======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====
I’m a lucky man.
Not just because I somehow found myself part of a nine man celebrity entourage with a Centurion card and a seething, irrational hatred for hotel room furniture. More so because most people don’t walk away from a fiery ECV crash with their lives.
What’s an ECV? It’s one of those little electric scooters that have replaced the burden of walking for the very old and very fat. They also prominently feature in the newest Bruno Mars video along with jet skis in the Bellagio fountain. This particular group of cockroaches and one famous asshole had definitely seen that video.
“Shit! That moped’s history!”
I stared, soberly, at the flaming wreckage of molten electric scooter/Vespa hybrid in the middle of the parking garage floor.
“It’s those batteries. Same as fucking Samsung.”
“I told you we should’ve gotten go-carts.”
The guy in the corner, in the snapback, lit up a massive joint.
“Forget about it. Let’s go find some horny bitches and get close to God.”
Whatever the fuck that means. Getting up and dusting off my bruises, I paused to reflect on how I had gotten here.
In college there was this dude we all used to make fun of for wasting his life doing videography for second rate rappers in shit clubs on the weekends. Well, he disappears for a few years and resurfaces with a nice little contract doing social media for a big name entertainer I will in no way suggest I have any connection to, or give any traceable information about for the rest of this article.
For whatever reason, the video guy remembered me being nice to him. I think I bought him a burrito once when he was hungry, which is the opposite of how Beauty and The Beast starts. He called me up and asked me if I was going to this concert. I said no, I had already made plans months ago to binge House of Cards and celebrate the return of the Big Dinner Box from Pizza Hut by eating the whole damn thing myself. Plus I’m broke as fuck, so there you go.
But, the guy says, “It’s cool, I’m with the guy. We’ll get you in backstage. You want to come out with us afterwards?”
Well alright, I guess.
Next thing I knew I was with a bunch of weird dudes with even weirder hair in the back of a tricked out Sprinter van conversion that looked a cross between a party bus and a G6. Backstage I took a couple pulls of Scottish cognac and popped something called “Bubble Nips.” This pain train was off to a roll like the sushi we ate off a stripper’s butt at the Golden Monkey later that night.
Look, I was in a fraternity. I’ve been to a couple bachelor parties. I’ve done some self-destructive, wild bar crawls in my day. But drinking with a 20-something famous person on bottomless pockets was the dirtiest trip I’ve ever been on in my life.
First of all, when celebrities complain about all the attention they get, that’s bullshit. We crashed tiny down clubs with a roll of SUVs and that van like a presidential motorcade. All the paparazzi have cell phones now, by the way, and nobody cares. I’m sure I’m in Rolling Stone somewhere, and my face after Jäger Bomb seven was uglier than that UVA story.
We steamrolled through about five other clubs, tossing money at bouncers and doing drugs with homeless people when one of us got kicked out for puking on the bar. There’s nothing a Black Card and some collateral can’t get you out of.
And the girls. Holy shit, the girls.
Have you heard of the Cheerleader Effect? Well the Entourage Effect is a real thing too, and it’s about a billion times more intense. When you go out in a group with a famous person, your real boning valuation (RBV) gets overinflated like some of these girls’ saline implants. Which is to say laughable and enormous. Almost cartoonish. I’m like Wile Coyote getting hooked up with that hot female Bugs Bunny from Space Jam.
After the bar, as Pitbull says, it’s back to the hotel room. We grabbed your girlfriends (and some boyfriends) and headed back to the suite. They don’t really do penthouses in this city (not like Vegas, anyway) but the room had a koi pond in the middle, so I’d say it was pretty damn fancy.
There was a serious discussion at one point about whether we could rent a mini-crocodile to put in it. And this was a thing THAT WAS POSSIBLE. Just for emphasis. When you’re in an entourage, any hazy, stupid idea has the possibility to become a reality.
Like the jet skis. One of the more sober people talked them down to the ECVs, but not before the hotel manager herself ran out to buy a dozen Hawaiian shirts from a Walmart 20 miles away at the drop of a fucking word from this guy. By the time she got back, we’d already rigged the ECVs and a couple rented Vespas with pillows and started jousting.
That’s how the crash happened, and that’s how we ended up smoking weed with some graveyard shift checkout girls from Safeway in a different hotel roof suite across town. This one had a jacuzzi, at least. Unlike the other one, which by this point felt to me like it was made for savages.
To tell you the truth, I did feel a little closer to God.
And I realized that in the morning I wasn’t going to have to pay for any of this. I didn’t have to perform in front of people, or do any other pain in the ass celebrity shit. God help this guy if he had to do a real interview the next day. I got to go out, live like I made a million dollars a year, trash the town, and then fade into the anonymity of the coattails of this guy you definitely hear on the radio.
I don’t give a shit about being famous. I want to be in a fucking entourage. Lucky bastards..