After a brutal week of golf-watching and reporting on our golf-watching, three of my colleagues and I let loose in San Diego’s lively, bar-filled Gaslamp district last night. The draw was a Lexus party at the chic Hard Rock hotel, which, the invitation promised, would feature hot celebs such as Kevin Dillon (of Entourage and Winged Foot fame), Jason Biggs (American Pie dude) and, in case of any medical emergencies, Dr. Addison Montgomery.
Autograph books in hand, we ambled into the Rock to find a sea of partygoers much trendier and more beautiful than we were, so we fuelled up on some courage at a bar that dispensed organic vodka, then moseyed about, hands in pockets, looking like golf writers.
Much to my chagrin, the celeb quotient was low. Matt Leinart (hard-partying NFL quarterback) showed up, and so did muscley Jim Weathers (the PGA Tour’s resident healer), but neither justified the pack of paparazzi hanging around outside. But wait! Holy cow! There was Camilo Villegas! Um, no, sorry, just some dude in a tight shirt and guerilla-style cap. But, damn, it sure looked like him.
The night progressed and disappointment flowed like Red Bull. The closest A-List sighting we had was a cardboard cutout of Barack Obama, who peered down on us from a hotel room above the party.
And then … it happened. I was grabbing a drink and a girl next me perked up and uttered four of the sweetest words you could ever hear: “Hey, it’s Scott Wolf!” I looked up and there he was, smiling coyly.
My night was complete.