I'm sure if you're famous, you probably have people always around you, trying to be your friend, get things from you, and generally just trying to be close to you. That seems like would be totally annoying, and why, although I've met more famous people than the average Joe, I tend to 1) not be awed by them, but more curious of the situation that had our paths cross, or 2) not to bother or disturb them, unless my desire to know why they're there outweighs my desire to not be "that guy" that just bothers the fuck out of someone for some shit that's not relevant in their lives. But this flashes me back to one of the few times where my desire to have an opportunity at the kind of shit that stories come from...
...it's Christmas break, and I'm living in Utah, going to Weber State, the Harvard of the Wasatch. It's time to leave this hell-hole and head back to California. I had usually chosen to catch the bus into the bay, but had decided to take advantage of a great deal on this airline I'd never really ever heard of called Southwest Airlines (this isn't indicative of the starting of Southwest, just of my ability to afford airline tickets). Unfortunately, I was living in Ogden, so I had to get down to the airport, and someone (Bear, I imagine) dropped me off at SLC International like 5-6 hours before my flight. I did what any red-blooded American would have done, I went to the hotel bar, and had an adult beverage (well, let's not get it twisted, I had more than one, almost to the point of abject irresponsibility). At the time, my beverage of choice was the White Russian, which for those in the know understand that it's a drink made with Vodka, Kahlua and cream or milk. A great beverage, with one minor drawback, for me at least. The heavy cream in the Cauacsian is devastating to the lactose intolerant, and I am president of my local chapter. After more than I should have had, I was forced to hit the facilities, and although I didn't have a Larry Craig experience, I did have a prolonged experience in the facilities, to the point that I missed my boarding pass, and would essentially have to fly stand-by until i could get on a plane, which, since i missed the last plane of the day going home, meant I would be in Utah for yet another evening...
...but I was an adult, had a little cream in my pockets and had informed my mom of the situation, who hooked a brother up with a hotel room for the evening, so I could go to the airport in the morning and give it another try (told her i missed boarding in the restroom, left off the maniacally drunk part). So most of my experience was dealt with, except that I had no clothes, which were on their way to California without me. In my less than sober state, it took me longer than I would have imagined to convince myself to get out of the airport (I wouldn't have a hotel room for a few hours, and all my Utah friends had already left- going to the bar was inevitable, but i wanted to wait a little). As I start to head out of the airport, I scan the area, as the most observant/paranoid of us tend to do. As I look over to the payphones, I see this little, mexican dude, chilling on the payphone. Actually, I digress once again. As I peered around the room, the first thing I noticed was a green t-shirt with a pot leaf on it. As, at the time, I had been wanting to smoke some pot (Utah will do that to a brother) , this clearly grabbed my attention and shook it like a Haitian Earthquake. As I look up from the green t-shirt, and get a look at the guy on the phone, I feel like this guy should be someone I recognize. But at this point in my life, I've met many, many famous people, and so I kind of blow it off...
...until i decide to go into my mental rolodex regarding famous people, and i get to the page on Cheech and Chong, and realize that I'm looking at motherfucking Cheech Marin at the Salt Lake City International airport. And fortunately, this is back in the day before heightened levels of security- when the idea of traveling a personal stash was not unheard of, and when the implications were almost non-existent (at one point in my life, i was affiliated with a group of people that would fly around the country, or just fucking carry on, a 3 chambered bong that was shaped like the SS Enterprise, that more pot had been smoked out of than many countries could in a given year). So, as I look over at Cheech, I point at his shirt and give him a thumbs up, to signify my approval. He smiles and reciprocates. I then reach into my pocket, pull out a bag and point to it, and flash Cheech the Michael Jordan. He finishes the conversation and hangs up the phone, and Cheech Marin and I are off, walking through the SLC International. There's not a lot of small talk involved, it's much more like a business meeting....
...I indicate to Cheech that I don't have a place in mind, as I don't frequently find a need to get high at the airport, and Cheech, a Johnny on the spot guy if there ever was one, told me he had a place, a place that worked in every airport in America. Clearly, I'm intrigued by this. As we walk through the terminal, Cheech starts telling me about the rental car area...
"you know how the rental cars are all lined up in a row, like 5-10 cars deep? this means when they need to get the 8th car out, they have to move cars one through seven in order for them to do that. And, because the cars are blocked in, there's no need for cameras, because nobody can steal them. And they're ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS unlocked, with the keys in the car, so once you get in the car, you can even listen to music."
This was ingenious!! I would never had thought of that, and if I had been smart enough to come up with it, I could not have convinced myself to do it, as I would have believed there was no way to pull that off, that someone would be watching, and I would find myself in jail because I just had, just fucking HAD to get high at the airport. So Cheech Marin and I stroll out the rental car area like two kids that had just been given keys to the Kingdom, without a care in the world, about to smoke a little endo-nesia before he get's on a plane to Los Angeles, and I head to the hotel to check in my non-stuff (as it's all under the plane I didn't get on). We get out the rental cars, find a nice mini-van and start the process- the Michael Kennedy-Sonny Bono process. Cheech turns the vehicle on, but not over, as to turn on the radio/CD player. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a CD and puts it in the player ("always be prepared," he said- the irony of being told the Boy Scout Credo with Cheech Marin about to hot-box a mini-van was not lost on me either at the time or now) I have, on a variety of occasions, tried my best to remember the music he put in the CD, but for some reason, I could not put a finger on it (it might have been the cone joint Mr. Marin rolled, and I'm still not sure how he did it, although I have seen others since, at the time, it was like seeing Aurora Borealis for the first time). We chilled in the vehicle, all of the small talk blasted out of two dudes, smoking in stupified silence. When the cone was almost finished, Cheech snuffed it out, placed it in the ashtray (for the next person in the vehicle or the car lot worker, who could definitely use it). Cheech and I shook hands, said a fond farewell and he went back in the terminal to catch his flight, and I began my evening trek into Salt Lake City...
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