The Next Natalie Portman

I'll never agree to be set up on a blind date again. Of course, this wasn't supposed to be a blind date. I thought I was going on a date with Natalie Portman. Now I was trapped at TGIFridays on Newbury Street, listening to one of the most banal individuals I've ever met ponificate about The Craft and the Genius of Shakespeare. Yes, I've fucking read King Lear.

It all happened when I was riding on the Orange Line to Back Bay so I could meet some friends at Addis Red Sea, a great Ethiopian restaurant. I received a phone call from a publicist asking me if I'd like to go on a date with her client. I could barely hear her, but I thought she said her client was Natalie Portman. Sounded good to me. But instead, her client was supposed to be "The Next Natalie Portman".

I probably should have gotten up and left the moment I realized what had happened, but she was still rather attractive; and I also needed to stay as far away from the apartment as possible, because Mads, my Norwegian companion, was catching up on all the past episodes of Reba that he'd TiVoed. Looking back on it now, I can't imagine Reba could be worse than this.

My only salvation was a TV just above her in my line of sight, showing ESPN's broadcast of a Heat/Nets game. I found her voice in her mouth replaced by the smooth sounds of Bill Walton's expert commentary. The game was up, however, after my reaction to a monster Shaq alley-oop dunk off a sweet feed from Duane Wade.

"Throw it down, big man!" I said.

"What?" She turned around and saw the replay. "Have you been watching this the whole time?"

"I have." I stood up and threw a hundred dollar bill on the table. "This ought to cover the bill. Tell your publicist to lose my number. Auf Wiedershen, baby."