Dear Los Angeles,
I hope you do not mind my contacting you directly. I was initially told to have my people contact your people, but, as with most of us here in New Orleans, my people consist mostly of my momma an’ ’em.
They are a lovely group but, in addition to being New Orleans proud, they are also New Orleans loud – which is a whole different thing than L.A. loud.
Just attend a Saints home game and you will understand what I mean.
That goes double if Bill Vinovich is among said game’s referees. (#NeverForget)
But I am not writing to flag Vinovich for the infamous “NOLA No-Call” or to trash the NFL for the clear disdain it has for the Who Dat Nation. Those issues will keep for another day.
Rather, in my continuing effort to explain New Orleans, its customs and its etiquette to the outside world, I write with a simple question. It is one you should know a thing or two about, by virtue of your location at the epicenter of the celebrity world:
When is it appropriate, if ever, to approach and engage with a celebrity in public?
To be clear, I am not talking about paparazzi. They have rules of their own, and I think we can agree those rules are largely ignored anyway.
A bunch of son-of-a-Vinoviches, that lot.
I am talking about regular, everyday people who might spot someone famous in public – maybe enjoying dinner at Muriel’s, maybe grooving on a Thursday night at Vaughan’s, maybe just filling their tank at a random gas station – and become overcome by an urge to say “Where y’at?”
As it turns out, that last example, a New Orleans service station, was ground zero last spring for an online discussion of the matter.
It all started after someone took to Flip-Flop or Snip-Snap – or whatever social media platform is the online megaphone du jour – to share an encounter she said she had with Anthony Mackie.
You know Ant’ny. Juilliard by way of NOCCA. The charismatic actor who broke barriers as the Falcon, the first Black superhero in the Marvel Cinematic Universe – and the man whom Marvel Films tapped as its new Captain America.
He is by all previous accounts a genial fellow through and through. A New Orleans kid to the core. Even his Marvel character, Sam Wilson, boasts Louisiana roots. (Delacroix, to be exact – the same place just outside which Mrs. Zimmerman’s son found himself tangled up in blue.)
According to the aforementioned social media poster, when she spotted Mackie at said service station, the windows on his truck were down and his sound system a-thumpin’. She, for reasons unclear, interpreted this as an invitation to approach.
She was mistaken.
When she interrupted Mackie in what she says were hopes of informing him of his awesomeness, he stopped her in her tracks by raising a hand and saying simply, “No.”
She found that impolite, going so far as to proclaim Mackie “the rudest human being alive,” which feels a skoosh hyperbolic, but I do not know her credentials.
That brings us back to our original point: Where are the boundaries for a fan who spots a celebrity in the wild?
The answer in New Orleans is simple and has long been so. In fact, it’s a point of pride for most people who live here. Here, we leave celebrities alone.
There are nuances of course. A knowing nod in passing, or even a discreet fist bump, might be permissible. A “Who Dat?” in the right context is also OK.
But by and large, if a celebrity is in New Orleans and off the clock – that is, if they are not attending a red-carpet screening or some other publicity event – then they should not be bothered. They should be left alone. They should be free to be.
After all, we are the City That Care Forgot. We are the ever-lovin’ Big Easy. We are cooler than that.
In fact, that’s precisely why so many celebrities enjoy visiting New Orleans. Here, they can take a breath and stretch their legs in beignet-scented peace.
If TMZ has taught me anything, it’s that things are different in La-La Land. And that’s OK. You do you, sugar.
But if you know any celebrities who would like – to paraphrase Pete Fountain – a half-fast experience, you know where to send them.
Unless it’s Bill Vinovich. I am told there’s a special place reserved for him someplace else.
Insincerely yours, New Orleans
