Last night, I arrived at storied Georgetown swank job Cafe Milano in search of Hollywood movie star George Clooney (pictured). After sojourning to Dupont by bus, I transferred to a cab to complete the trip to Milano in the style of Hollywood movie stars such as George Clooney. Outside, a panorama of Washington, D.C. monuments wrapped the entirety of Cafe Milano in order to welcome important dignitaries and glamorous celebrities. Would George Clooney be among them?* I was there to find out.
I entered Cafe Milano. Too cheap to check my jacket—-knowing that I was possibly surrendering my one chance to have my outerwear mingle with that of celebrities such as George Clooney—-I fumbled immediately toward the bar. The cramped space was gloriously packed with patrons who were not George Clooney. There, dining on salad green in the corner—-a man who could be Joe Biden, but was not! There, sidling up to the bar—-a pony-tailed man who could be a haggard Tim Robbins, but was not! Nestled next to him—-a droppy blonde who could be Tara Reid, but was not! There, coming through the door—-a red-jacketed cougar who could have been Cindy McCain, but was not, followed by a handsome young couple that could have been Rihanna and Chris Brown, but . . . wait! . . . nope.
I situate myself closer to the social nexus of the pseudo-celebrity crowd, leaning in to Cafe Milano’s bar like so many lone, desperate women searching for their own George Clooney to rescue them from their luxurious, yet empty, social situations. I catch the attention of the bartender but do not order a drink. “Have you seen George Clooney?” I ask him. He ignores me.
“Have you seen George Clooney?” I ask a pair of high-heeled women. They clutch their drinks to their chests when I speak his name. “George Clooney is here?” they parrot back to me, excitedly. “Where?” I ask.
Depressed, I settle on conversation with a man who has been making eyes at me—-a could-be-but-isn’t John Cougar Mellencamp. He hasn’t seen George Clooney either. I don’t need George Clooney, he tells me.
How could he be so wrong? I retreat to the women’s bathroom, where I sit atop a toilet and attempt to relay information about where George Clooney isn’t via an abbreviated social networking/micro-blogging client. A woman knocks on the door but I don’t want to go back out there—-back to that miserable meat-market of non-Clooneys. For out there, there is not even an is-not-but-could-be-Clooney; none possess that easy charm, coupled with that rugged salt-and-pepper stubble, off-set by the cashmere of an expensive-yet-casual-crew-kneck-sweater, multiplied by a just-clinked martini.
The woman knocks again. Pull youself together, I think. Would George Clooney be holed up in the women’s restroom, hiding there to avoid coming terms withe the fact that he may never, in fact, locate George Clooney?
I may never know for sure.