Who's that?

At the gym last night and cycling through the tired selection on my iPhone. I got so desperate I actually allowed a Creed song to infect my eardrums for a few seconds before hastily removing the plug from the topside of my phone and linking up to the audio on the TV screens in front of me.

Besides discovering that it is impossible to look manly on the elliptical machine, I stumbled on a show called Basketball Wives and watched the whole thing as I burn off the afternoon’s Pinkberry. Aside from inexplicably ignoring the 800-lb gorilla in the room – that the major requirement of being a basketball wife is looking the other way as your husband “takes it to the hole” on every cocktail waitress, bottle service girl, and club skank in 30 cities – this particular piece of journalistic drivel exposed a peculiar quality of hot chicks that I encounter regularly.

They interviewed several wives and each one said the same thing when recalling meeting their huge future husband to be.

“My friends said “Oh, Jason Kidd wants to meet you and I was all like, who is that? All the other girls were totally all over him but I didn’t even know who he was.”

Riiiiight.

Every one of the wives gave the same story. She didn’t know who this guy was, she kept ignoring him, he pursued her for 15 years before she finally relented and went out with him and it was another 15 years before they actually had sex. Because if there is one thing pro athletes are known for, it’s putting in a lot of work to get laid.

I hear this same line of B.S. all the time. I’ll be chatting up some 22-year old Santa Monica College psychology major and I’ll point out some B or C level celebrity at another table.

Me: Hey there’s Turtle from Entourage

Her: Who’s that? From what now? Oh I don’t really watch much TV.

So let me get this straight. I, heterosexual male busy with a day and a night job, whose interests include sports and finance, somehow recognize a celebrity (albeit not a very big one) but you empty-headed retard whose entire existence is spent reading US Weekly and TMZ and watching the E! Channel on a continuous loop, somehow is oblivious to the famous person in the room.

Really?

“I don’t really watch much TV”

I’m sure your days are spent pouring over the latest iteration of the Senate’s health care reform bill and furiously nitpicking at the details or thumbing through your latest copy of The Economist considering the implications of microfinance in Indonesia and you’ve just pulled yourself away from this important work to come to Voyeur on a Wed. night but I somehow don’t buy that even with all on your plate you don’t notice the millionaire in the room.

“I don’t really care about celebrities…I don’t even notice them”

So a couple of weeks ago when I saw LA Laker Luke Walton at a certain hotel lounge on Hollywood and Orange and every girl in the room started hovering around him like the proverbial golddigging moths to the 6-year, $30M dollar guaranteed contract flame, it was just a mere coincidence that they were all standing around in that huddle making eyes at him. I mean your friends probably told you who he was but you don’t didn’t care because they’re just people like everyone else. People who are now making out with you.

“He totally hit on me once at party and slipped me his number but I never called…I was like ‘whatever’”

If she somehow slips up and actually admits to recognizing a celebrity, she will undoubtedly tell me about how she is unfazed by them and that it’s not big deal that they buy her a drink / call her / give her their number / bang her in the back of their Phantom. I’m sure she’s regularly passing up opportunities to instant riches by becoming Ray J’s baby momma or at least end up on a reality show. After all she has Stitch, the unemployed actor / part-time tattoo artist waiting at home for her. She’s too good for Ray J.

In the words of Seth Myers…..Really?