The Celebrity Files.

Frenchie Davis is stalking me. Or am I stalking her? Whatever the case may be, I have now run into her twice within the past two weeks. Could this be the cosmic forces telling me that I should give up men and start dating sassy American Idol contestants? Probably not, but seeing how my roommate in high school and I had some bizarre fascination with the scandalous singer’s disqualification from the second season, I knew I had to get a picture with her. Yes, it’s official, for a moment I turned into that annoying celebrity (is she really one?) hypnotized fan right outside of Port Authority one night at the end of August. She was more than kind, demanding that if we were going to buzz around questioning whether or not it was her (we were) we better get over and say hello. So we did and that is when the above picture was captured. In all honesty, it might as well be our wedding announcement photo in the Sunday Times.

This afternoon, rehearsal free for the day, I walked down to the gym and there she was standing in front of me on Broadway and Houston. Perhaps I should have proposed marriage but instead I acted disinterested as I walked by, planning a future blog. Little did I know that I would be working out with ANOTHER C (or D?) list celebrity at the gym moments later.

Running up the stairs to change into my work out clothes, I bumped into someone who looked surprisingly like Stifler from “American Pie.” Not sure at first glance if it was him, I knew for certain as I stepped onto the workout floor that Sean William Scott was in the building. It was indeed the star of the movie my sister had taken me to that my father had so embarrassingly informed me would “be my sex education.” Here I was 7 years later watching him endlessly do bicep curls (seriously, for like an hour) in New York City.

(A old picture of the actor, before his biceps were the size of my legs.)

It’s odd in New York how everyone tends to act completely over the fact that celebrities are among us. When in the supermarket, on the street, or in the gym in this case, everyone goes about their business pretending not to notice. Slowly you start to see everyone doing double takes, and today half of the gym seemed to gravitate like flocking birds as Sean William Scott moved from one bicep station to the next. Eventually he ended up having a sort of bicep “dance off” with another guy, an older gay man (I don’t usually assume, but today I will), who was drooling more and more with each rep. First Sean goes, then gay goes, eventually working up the courage to walk over in a sort of congratulatory handshake after they had each done close to 8000 curls. I meanwhile was on a giant ball doing sit ups, using this awkward scene as motivation to curl my body up each time.

I am one of those people that is fascinated by celebrities yet also see the complete insanity in my own behavior. The fact that I am even taking the time to write this blog is highly questionable. Yet there I was in the gym today watching along with everyone else in the mirrors as he paraded around in his loafers, carrying a giant bag. “What is he holding in it?” we all wondered. Was it perhaps the elusive answer to that question he posed, “Dude, Where’s My Car?” Or was it a gun he carries around to shoot anyone who references the name Stifler. Like a Tootsie Pop, I guess we’ll never know. The one thing I do know is that this gym sighting certainly beats my last one, Alfred Molina.

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