Famous socks are still just socks

Last week I was hanging out at a bar by myself because I’d committed to seeing some friends tap keys and strum strings in their obscure – albeit adorable – band, when I noticed a familiar set of eyes staring in my direction. I looked away immediately, desperately trying to figure out who it was before that awkward HEY, REMEMBER ME! conversation could happen. Old classmate? No. Old co-worker? Nope. I turned to take a quick second glance just as dude slid into the seat across from me, and before I knew my ass from my head I was sitting in a dark booth on the edge of a dive bar with a very, very famous man.

Before I go on, you need some back story: One of the greatest things about San Francisco is the lack of celebrities. Sure, it’s a popular city, tons of people dream of leaving their hearts here, and the cable cars are a blast. But the bad weather perpetuates rebellion against designer strip malls, and little dogs aren’t keen on mud puddles (see also: Seattle). When a famous person does decide to walk our grimy streets, it’s usually to drop in on Twitter, hang out at the MythBusters office, or maybe pose for a Polaroid at True. They have a mission, they pull their hats down low, nobody thinks to look twice, the paparazzi stay away.

And then, every so often, they decide to hit up local spots where timid chicks like yours truly are just trying to prove their loyalty in peace. Dude immediately apologized for barging in on my “super awesome looking fun time”, but I died and came back to life before picking up on the sarcasm. A few seconds of horrifying silence later, he hurriedly explained that he just needed a less obvious place to chill and that if I was uncomfortable with his company he’d totally understand.

I don’t remember what I said with my mouth, but in my head it was no, please stay, stay forever, and hey, maybe we should play naked Twister?

Fast-forward to four (maybe five?) drinks later. We ragged on each other for being loners at what we decided in that drunken moment was the “diveyest dive bar in all of San Francisco" (not even close), and then retracted our insults when he found out that I was soul-searching and I found out that he was hunting for inspiration.

And then, in our bubble of self-serving loneliness and vodka, someone got an erection.

Y'all, a FAMOUS ERECTION!

I’m not going to tell you who it was (the famous person, not who got the erection) for three reasons:

1. I don’t know how the aftermath of half famous affairs works
2. You’d never believe me anyway
3. He kept his socks on, and I don’t want to be responsible for single-handedly destroying a sex symbol