Archive for the ‘Stalkward’ Category
Well, dear readers. It’s an exciting day here at doubleawk. We have our first reader-submitted celebrity photograph. And, in keeping with doubleawk’s kinder, gentler version of paparazzing, it’s devoid of obvious celebrities. But it does show a television shoot happening today near our reader’s office in San Francisco. It’s a pic from the set of Trauma, a show that will air on NBC and apparently caused a lot of drama by filming a fake tanker-trailer explosion and a fake old-person-plowing-through-a-pedestrian-market. Two great tragedies that apparently go great together, in the minds of the show’s producers.
Things appear calmer outside the lobby of 1 Bush Street, where our fearless reader snapped this pic:
The photo comes to us courtesy of Charles: dear friend from college, real estate development mogul, and now celebrity photog #3 here at doubleawk. Charles, be warned that the filming of this show might create a fake disaster area near your office. Plus side? Maybe you could leave work early.
My research on Trauma yields the following: it’s yet another medical show. Now, to my knowledge, NBC just finally got rid of a medical show that no one had watched since I was in high school. Why in God’s name would they invest so heavily in another? (Obviously, closing San Francisco overpasses so you can stage a controlled tanker explosion isn’t just scary and stupid. It’s also really freaking expensive.) The medical drama is an overdone genre as it is. I hate to bag on the show of a fellow Dartmouth alumna, but Grey’s Anatomy has basically pole-vaulted the shark at this point. Wedding swaps? Ghosts? The afterlife elevator metaphor? (Which isn’t to say I don’t still watch it online. It’s just to say that I’m embarrassed to admit it. But isn’t humiliating myself what doubleawk is really all about?). Why-oh-why would NBC want to cram its way into this high-budget, overdone market? Oh, right, because this show is supposed to be different. It’s not about doctors, or nurses (finally becoming characters in their own right on Nurse Jackie, another show I haven’t seen), but paramedics. Is this some sort of attempt to reach out to a more working class audience, tired of the problems of neurotic doctors? Is it a social/cultural phenomenon sprung from the tensions of the healthcare reform debate? I don’t know. And I still don’t care. I won’t be watching it, unless there’s a chance I can see Charles in the background.Even if Charles had managed a picture of an actor, I wouldn’t have been able to recognize him/her. I haven’t heard of any of the people on this show (which doesn’t mean they’re not great actors, just that they’re not celebrities).
There is, however, an actor on the show named Billy Lush, which is a completely awesome name. Hopefully he plays a down and out alcoholic whose drinking ruins his personal life, but doesn’t stop him from being one heck of an EMT.
So, my faithful followers, the floodgates have opened: send me a picture of a famous person/movie set/site of fame-whore interest as well as a picture of yourself awkwardly lurking around, and I’ll post them here at doubleawk.
Yours in awkwardness, Leda
My second post as a celebrity stalking blogger and I’ve already dispatched an assistant to do my dirty work. That’s code for “A major motion picture is filming in my neighborhood, but I’m trapped on a bus to Hartford, so I’ve sent my husband on a mission to collect photographs.”
The aforementioned major motion picture is Eat, Pray, Love, based on the memoir by Elizabeth Gilbert that I haven’t read. It stars Julia Roberts. And you can turn that IMDB rumor into a trumor: James Franco does indeed costar. That’s right, my intrepid reporter/husband snapped a photo of Mr. Franco heading down Atlantic Avenue to his trailer. Mr. Franco and I have something in common; we are both students at creative writing MFA programs in New York. Of course, it wasn’t enough for him to outdo me in the looks, fame, and wealth department. He’s also showing me up by attending two schools, whereas I only go to one. And I haven’t even started yet. Oh well, I guess I won’t be chatting him up about the writing life at a local coffee shop anytime soon. Sorry, James. I’m on location for my job, too, in Vermont. Actually, on a bus.
