If you're anything like me, you spend most of your time mentally retaliating against those who have wronged you. CVS. Chinese pandas. That homeless guy you bought a sandwich for at 7-11 only to have him look at you suspiciously and ask you, "What is this, ham?" before asking you to go back into the store and get him something else.
I hope you're not like me, though, because then that would mean being stalked by Gawker. Check it out:
This is getting out of control. It's to the point where I can't even walk through the streets of New York City or sing an obscenely patriotic song without being spotted and reported to the Web media. It's starting to get embarrassing. As you can see from the Gawker Stalker I posted above, NYC-ites saw not only me during my latest trip to the City, but also magician David Blaine, that guy who plays Ryan in (and writes for) The Office, and something called Julian Casablancas.
The Google tells me Casablancas was born on the same day as my girlfriend and is the lead singer for something called The Strokes, which, given my recent invitation to join the AARP, I find an insensitive name choice.
Still, I'm sure Casablancas is entitled to point his finger at photographers just as much as I'm entitled to drink Heineken and awkwardly hold a microphone. Gawker has come under fire for this "Stalker" segment, which some celebrities compare to paparazzi-like harassment while the New York-based blog defends it as light-hearted, citizen journalism.
Since I can't make my own decisions without doing something I call "research," I watched a video yesterday of Jimmy Kimmel (who I hate for schtuping Sarah Silverman) lambasting Gawker co-editor Emily Gould on the YouTubes. I tried to balance both sides of the argument but I was distracted equally by Kimmel's pompous attitude (did I mention he's schtuping Jew goddess Sarah Silverman?) and Gould's defiant good looks. I weighed the arguments and decided that Emily is prettier so I agree with her.
Nearly two years ago, my girlfriend and I spent a few days with my best friend and his girlfriend in the City to celebrate the New Year. We were walking up Fifth Avenue toward 14th Street when we spotted Andrew McCarthy playing with his son.
We all looked at each other to confirm that, yes, this was the same dude who fell in love with a mannequin and acted like a dick toward Molly Ringwald. It was definitely him. I had my camera and my brazen attitude in tow, and was considering walking up to him and asking for some sort of affirmation and photographic evidence that WE SAW AN ACTOR!
I watched Andy (I feel like we're on a first-name basis now) play with his son, happy with his privacy yet aware that four people were staring at him like vague fans often do. I realized he did not want to be disrupted. I imagined playing with my son, laughing, enjoying our time together, and having people invade my privacy. So we left him alone.
As we walked away, my girlfriend, sensing that I had wanted to approach him, turned to me and said, "It probably would have made his day."
Maybe I should put Gawker on my speed dial.