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April 26, 2004
Story I So Shouldn't Share
Oh, where to begin?
First of all, hello Internet friends. How are you! Me? Fine, thanks. I’ve been traveling my butt off. Unfortunately, not to Brazil, but it’s still been fun.
Something crazy happened in Seattle, y’all.
Now, I should probably keep this little piece of gossip to myself because ultimately it would be super embarrassing to share with the world, but you know, I’ve done some embarrassing shit for the world to see so worrying about it now is pointless.
Let’s start with the backstory. Keep in mind, I am only able to tell this backstory now because I’m free to tell it. At the time that it happened, I was itching to write it and share but I had a Scorpio boyfriend who refused to believe that a lady can simply go to dinner with someone she just met and have it really amount to “just dinner.” That’s the tricky part about having a website about yourself. Boyfriends, friends, moms (if they can actually log on to the Internet) and even folks who don’t think they’d ever make an impact on your life worth mentioning can find out how you really feel. For those of you looking for The Furniture Man story that mysteriously disappeared, this is the dilemma I faced after posting that nugget hence the reason the story was removed. That fool knows my numbers and my address. It could escalate into either more hilarity or straight up danger, you see.
So, last year or the year before I bought a computer at Best Buy and while shopping for the new computer, I saw an insanely tall man who just had to be a professional ball-playing somebody but since I don’t follow sports, I asked Coral if she recognized him. She did, and he was Patrick Ewing. Not Julius Erving, the other –ing name, but Patrick Ewing. Yes, Patrick Ewing. He was purchasing a whole bunch of movies including a Jennifer Lopez one which I have no choice but to mention. I mean, how often do you get to see an insanely large and intimidating-looking human being buying a Jennifer Lopez romantic comedy? Like, buying to own as part of his collection forever. No Jennifer Lopez movie is worth buying. Watching on HBO over and over, yes. And by this, I’m referencing Enough because I think it’s hilarious that at one point in the movie, she’s wearing a wig over a wig and nobody seems to think that’s worth firing her from the movie-making business for good. This is why Gigli happened. Nobody wants to step up and say they’ve had it and because of this we all pay. You can even Netflix one, but you do not buy a J-Lo movie. You buy Friday. You buy Shawshank Redemption. You buy Schindler’s List. You buy American Pimp. You buy the first season of Dave Chappelle’s show. You do not buy The Wedding Planner.
So, since Coral and I don’t normally go up to people and say, “You’re such and such from blah blah blah huh?” because it’s just awkward to do so, we went on about our shopping. Suddenly, we’re in the same area of the store and Patrick Ewing says hello to Coral and they have small talk. I don’t know what they were talking about because I was on the phone with my ex trying to figure out what my computer needs were since he insisted he knew everything. Well, if he knew everything why wasn’t he here at the store with me? The answer to that question can probably be found where they’ve filed the answer to Why the hell did we break up, fool? We will never have all the answers that we need. So, shortly after they meet Coral calls me over and she introduces me to Patrick Ewing. We shake hands if you can really call it that. His handshake literally rocked my body. It was quite a tumultuous handshake.
So, Patrick Ewing’s got a unit on his face as he looks Coral and I up and down. I guess to even look AT me he has to look down, low down. He makes a comment on my size and height, a comment I personally deemed inappropriate, but we laughed it off. It wasn’t that funny to me.
Regardless, Mr. Ewing’s still a seemingly friendly person and he invites us to some shindig and we decline. He then invites us to dinner with his friends that evening. We agree to go just for the storytelling aspect alone. You best believe I called my daddy immediately after dinner. Shorty always appreciates a celebrity run-in story but only if it’s somebody he recognizes or cares about like Sinbad or Marla Gibbs. I’ve since tried to tell him about other run-ins, like the one with the Good Charlotte boy, and he was like, “Meleesa, I don’t know who or what in the fuck you’re talking about but what I do know is where’s my money?” The “where’s my money?” part is a staple in his conversations with me, but ironically, he owes me money. And every time every time every time, I say, “But daddy, you still haven’t gotten me back for mom’s new tooth, remember?” And then, in resistance, he says I'm right. And that conversation goes down EXACTLY the same way EVERY TIME. I, of course, would never take the money for my mom’s tooth back from him. Every lady deserves a tooth in her mouth if you ask me. A thousand dollars for a tooth is not too much to ask, and I’d feel terrible making them pay me back for that. I couldn’t have my mama running around without a tooth in her head. That’s just not right.
