CELEBRITIES = BAD NEWS

We here at Pico, as stated in our mission statement and charter, strive to bring you only random crap, and not celebrity-soaked blather, as we feel that a) there are lots of other blogs that do so with more aplomb and dedication than we care to apply (and which we read daily) and b) celebrities are generally, well, dumb, and not worth any more attention than the world already gives them for saying such horrible lines as "this is where it all began for me; this is where it ends." Seriously, Matt Damon, what happened to the artistic vision and genius we saw in Good Will Hunting? Has it all really come to this? Sadness all around about such a disappointing final piece to what was otherwise a rather fun and refreshing triptych, but we'll save the review of "The Bourne Ultimatum" for someone else's blog, one focused not on random crap, but well, atrocious movies and other ways to waste millions of dollars. We really did have high hopes.

Anyway, on to our point about how celebrities are not the sparkly, stardust-laden beings worthy of our worship and harrassment, but, rather, HARBINGERS OF DOOM. Case in point: Last night we went to the Arclight, one of the last bastions of the belief that an outing to the movies deserves as much respect as does an outing to say, church--really where else can we all laugh and cry (and as in the above case, gasp in angered disbelief that this thing ever got made into celluloid) without having to bear the idiocy of laser pointers and cell phones and what have you brought along by the heathen masses. Upon arriving, we learned that the Arclight restaurant, where we'd planned to fill up for the journey of un-suspended disbelief ahead, is closed due to a private event, a.k.a. special party for the special screening of something special for special people. We head to the bar upstairs in search of nourishment. We can't find a waitress, waiter, you name it, anywhere it sight, but we do see Tony Hawk and Vince Vaughn, each with their own entourage. We should have seen the bad moon rising. Behind them were the missing waitstaff, standing against the wall, watching each celebs' every move. We order a beer at the bar and head to an empty table on the patio, knowing full well that now that celebs are on the premises, it's a self-serve situation. Whatever. We go to the movie. It sucked. We leave the movie, and head across the street to The Hungry Cat for oysters and maybe a pug burger or two to cheer us up.Those hopes are quickly dashed as well. Adrian Grenier is in the restaurant, and we're seated on a side patio. After 15 minutes, we're told we can order just drinks for now and food later. Another 15 minutes go by, drinks come. Adrian and friends are having a blast. Everyone around them is eating. 15 more minutes go by. Our waiter is gone. So is our love for Hungry Cat, which we've recommended to more people than Adrian ever will. Which brings us to our point, 45 minutes later: while the presence of a celebrity in your favorite restaurant or bar may bode well for the chef with stars in his eyes (which, let's face it, these days they all do), it means very bad things for the common man, foodie, barfly, chowhound and joe schmo left to languish in the wake of servers who leap to an A-lister's every beck and call. Or simply stand against the wall and stare. Either way, we're fucked.