Jake Gyllenhaal? Bored!
If you want to lose your illusions – meet your idols! Earning his New York wings, Christopher Klimovski finds namedropping way more important than the celebrities themselves.
I’m not sure if I ever told you this, but one balmy night at the infamous Standard Hotel rooftop, Sky Ferriera told me that she loved my beanie. New York City is a place where you go to see and be seen and it doesn’t count unless you tell anything with an ear. When discussing these people, you must find the intricate balance of doing so to the point of exhaustion but with an air of indifference. It’s hard to master, but once done, you earn your New York wings.
On a particularly slow day at work, I was keeping my eye on my cell phone a little more than usual in hope that a fellow friend, a common mortal, would text to let me know of goings on in the city that never sleeps. It had been a particularly difficult week and I had behaved myself for a large part of it, so I was really hoping to be alerted to a party that would end in a hangover and a food delivery, at the very least.
Towards the end of the day, like a siren song, my phone played the melodic chant of an incoming text and I leapt at it over a perfectly folded T-shirt display. It was Matheson, who had forgone all formalities and proceeded to inform me that he had been gifted two tickets to the MIA album launch party that evening in trendy Bushwick and that “we must go, for fear of judgement from our peers.” I was sold.
A few hours later we were traversing the industrial surroundings of the area, hunting for the line of well-dressed twentysomethings that would indicate the entrance to the party (specific addresses are non-existent for the parties well-worth attending). For newbies who haven’t endured a queue controlled by a fashion PR demon: the anxiety of waiting and providing your name to someone with a list is palpable, even if your name is there; even if you know the list-holder. Luckily, the PR persona must have forgotten to take their bitch pill that morning and ushered us right in.
Soon we were rushing the bar for the free cocktails. The crowd was mixed and diverse. Alexander Wang was dancing in the distance with nobody in particular, Jeremy Scott was with his people in the smoking area telling a story that I’m sure was far more sterile than they were leading on. The ATL Twins were on stage dancing to the opening DJ and I was standing there confused, not knowing what the ATL Twins actually were.
While (perfectly) executing one of my signature dance moves, Matheson leaned in to tell me that Lorde just walked into the warehouse behind me. This was exciting news because I heard earlier that day she was at MoMa performing for the likes of Anna Wintour, Tilda Swinton and David Bowie for an event held honouring Karl Lagerfeld. Also, it was her 17th birthday.
I whipped around and walked up to her as if we were old friends. Leaning in, I said, “Why are you following me all over the city?” You see, I had bumped into her twice earlier that day. Once while crossing the street in the West Village, then later at Opening Ceremony where we first acknowledged each other. She laughed in recognition and playfully retaliated and we had a mini back-and-forth shrouded by the blaring music. I felt a little uncomfortable that my hand was resting on the small of her back, teetering a little too close to cupping her arse-cheek, as she is underage. We took a quick photo together and parted ways, although we still make small talk every time I notice she’s following me around. (I’m not delusional enough to actually believe that I am anything close to Lorde in popularity, so pack up your claws queens, I’m just having a bit of journalistic fun.)
Don’t move, make a scene or stare. Beyoncé is shopping at the rack directly in front of you.
Jake (I refer to him by his first name as he now refers to me by mine) was the first celebrity I came face to face with while I was at work. I will never forget the first words he ever spoke to me. “Do you have these in a size ten?” Dulcet, no?
He made a joke about the shoes being too tight, I made a wisecrack about the art of Japanese foot binding and he laughed. All the while I was trying very hard to hide the look about me that I had masturbated to his images during the dawn of dial-up or that Brokeback Mountain inspired delusions involving he and I opening a cute B&B on that mountaintop.
The uncomfortable shuffle during conversation quickly disappeared when he continued to come in, mentioning he just lived down the road and was always in the area. The novelty wore off even more after we came up with our own fist-bump style handshake whenever he walked through the door. Further still, when he began to ask for me by name. Now I know this doesn’t seem like a problem, but the sheen of his visits wore off because he didn’t always walk through the door resembling the wet dreams of my youth. He was a regular person. He would walk in looking exhausted. He would walk in with hair so oily you could deepfry chips in it. He would drag on conversations to the point of uncomfortable.
The other day, I was in the break room and a co-worker excitedly came down and said, “Jake Gyllenhaal is asking for you upstairs,” to which I rolled my eyes, went upstairs, fist-bumped him and asked, frustrated, “What are you doing here?” I’m not going to make any accusations, but I’m pretty sure he would be totally for the legalisation of pot.
There is nobody in this entire world that can touch Beyoncé. Lyrically, professionally and, importantly, physically. Well, other than Jay Z in a loving, sensual way and her daughter, Blue Ivy Carter, in any way she pleases.
While absently finger-spacing the retail rack at work, the general manager of my store Gyna, pronounced Gee-na and not G-eye-na (giggles to self ), approached and said, in a rush, “Don’t move, make a scene or stare. If you do any of the above I will fire you on the spot. Beyoncé is shopping at the rack directly in front of you.” To which I responded, “Why did you say that? Why did you say anything? I wouldn’t have noticed her if you didn’t say anything, GYNA!” I continued with my task, but I was so tense and rigid that had you slipped a piece of coal in my arse it would have produced the world’s largest diamond. I stared without making direct eye contact, straining my eyes in their sockets, the corneal cords only moments away from snapping.
Then, it happened. Beyoncé kneeled to pick up Blue Ivy who was fussing and squirming, not wanting to be picked up or likely not knowing who this person was as I’m sure Beyoncé’s support staff has more face time with the girl. I remember the next event as if it were shot in slow motion. As Blue was being lifted from the floor, she reeled her hand back and proceeded to… smack Beyoncé square in the mouth.
Now, when one reaches a point of sexual gratification, they have an orgasm. However, when one reaches complete satisfaction in a non-sexual domain when experiencing something rare and incredible, you have a nongasm. Pure situational ecstasy. BIC may stand for Blue Ivy Carter, or it may stand for Bitch In Charge. Either way, I wouldn’t knock the name for fear of toddler retribution.
Beyoncé tried to laugh it off as all mothers who get smacked in the face try to do but for that gleaming moment, Beyoncé was human and literally blue in the face.
There have been many others that I have come into contact with: Cara Delevingne, Shaun Ross, MIA, Jeremy Scott and Drake just to name a few. Why did I have to name them? Because you’re reading this, of course. And I simply had to tell someone. How else am I going to earn my New York wings?
Spread the word.
JR wears COLT Collection jock strap. Lorde, lucky enough to have a picture taken with our Christopher Klimovski.