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It's 2006. I'm working at Esquire, assigned to write about George Clooney. He invites me to his house. Now, understand something: Celebrities never invite you to their house. Except for George Clooney, apparently. The house! Amazing.
The night before our rendezvous—AT HIS HOUSE—I go out for dinner with friends. Cuban food. I return to my hotel, the delightful Sunset Marquis, and am beset with terrible, terrible gas. I decide I need to cropdust the hell out of West Hollywood.
I tell the doorman that I'm about to unleash a toxic cloud on these streets, and to send out for me if he doesn't see me return. Maybe two blocks from the hotel, I feel something go very wrong inside me. Indescribable. A kind of... explosion?
I wave down a cab: Nearest hospital, buddy! We end up at Cedars-Sinai. Maybe 45 minutes later, I don't have a gall bladder anymore. I am put in the nicest hospital room I've seen in my life. Like a fancy hotel. The bill will come to $46,000.
I wake up the next morning. "I've got to talk to George Clooney," I gurble. Nurse says, "Dr. Ross is not real. ER is a fictional television show. You're in a real hospital." I'm like, "No, I really have to talk to George Clooney." She pats my head and leaves.
I check myself out of the hospital. (Don't do that.) Take a taxi to stock up on Vicodin. (No.) Change—boy, my tummy still hurts—and drive to Clooney's house. I pop some pills, knock at the door. He greets me warmly. He is unbelievably attractive, by the way. Different species.
He offers me a Nespresso in the smoothest possible way. Or maybe I'd like a beer? A beer would be nice. He hands me a perfectly chilled Heineken. "Thank you, George Clooney. Your name is George, but everybody calls you George Clooney, and they forget that." Terrific.
We adjourn to the living room. It's very nice. Classy but understated. I sit on a leather couch. I gulp down my beer, forgetting that I'm drugged out of my mind. The beer and the drugs combine into a blessed haze. I am vapour. I feel no pain. Nothing matters.
I'm hanging with George Clooney! His bare feet are on the table. Nice feet. He's charming and funny. I laugh and laugh some more. What swells we are! His pet pig wanders through the frame. I remember that I don't have a gall bladder anymore. Wait. Did I need that?
I don't know, but I do require a toilet. He points the way. I stumble inside, undo my pants... And it's like I've opened the elevator doors in The Shining. I am Tim Roth at the end of Reservoir Dogs. I have laughed so hard, I've burst open an incision. I didn't feel a thing.
Oh God! I clean myself up as well as I can. I pack the wound with TP. I do up my jacket. My face is pale and wet, but I'm doing okay. I look okay, right? Wow. That's nuts. That was a lot of blood! I've got to talk more to George Clooney.
Back to the living room and—Oh no. No no no. I have fucked up George Clooney's couch. It's a crime scene. The head of Khartoum. But the angle—he hasn't noticed! I sit down and, as casually as I can, I rub the hell out of that couch, like I'm trying to start a fire.
After four hours—unheard of—we finish. I thank him. "Take care of yourself," he says. I think: If my wife slept with him, I couldn't be mad. I head for my car, now stone-cold sober. I drive back to the hotel. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, the doorman shouts. I'VE BEEN LOOKING EVERYWHERE.
"Do I have a story for you," I say. When Clooney's manager calls. Shit. Here we go. Let's add a leather couch to the bill. But no—just, Hey, George enjoyed meeting you. "Oh! I really enjoyed meeting George." That's it. That man just shrugged and bought a new couch.
