He Touched Me...: My Night With Idris Elba

*hits beatbox* It's been a long time. I shouldn't have left you without a dope blog to... Never mind.

Hi, y'all!! *dodges tomatoes* I know, I know. It's been forever since my last post. But, I promise I'll be better about writing from now on. *crosses heart*

For those of you that follow me on twitter, you know I have a tendency to "live tweet" certain events that I go to. If you don't follow me, then I'll just say that you miss out on a LOT of foolishness that happens in my world.

Two weeks ago, I had both the most irritating and exhilarating night when I got up close and personal with Idris Elba. Yes, that Idris Elba. Mr. Idris "That one scene in 'Takers' when he's getting out of the bed gets me through those lonely nights" Elba. Sexual, English Chocolate... *fans self and swoons*

Of course, the exhilarating part was shaking his soft, beautiful hand and watching him up close. (We'll talk about his dj'ing skills in a bit.) The irritating part was what I had to get through to get to that point.

Never.Again.

It all started one night on twitter. I saw someone tweet that IE was going to be at The Savoy "Entertainment Center" in Inglewood for the owner's birthday party in a couple of weeks. I had to seek out some confirmation because, you know, it's twitter and folks like to kill people and pretend that sexy, British, Black men are going to be 2 miles from my house in 140 characters or less.

I got my confirmation by way of a radio commercial on KJLH. After hearing IE's lovely accent inviting all the "lay-ees" out to see him spin, I knew that I had a decision to make. Do I risk it all by going to a club that I HATE to see this man up close or just wait until another opportunity presented itself God knows when...

I consulted with my partner in crime, Britni D., and we both decided to risk it all for THAT MAN. We weighed the ratchet/hoodrat quotient versus the old pimps looking for leftovers and figured that we'd at least try to get in and see how things played out.

Saturday arrived and it was time to get dressed. What to wear? I mean, in the fantasy land of my mind, I may get invited back to the SLS to do lurid things in 1000 thread count sheets with him. (Hey! Chunky, red bone girls have fantasies, too! Stop hating!)

After snapping myself out of La La Land, I decided on a cute dress that made me presentable, yet ready to run, should some isht pop off. After all, this is The Savoy.

Britni and I got to the club at approx 9:45 and there was a fairly good sized line formed outside, comprised of 95% women. (Shocker.) The outfit selection in this line ranged from the swapmeet to Macy's, with a good touch of "WTF" splashed in every now and then. The first severe faux pas that Britni spotted was a pair of tan orthopedic shoes being worn by an ambitious club goer. The woman had on a black tank top, black shorts, black slouch socks a la 8th grade, and TAN orthopedic tennis shoes.

After trusting the vehicle to the valet, we entered the line which moved fairly quickly. Women were in free before 10 PM and wouldn't you know that it magically became 10:01 when we got to the check-in desk. "$20", said the jerk ass dude behind the podium, as he tapped his watch to signify the time change. I begrudgingly turned over the money and headed towards the sauna ahead. I got no further than 3 steps when a burly security guard in a cheap suit taps me on the shoulder and says, "Yo, he said $20!" I gave security the side eye of death and walked back to the podium. I looked the clerk in the eye and said audibly, over the 90's groove playing loudly, "I already paid you, muthaf***a!!" (When in Inglewood...) He looked up, nodded, and I was well on my way.

My mood sufficiently sullied from that initial encounter, we headed into the abyss. It was just as I remembered The Savoy: Large, hot, crowded, and filled with men 5'4" and under. With Brit leading the way, we elbowed our way to the bar, where the china bang wearing bartender with the half-shirt asked us what we wanted. I ordered a vodka & ginger ale. "We ain't got no ginger ale." I looked at Britni and asked her to confirm that this yaky weave model just said that this BAR had NO GINGER ALE. I was appalled. (I'm bougie. Sue me.) I settled for a vodka and Sprite. *eye roll*

As we were waiting for our drinks, I spotted 3 very nice gentleman standing to our right at the bar. One in particular caught my eye and I nudged Brit. She gave a "he's aight" shrug. (Britni says more non-verbally than anyone I've ever met, btw.) So, I adjust the girls and tap him on the shoulder. I ask for his name, which I don't remember, and introduced myself. We exchanged pleasantries and I told him that he was an attractive guy. He said thank you and that's where it all ended. I got shut ALL the way down. I nursed my wounds with my vodka and Spite, I mean, Sprite.

We moved to another part of the club, in search of ventilation, and I spotted a childhood friend sweating profusely near another bar. Brit and I walked over and said hello and continued our migration.

