I was masticating on a small spinach salad and side of 7 grain bread (7!) and floating into my view was a Beastie Boy — the tall, issue-oriented one (MCA), holding the hand of a little boy and then kissing the cheek of a not so little woman who was obviously not the mom. Her dress was red. Her lips were too. She smiled a lot. Did I contact Gawker Stalker? No. Did I want to sidle by him and whisper-sing a playfully strained: “I can’t staaaaaaand it….I know they plaaaaaaaannnnnned it….” Yes. The NY Times had good article about fame last week. They mentioned Gawker. The site has an amusing map in an area they call Gawker Stalker A typical entry goes like this:
Eugene Hutz
103 PRINCE ST
Aug 11th, 2006 @ 6pm
Eugene Hutz from Gogol Bordello, inside apple store soho, checking out monitors and looking hairy.
It made me think about 2 things. Eugene Hutz once got me into his sold-out concert because I playfully demanded it, accessing his generosity with my insistence that due to our shared heritage (Ukrainian) and similar shoes (black Adidas: Campus) and other things I deserved a ticket to his sold-out show. He agreed. Great guy. Great concert. I was also reminded of Dave Lyman, a harbor pilot in Hawaii who just had a new boat named after him called Kawika (Hawaiian for David). I read this article while in Hawaii a few weeks back. It mentioned that he, and his handlebar mustache (a feature sported by Eugene Hutz as well), were popular around the harbor and did he like the notoriety he had? He said you want to NOT be famous. “The only time you are, something terrible has happened.” The article was published and then something terrible happened. He died on the job. He had just guided a ship out of Kauai’s Nawiliwili harbor, and fell off while climbing out of the ship’s ladder.
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