Dear, beloved readers, I tried.
Oh how I tried to get you one single shot of The Clooney. I had the best post e-ver in my head had I achieved it but…nope. Nada. The closest I got was his stunt double ambling down the street, head down, doing the broken rib walk. He was working it for sure, and for a second I thought my heart would stop–until I realized it was indeed not The Cooney but a mediocre imitation. Magarine in a tub to The Clooney’s fine, creamery butter.
I tried and I failed you. Forgive me. But I only have so many hours in a day for stalking.
I did have the opportunity to see Brad Pitt–his Navigator pulled up to dump him off at the location, but then a cluster of girls with cameras swarmed his car so fast, my first feeling was not “run!” but “poor guy.” I can’t imagine a life where you can’t even get out of your car in brownstone Brooklyn without being attacked by screaming Brooklyn College students.
I hesitated–and missed the shot. Also I hit the wrong button on my camera. Tracey Clark I ain’t.
I did see his pant leg as it disappeared through the door though. Whoo.
And the whole time, I was stuck with Nate in my head telling me I was the biggest, hugest, most embarrassing grade-A dork in the world for even considering spending more time at the set than it took to walk through on my way to CVS to pick up paper towels. Although I wasn’t as bad as the neighbor who stumbled on the set, then returned moments later in better clothes and full make-up as if Joel Coen would spot her in the crowd, amd exclaim You! You are the woman we have been looking for to shoot a love scene with Brad Pitt RIGHT THIS MINUTE. We tried to cast for her in cities across the globe for months on end but now…here you are. What are the chances?
So, interested and too-cool-to-be-interested readers, I can only offer you the following Average Album of Celebrity Stalkerdom from my neighborhood’s week-long brush with the A-list.