I hate Quentin Tarantino.
There. I’ve said it. And if you’re a big fat QT fan (you’re in luck, ‘cause he’s big and fat right now) go ahead and shoot me. A whole bunch of times in slow motion with lots of blood and screaming. Then say “fuck” a whole bunch of times. Feel better?
Don’t get me wrong. I think he is a talented man, with a definite point of view, but he is one of the most obnoxious humans I’ve ever encountered. And he’s stalking me. Mostly at meal time. WHY, QUENTIN?! WHY?! It’s not like I’m ordering a Royale with Cheese.
Quentin has ruined more meals for me than gristle.
Knowing that the Reservoir Dog himself was HANGIN in Austin for the last while, I entered every eatery with trepidation. I wanted the “hostess” (that’s what we call maitre d’s in Texas) to offer “Tarantino or non-Tarantino” seating. I wound up eating at home a lot, hoping some well-meaning star-fucker friend wouldn’t call up in a drunken state, saying “Dude, I’ve been telling Q about your house and we’re on our way over. Get out the good tequila. Let’s sit on the porch and shoot the shit and some tequila! It’s Tarantino, man!”
And then the movie opened. And then it flopped. And I knew I could rest easier, knowing that every media outlet in the world had already shot their Tarantino load and were now staring lustily at Tobey Maguire.
And I go toddling off to LA for a (gay) celebrity soaked weekend, secure in my knowledge that Tarantino wouldn’t be there. (But I did talk to LANCE BASS—jealous, much?)
So imagine my surprise, when, sitting in a public bathroom at the LA farmer’s market, after a delicious breakfast at Loteria, my phone rings. Now, those of you who have been reading my blog for a while know that I’m not fan of cell phones in the bathroom. But this was My Beloved calling. The man I knew was standing on the other side of the bathroom door, no more than 30 feet away. WTF?
I answered as discreetly as possible.
“Quentin Tarantino is JUST walking into the bathroom where you are!!!”
“You’re fucking KIDDING me?!”
I see the shadow pass my door, and the scuffed shoes of a hipster settle into the next stall. And I can now confirm what I’ve always thought: Yes, Quentin, your shit DOES stink!