So above is the photo John took of James Franco, after walking five feet behind him for quite a while, but waiting until he crossed the street to take James’s picture. John didn’t see the point in taking a picture of his butt, but I bet there are plenty of people who would be quite pleased to see a picture of his butt (James’s, not John’s, although let me tell you, John has a really great butt. It’s just not famous. Yet.) As you can see, the photo was taken at 164 Atlantic Avenue, Brooklyn–the border of Cobble Hill/Brooklyn Heights, aka, a view I can see from my bedroom window. Maybe, just maybe, immediately after this photo was taken, James Franco looked up and tried to peep into my room. It would serve me right. But the joke is on him, because 1) I just got new blinds. And 2) I’m still on a bus to Hartford. Looks like only one of us will have our privacy violated today, James.
We actually learned about the shoot yesterday, when embarking on a failed mission to sneak onto public tennis courts without a permit (we wound up driving to Long Island to play tennis. Ridiculous, especially when you consider how much I suck at tennis.)
The telltale shooting (film, not violent) signs were in full force: trucks with film equipment, important looking people talking on cell phones, nosy neighbors (like me!) congregating on the sidewalk, and no parking signs everywhere. And I mean everywhere! They stretch several blocks on Clinton, Atlantic, and Pacific. Guess we won’t be moving our car ever again. And by ever again, I mean Tuesday when the street-sweepers come.
We spotted burly men bringing film equipment into 172 Pacific Street, which is this adorable white house with a red door and beautiful windows–one of the places we fantasize about owning if we had a bazillion more dollars. And of course, we felt a smug pride that some film director shared our tastes. We were remarking on how obviously totally awesome our neighborhood is because this is the second shoot this week, when we passed by two men.
Before I continue with this story, it’s important for you to know that on my way to play tennis yesterday, I looked like this, except that I wasn’t even trying to make the Julia Roberts face that John coached out of me here:
“Hi, Julia.” One of them said. I choked out some sort of confused, nervous giggling sound. But I’ve gotten slightly bolder in my two forays into celebrity stalking, so I asked them what was shooting.
“Eat, Pray, Love,” They said. “With Julia Roberts.” Score double. A huge, major movie being shot in the nabe (God, everytime I use that word it sounds like a body part, so that shot in the nabe sounds like a hideous sex crime! Sorry!), and an allusion to my having some sort of celeb like qualities. Probably the glasses. But I’m going to pretend it was the confident, sexy charm.
Today I had hoped to spot some real celebrities before embarking on my work trip, but ran out of time and thus sent John to do so. So far he’s been better with the info than the evidence (He’s too polite to shove his iPhone in people’s faces). He was able to confirm that the actors’ trailers are located on Atlantic Avenue, between Clinton and Court. Even more exciting, he actually spotted Julia and walked right past her, but claimed he was “too close” to comfortably take a picture. Sounds like I should have trained my staff a bit more thoroughly before leaving town. (Trained my staff can also sound dirty if you want it to).
He did, however, snag a photo of the real paparazzi, waiting around for one of these stars to show up.
Such waiting is a lot easier to do if you live nearby, so you can run upstairs and pee, or change your outfit to blend in on set and maybe get cast as an extra (see my post on Gossip Girl).
And here’s a photo confirming the filming, so it doesn’t just sound like I made this whole thing up in a desperate effort to drum up blog material.
But stay tuned, faithful reader. If John snaps a pic of Julia, you’ll be the first to know. Actually, I will. But I promise to share it with you right away.
Until then, I’ll try to absorb some of the self-helpy message of the film: I already ate pancakes this morning, I’m praying for a great picture of Julia, and I’m loving my life as a Celebrity Stalkward blogger.
Gossip girl here. Your one and only source into the mildly interesting lives of Brooklyn’s slightly embarrassed celeb-stalkers/teen soap fiends.
One of the exciting things to do in New York is celebrity-watching. It’s like bird-watching, except instead of birds, you watch skinny and attractive people engage in a range of human activities. Yup, it’s true: there are celebrities here, and anyone can watch them walk, talk and do things. But once you’ve seen a few celebrities walking their dogs, drinking coffee, or tripping on the curb, and you’ve learned that they really are “just like us,” what’s left to do?
Photograph them without their knowledge or consent.
Blog about them.
Try to become one of them.
