Because Alarcon's day gig keeps him in a West Hollywood building on Sunset Boulevard from 9 to 5 and that office is mere feet away from the world famous Whiskey, the Viper Room, Book Soup, The Roxy and Tower Records, he's sees lots of people that some may call celebrities. In this column, he exposes his first-hand sightings for the disappointments they are.
April 13, 2006 + 5:45PM
So I'm leaving the office and I'm about to cross the street in between Tower Records and the Coffee Bean coffee shop. The intersection between the two curbs is no farther than 15 feet so even without my glasses, I can make out the douchebag in front of me who seems to look like a typical Hollywood asshole trying to look like a rock star. The street signal turns green, Mr. Douchebag and I cross paths in the crosswalk and I take in the faint scent of an expensive cologne. As I'm breathing it all in, I note this fellow's outfit: black jeans, black shirt, black leather sportscoat/jacket, black creepers with a two-inch sole, purple-tinted wraparound shades and a gaudy crucifix that would make the pope pop a boner. Immediately, I knew I was dealing with Bono—there was no doubt.
The week before, U2 had cancelled their world tour due to a death in (probably) Adam Clayton's family and Bono had time to spare. The fact that the song One from 1991's Achtung Baby beat out the Smiths' How Soon Is Now? as the greatest song ever written in the history of man just 24 hours before my Bono encounter made this meeting all the more bittersweet.
So as I pop into the Coffee Bean for a drink, Bono slips into Tower Records on Sunset no more than 30 feet from me. In the time it takes me to get a large cup of dark roast coffee (no room for cream or sugar), Bono has exited Tower Records and is walking stride for stride with me to the garage where my automobile is parked.
He's obviously drunk because he's walking with that swagger that he displayed in the video for Where The Streets Have No Name. I mean, Bono is strutting as if he were Liam Gallagher after three days of snorting a mountain of coke.
So after a few blocks of walking side by side with the lead singer of U2, we come to the street where I have to cross to get my car. Apparently, he needs to cross the same intersection as me because as I find out later, he's staying at the Sunset Marquis Hotel which is right next door to the entrance of my garage.
"That's a great bag," Bono says to me with a slight slur mixed up with a fading Irish accent I'm sure he has to work on to keep as he points to my shoulder bag. "Where'd you git it?
"An Army Surplus shop down in Orange County," I say. "About $20."
And that was it. I crossed the street and he stayed behind to pet a couple of English bulldogs on leashes that were coming west down Sunset. Was I impressed? A little—after all, this is the guy who wrote "Pride (In the Name of Love) and "Angel of
Harlem" But I was a little letdown by his stature: he's no taller than 5' 6", he has fake hair (his coif looked like jet black cotton candy combed over the bald spot on the top of his head, his stubble was patchy and he had major pock marks from what I can only assume came from a brutal attack of acne during his teen years.
Was I disappointed? Absolutely not, he was a complete gentleman throughout the whole uncomfortable ordeal of me spotting him (I was the only one who knew that Bono was Bono—he walked from the Sunset Marquis to Tower Records and back without being detected. Less can be said of Ozzy Osbourne who was a complete cunt when I ran into him in front of the Whiskey, an encounter I'll get into in the next edition of the Sunset Stalker.
