Celebrity Spotting

Chicago has its fair share of famous natives, and there are a few that even still own real estate here along Lake Michigan. However, this city is not like L.A. or New York where celebrities crawl the streets as often as homeless people.

Therefore, when we do host a few famous ones, it is a pretty big deal.

Last night, I was invited to attend the screening of the new season of "My Boys," a TBS show that is set in Chicago. Three of the cast members all attended, too, and it was quite fun.

As you can see, Kristen, Katie and I met and talked to the cast, and had fun getting to laugh with Kyle Howard (very cute in a boyish way) and Reid Scott (downright hot). I spoke with Michael Bunin, too, but he wasn't around for the above photo. Interestingly enough, Michael knows and is friendly with my cousin Molly through Improv Olympic in L.A., and he was nothing short of hilarious. And totally real, which is always refreshing.

All in all it was fun to meet them, yet we didn't act like those girls who hung around, clinging to their every word, just hoping that the guys would fall in love, pluck them from the mundane reality of Chicago life, and whisk them off into the sunset of Los Angeles. Yeah, right, ladies. It was funny watching the "cougars" wait, ready to pounce.

Simultaneously, my friend Katie got a call from her boyfriend Jeff who was dining and cocktailing at Park Grill at Millennium Park. Apparently he was enjoying the musical stylings of a friend who was playing there, and looked up to see Jack Johnson at the bar. Jack Johnson! Having cocktails!

Jeff walked up to him and shared a few words, and was thrilled to meet the star. Katie and Jeff are actually heading up to Alpine Valley in Wisconsin tomorrow to see Jack Johnson's show, so it was a dream to get to talk to him, just like a regular guy, on a random Thursday. Hoorah! He was as nice as you'd assume he was!

Lookout New York. We're chomping at your heels as the coolest urban city celebrities like to roam.

And, there are fewer homeless people to step over as you do.

She's No Country Cousin

This post serves a fairly selfish purpose. Only about seven people in my life will care about the contents of this blog, but I'm okay with it.

I'd like to take this opportunity to brag about my cousin Molly McNearney. Memorize the name now, trust me. She was recently promoted to Head Writer at Jimmy Kimmel Live, and in the male-dominated world of late night comedy, this is one giant feat. A success, of course, but also a speedy ride to the top. She now is queen of the jungle out there, and given that her officemates are prone to fart, burp, swear, sweat and guffaw while in brainstorming meetings, that is saying something.

If the show isn't currently set up in your Tivo, then I'd suggest you get on that. It comes on at 12:05 am here, so clearly I'm not up to see it, but rest assured I watch most of the shows in the following days. Jimmy is a riot (and much thinner in real life!), and the bits the writers dream up are ridiculous, funny, clever and culturally relevant, if not always culturally reverent.

When I was in LA in March, I even got to rub Guillermo's tummy for good luck. Jimmy's relationship with Cousin Sal has got nothing on us, babe.

Here's a photo from a skit she acted in with Pat O'Brien from "The Insider", spray-tanned orange to look like his offspring on Take Your Daughter to Work Day:


Molly is funny, charming, witty and one of the best writers I have ever experienced. Her timing is impeccable, and she can do accents like nobody's business. When she was my roommate here in Chicago, she went through all levels of classes at Second City, and even graduated from Improv Olympic with flying colors.

Here's a photo from a skit where Jimmy had "the girls" together to mourn the last "Sex and the City" episode airing:


Molly, there on the far right, with her hand firmly clasping the cosmo, is the type that has 42 irons in the fire at all times, and never really sits still. I am pretty certain she's writing a screenplay and a book as we speak. While drinking a sissy latte and scarfing a chocolate scone with the other hand.

Tina Fey—look out. Your job security may be in jeopardy.

And, Molly, please remember those that knew you "back when"...or else.

Or else I'll tell everyone I know that you:

• Can make a fierce siren noise by banging on your throat.


• Used to love to dress up as a geek and act out skits as the character "Bertha."


• Are a lightweight drinker. Or at least, you used to be.


• Locked yourself out of our apartment once a week. On a good week.


• Molested me in a photo booth once.


• Got "lessons" at our dining room table. With a candlestick.