I should be upfront about the fact that today’s celeb-sighting wasn’t the first since my recent move to New York. While lunching at Chelsea restaurant Cookshop with filmmakers Morgan Faust (Shout it Out, The Treasure of Thomas Beale) and Max Isaacson (Banned German Sprite Ads), we spotted Martha Stewart eating with a young man.
Who was he? We have no idea. What did Martha eat? Deviled eggs followed by some sort of salad with meat in it. Max, too, ate the eggs (Ever the vanguard, Max actually ordered the eggs before Martha did, and proclaimed them the best deviled eggs ever). I surreptitiously snapped a photo with my trusty iPhone, and sent it to several people I thought might enjoy it. Husband, mother, and culinary goddess/dear pal Chrissy. Mom’s response: she enjoyed my ridiculous open-mouthed reflection more than the picture of Martha. So much for my first attempt at life as a paparazza.
But I am not one to be deterred.
So when the fates handed me a golden opportunity to once again insinuate myself into the celebrity world, I took it.
Spotted: Which Brooklyn newbie had a bump-into with Gossip Girl star Connor Paolo? Better watch out big J: L could be shopping for more than corn at the farmers market.
That’s right. It’s 10am, and I’ve just sat in the car for an hour so I could hold onto my space during the weekly street-cleaning. I’m on my way to the farmers market. My teeth are unbrushed, and I haven’t showered since Friday. Suddenly, bam! There’s Connor Paolo, better known as Eric Van der Woodsen from Gossip Girl. He’s wearing the St. Jude’s blazer, which means that GG is actually filming in my ‘hood! So after buying my farm-fresh local produce, I scurry home to strategize.
I decide it’s best to put on an Upper East Side disguise, rather than my usual Brooklyn wear. (And I even shower!) My ensemble consists of a white dress from JCrew (circa 2002), a black belt with a big patent leather buckle from Target, a black cardigan from the JCrew outlet, and red patent leather pumps (Chinese Laundry). I pick the pumps because on my first walk-by, I’d seen several teenage extras sporting bright red shoes. Clever, huh? And no, these aren’t exactly UES brands, but wouldn’t Michelle Obama be proud? Plus, I top it off with a pair of Dior sunglasses, so that helps.
I’m obviously hoping that by looking like a UES lady-who-lunches, maybe I’ll get to be an extra. Let’s just take a moment and acknowledge how ridiculous it is that I put on a costume to visit the set of Gossip Girl in the hopes that they’d let me walk by in the background. Remember, I’m thirty-one years old.
So I get to set and loiter around, trying to look like I belong there, and like it’s totally normal that I’d be wearing this outfit at 1:30 pm on a Tuesday. They haven’t started shooting yet, so no celebs in sight. That looks something like this:
Then, after much shouting and fanfare, the shooting begins, and I’m kept outside the margins of the shot. Although I’m on the side of the street with the background actors, I’m not asked to jump in as one of them. Bummer. Costume strategy fails.
But I do manage to strike up a conversation with a young man in a St. Jude’s blazer. He’s been here since 5:45 this morning. And although he’s been focusing more on his own career as an off-Broadway actor, it’s not his first time working on GG. So, what kind of gossip does he have? I tried to get the inside track by asking him how many times he would have to walk back and forth (obviously envious of the fact that he got to be in the background of the shot). He replied, “Between seven and thirteen. It depends on how well the actors know their lines. And on this show, forget it. We could be here forever.” Then, on the next take, the PA scolded him for talking to me, so I got no further gossip. But I can tell you that they have people repeatedly drive by in Mercedes and Lexuses to give BK Heights a bit more of that UES feel. Oh, and it barely merits pointing out, but isn’t there a bit of gleeful irony in the fact that Constance/St. Jude’s is actually shot in Brooklyn, a place in which Blair would shudder to set a Jimmy Choo clad toe?
So here are the money shots: Chuck and Jenny, chatting outside his limo (which is dinged up on the non-shot side and has…gasp!…Jersey tags).
So, having failed to become an extra or get a good picture with my phone, I set off for Trader Joe’s, where I learned that looking like a UES lady-who-lunches at the Cobble Hill Trader Joe’s earns you plenty of attention. But not so much that I won’t try again next time…
You know you love me.