Fourth of July Friskiness

So as you all know, I go out a lot -- not by choice, per se, but for work. I chase celebrities up and down red carpets and to VIP sections at swanky and/or over-hyped nightclubs on a very regular basis.

Given my social calendar, it's not all that surprising that I get hit on from time to time.

While Flo Rida still holds the title of most blatant flirt (he's the only one to have kissed me on the red carpet -- on two separate occasions, no less -- and unsolicitedly give me his phone number in the middle of an interview. Twice.), this weekend has seen a handful of shameless attempts by those who should really know better.

And by better, I mean know not to hit on reporters.

Mind you, not all of them realize I'm a reporter. Heck, a lot of the time I didn't even know who they are.

Case in point: Amar'e Stoudemire. He's a four-time NBA All-Star who plays for the Phoenix Suns

I bumped into him at Tao on Thursday while I was trying to find a friend. I had no idea who he was and he just came up to me as I was texting on my BlackBerry and, well, grabbed me.

I thought he was just some random tall dude and didn't believe him when he said he played basketball. I mean, if I was a tall black dude, I'd tell all the clueless white chicks that I played basketball -- most girls love that shit.

He joked about driving a Pinto, then said, cheesily, how he actually drives a Shadow but doesn't like telling people that.

I tried to stop my eyes from rolling back into my head but the cheese factor was making me gag.

Without skipping a beat, I looked up at him and said that I didn't know what a Shadow was so it didn't impress me, but I knew he wouldn't fit into a Pinto.

When he explained that it was a Rolls-Royce my teach-this-guy-a-lesson instincts kicked into high gear.

"Oh, that's original," I said. "Welcome to Las Vegas. EVERYBODY dives a Rolls-Royce here, or a Mercedes, or whatever. Big deal."

"I really don't care about cars," I concluded as I looked away in hopes of spotting my missing friend.

Unfortunately, my attempts at blowing him off seemed to have the opposite effect.

"You're going to come home with me tonight, right?" he said.

This, after our two-minute oh-so-superficial-and-lame conversation.

"Um, no."

"Well you're going to let me go down on you, aren't you?"

Again, I shook my head. NO.

It was at this point that I the realized the word "no" probably isn't one he often hears.

He tried to kiss me a few times, and reissued offers to both go home with him and, more explicitly, have sex with him. All without even knowing my name. And all within five minutes, max.

After a few minutes without seeing any sign of my friend I quickly got tired of Stoudemire's game and told him I had to go find my friends. I promised to bring them back but, of course, never did.

Elsewhere in the club that night, I had my ass grabbed repeatedly by some douche from Pittsburgh.

I jumped and swatted him away, effectively spilling his drink all over him.

Apparently it was a silly asshole move.

"What? You have a great ass!" he said, as if nothing was wrong.

"Um, that doesn't mean you can just grab it."

"Why not?!"

"Because I'm a lady, not some whore."

"Oh, I know that..."

*SWAT AGAIN*

What is it about long weekends that make people behave so badly?

Isn't this weekned in honor of Independence Day? Time to celebrate the liberties and freedoms of this country?

Hmm.

I guess overpriced bottle service, random hook-ups and loosie-goosie rub-downs are the American way. (So, is this where I'm supposed to say 'God bless America?')

Prior to the shenanigans at the Venetian, I endured what seemed like the second-longest red carpet in America for the third-annual Ante Up for Africa chairty poker tournament.

A handful of A-listers were there, including Ben Affleck and Matt Damon.

Brad Garrett of "Everybody Loves Raymond" fame was also there.

I had never met him or Affleck or Damon before, but the latter two of the three were very polite.

The 49-year-old comedian apparently took a shining to me -- or at least my glasses -- as we chatted about this and that (and my glasses) on the carpet.

"I look at your glasses and I feel like I want to weld something," he said.

He's such a charmer, I know.

"I want to weld a tunnel between my room and your room."

"This isn't weird, this isn't weird, we will be dressed as pirates..."

Naturally, I laughed, somewhat nervously as the People Magazine and US Weekly stringer stood there, equally stunned and amused, and laughed as they witnessed the exchange.

It wasn't awkward at all.