuff. I didn’t end up having anything because they didn’t have Zingerman’s organic frozen tofu there, if you can believe that!
Someone at the DQ said that this “star” had just broken up with her boyfriend who’s on television. Whatever. I wouldn’t know, because I don’t watch T.V. I’ve never even owned one, and probably wouldn’t even know how to turn one on if I did, much less recognize that guy from the computer commercial, or even give a fig if their love was rekindled right here in Ypsilanti.
I’d much rather see two blind 87-year-olds do a traditional clog dance to a lively jug band tune in an old windmill while a puppet cat spits up real hairballs. That’s entertainment to me. Let me know if you hear about anything like that going on. Or if you see one of those “celebrities,” so, you know, I can stay away from them because, really, who cares?