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.

DNA Magazine - - CONTENT -

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.

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