Now, Coral and I are no dummies. We roll up to the Beverly Hills restaurant in our own car. Even if it meant, rolling up to some uppity place with a dirty Honda Civic (I’m so Filipino) with a tape deck, we’re rolling up in our vehicle. I’m not trying to be stranded with some huge celebrity in the middle of the night doing Hollywood things. No sir. Not me.
So we get to the dinner, and there are other insanely large human beings at the table. So large, the restaurant had to make special accommodations for their legs. I don’t remember the other basketball players’ names, but they were famous because the whole restaurant was at a standstill the entire time they dined. Some people asked for their autographs, but they said they don’t sign autographs and that made me sad for the fans. It’s just a signature, but then again, they are eating. And they’re insane stupid crazy famous and that has to get old and on top of that, as one of the other players mentioned, people sell their signatures for ridiculous amounts of money and that’s weird for them. Let’s not get into how I feel about that. I can’t possibly relate anyway so my opinion on whether to sign or not sign is inconsequential. Patrick Ewing did, at the end of his meal, sign something for this little Asian lady that worked at the restaurant so he was redeemed in my eyes after that.
So we’re eating, talking, whatever. Coral and I are having a complete conversation all our own with eye contact, head movements, nudges under the table, coughs and subtle hand gestures that only we’d understand. The meal is over and like ladies, Coral and I bounce. That’s what you’re supposed to do. You see, there will be no checking out at 6 in the morning or partying in the hotel lobby. I refuse to live my life in accordance to any Snoop Dogg or R. Kelly lyrics. None of that. If it were Jon Bon Jovi (with his fine ass) or Justin Timberlake or Mekhi Pfifer, maybe I’d rethink my inability to ho it up. I am in no way making the assumption that Patrick Ewing was trying to sleep with or party with either of us. In fact, there was no reason or evidence provided whatsoever to believe that. It truly was just an interesting meal. I’m just saying, as advice for the ladies who do not know karate or feel that Mace is entirely too bulky to put on a key chain, it’s important to have your own vehicle at all times when kicking it with someone you don’t know for the first time, regardless of his or her celebrity status, so you can avoid that kind of situation should you need to avoid it. You follow? Dude, scratch that Mekhi thing. Mekhi looks like a young version of my dad which has sent me into an eternal quandary as to why I’m so attracted to him. He’s so Shorty it’s insane.
So, that was my Patrick Ewing run-in. Cut to, two nights ago at a steakhouse in Seattle. Patrick mother fucking Ewing pulls up to the restaurant at exactly the same time that I pull up with some people from work. Everybody stares in awe, and I, feeling like sharing one dinner with this person is reason enough to say hello, walk up to him and say, “Hi! How are you doing, Patrick?” He looks completely confused and indifferent (yes, it is possible to display both these emotions simultaneously), as if this type of shit happens to him like every day. What’s up with me and the Snoop Dogg lyrics today? So, like an asshole, I say, “I met you at Best Buy. We ate food…” and then he cut me off saying, “Must’ve been my twin…” and a part of me wanted to crumble up and die because I was stupid enough to believe that he’d remember me. Thank goodness none of the party I was with saw me die this slow death in front of a sports legend. Then again, they could always read about it here like you are. You see the dilemmas I face. This is a story worth telling even though it costs 387 cool points. Even using the cool points scale is uncool but you get what I’m saying. You can walk away from this feeling like I’m a jackass. Fine, but at the end of the day, I’d hope you think I’m a jackass just for saying “we ate food” and for nothing else. Who the fuck says “We ate food…” as a way to jog one’s memory of my existence?
Oh well. I still be having his phone number though. And I know for a fact that Patrick Ewing won’t be reading this here website. Who’s Melissa? Besides, I’m sure he’s laid up watching Maid in Manhattan somewhere.
Posted by melissah at April 26, 2004 10:20 PM