• Are a hack at an indoor water fight. Using a iced tea pitcher IS cheating.


• Once, for a shining moment, held a golden phone.


• Impersonated the 7-Eleven cashier. Perfectly.


• Prank called our neighbors, only to listen through the walls for their reactions.


• Participated in, and possibly won, the "no shower" contest at your all-girls high school.


• Send sweet, verbose, sappy birthday cards that make me cry.


• Mocked my Dad at a Second City show while on all fours.


• Made a 6-month long pro/con list before moving to California.

Look where that pro/con list got you after all. Is the mic warmed up yet? Can I get a mic check? Miggity mic check. Congratulations, Molls. We knew you could do it. Go show those men who's boss.

I'm a dead woman when you make it big, aren't I?

Airport Red Rover

My sister has been emailing me all week torturous messages from her travels in Los Angeles, courtesy of her Blackberry.

I keep getting ones like, "Sitting in a tank top in Santa Monica on the beach—it is so sunny here!" or "Just saw the girl from 'Bend it Like Beckham' while touring the Warner Brothers Studio!" or "Heading to a big party for our cousin, can't wait to meet Jimmy Kimmel and Sara Silverman to ask them why Ben Affleck isn't at the party!"

My personal favorite included a funny deformed photo of herself which I'm assuming was captured in the wiggly fun house mirrors at Ripley's Believe it Or Not Museum where she said, "Had some time to myself so I stopped into a Beverly Hills Salon and got some work done."

It was frightening. I barely recognized her pretty little face. I urged her to come home before she ended up looking like a bad rendition of an Orange County Housewife. Which, in itself, is a bad rendition of a normal American middle aged woman, if you ask me.

And, the final email featured her sitting patiently in the LAX cell phone waiting area for her boss' plane to land. She and I both agree that the cell phone waiting lots are a genius idea—a very simple solution to a really annoying problem. See how this comes back to commuting? Patience, people, patience.

In Atlanta, my hometown and arguably the busiest airport in the country, when you're flying in, you must either have an uncanny sense of timing or ESP in order to meet your party outside the arrivals gates at just the exact moment when they choose to drive by, or you have to have them park somewhere near the airport, which can only be described as the 'hood, only to wait for your "I've just landed!" call to get them moving. Otherwise, the driver tries to deploy a stealth operation designed to stall along the arrivals gate, idling in the lane while the Atlanta Police yell at you, scream obscenities and threaten tickets, fines, or promise to steal your first born.

The cell phone waiting lot allows you to avoid all of that, and to wait for your party, but in a civilized, uniformed and efficient manner. Atlanta Hartsfield and O'Hare airports, get on that, wouldja?

Lauren claims that at the LAX lot, all the cars starting up and leaving her one by one made her feel like she was playing a giant cosmic game of Red Rover, and she was the fat, sweaty, scary and overly tall kid of whom everyone was afraid.

She's not, for the record.

But, if I wasn't a tiny bit afraid of her, I'd be posting the fun house mirror photo for you all to see.

Plain By Comparison

I thought my life here in Chicago was pretty interesting.

Eventful and noteworthy, even.

That was until I got a text message last night from my beautiful and hilariously talented cousin Molly who now lives in L.A., works in television writing for one of the late night comedians. She hob-nobs with stars so often that she doesn't even think the stories are worth telling anymore.

The text said this, word for word:
___

Just nearly got plowed over by paparazzi. Four choppers circling above. Hundreds of people racing on Sunset. Britney is on the loose. That girl is crazy.
___

Yeah. Commuting on the CTA doesn't compare.

And, something tells me that my trips down Michigan Avenue won't ever appear on Extra or TMZ.

Thank God. I'd hate for someone to shove a camera in my face each morning and post the evidence in magazines under the caption, "Stars are Just Like Us - they hate winter!"

Or something far worse. Like a comment about my outfit (ok, so I didn't really try this morning) or my frizzy hair (it's dry out, people!), or the fact that I'm wearing last year's shoes (the horror!), or my comings-and-goings on a Saturday morning (can't comment for fear that my mother will read this).

Yeah. I'd rather just be little 'ol unfamous me.