During our travels, comedian Michael Colyar (A Comic View regular) kept floating around among the foolishness, with a rather large guy, who I assumed to be his bodyguard. Why he was chilling at The Savoy with a bodyguard, wandering the floor looking lost is beyond me, but I thought I'd throw it in there for color.

Brit and I ended up posting to the right of the club and to the right of the stage. (This will play favorably into my story later.) I promise you that I was standing as still as possible and was sweating like a marathon runner. If I wasn't afraid of attracting either someone's grandfather or someone else's baby daddy on his 2nd strike, I would have put some ice on myself. But, I opted for a stray flyer to use as a makeshift fan, which did nothing.

I took the time while I was evaporating to survey the crowd. Aunties, grandmamas, grandpas, brim wearing uncles, a mini pimp in a white suit, neon colored leggings on a size 28 woman...

Wait...

Did that 5 foot tall dude just walk by my elbow in a teal and white Steve Harvey collection jacket and white hat?? Why, yes. Yes, he did.

At this point, I'm beyond irritated, nowhere near drunk and my phone was going dead, so I couldn't finish live tweeting the f*ckery I was experiencing, and I was just completely unamused. Britni actually has a picture of me standing at the bar looking completely unamused. To top it all off, it was 11:25 and there was NO Idris to be found in the proximity.

Around 11:55, the DJ announces that Idris is "in the building, y'all!" and that starts the game of how long it will take him to get on the lonely looking turntables on the stage. (The house DJ has a booth near the rear of the club, so the turntables were especially for IE.)

In true *Rox Fontaine voice* RATCHET fashion, a fight breaks out on the dance floor between some girls. Britni taps me and we make our move toward the closest exit. We know the drill, having survived many USC Lyons' Center melees. Run and ask questions later. Security came through and literally carried the rowdy broads out and the crown calmed down within a few minutes. In our dash to safety, we landed at the edge of the stage. Finally, a win!

Soon after, Idris was given the microphone as he began to purr his sweet nothings to the "lay-ees" over the loud speaker from the not-so-VIP VIP section. I'm just saying, how is it the VIP section if it's at the same level as the rest of the club?? Who does that?

He slowly makes his way from the shoddy VIP to the DJ booth in the back of the club, where no one could see him and threatens to stay in it! I wasn't having that. No, sir! No, ma'am! At this point, 12:10 in the AM, I have lost 1/3 of my water weight and am now being eyeballed by a very large person, whose gender I am unsure of. Idris is getting his West End ass on that stage!

He finally arrives on the stage and it is well worth the wait. He was adorable in khaki pants, a crisp, white, cotton shirt, his dark shades, and a drink in his hand. He's still on the mic cooing about it being his first time in Inglewood (whoopty-doo) and talking about other things I do not recall. I was visually appeased. That's all that mattered.

Sexual Chocolate began his DJ set with his Serato supported music library and played some jams that were along the lines of the music the house DJ was playing, late 90's/early '00s R&B and Hip-Hop. Idris was rocking it until it came time to transition to another song and it was a rough transition. I mean, rough...

But, that's alright. Coulda been jet lag. Coulda been him being mesmerized by my smile. Whatever. We'll let it ride.

Yeah, he did it again...

That's alright, though. Maybe he's nervous because he's heard stories about the hood. He's trying to watch his back. Umm, Brit, he let that song play too long, didn't he??

He gets on the mic. "Sorry, y'all. I let the song play too long."

Aww, how cute! He admitted it! How humble and endearing! Let's keep the party going. Wait, he just played that song...

But, it's cool. It's Idris. He's fine.

As I said, there was a sizable person, who I later found out was a man (swear I couldn't tell) deposited on the side of the stage, sizing me up like he was picking a steak. I'm in my IE daze and Jabba grabs my hand. I look down and he's holding my hand up, as if he was asking me to twirl around to completely check me out. I was horrified. He then goes, "Damn, you a sexy, big girl." I smiled, put up the church finger and took two giant steps to my right.

Back to Idris. Aww, he loves whatever is in that glass. Aww, he missed another... That's OK.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and no one is there. I feel another tap and look again, this time down. It's the mini-pimp in the Steve Harvey suit. He beckons me down to his level, as he has a question for me. I literally have to bend my knees and lean to get my ear to her the general direction of his mouth. As I got closer to him, I see that this guy looks like Gary Coleman, postmortem, in the face.

"Who is dat dude up there?", he asks, face contorted in supreme confusion.

"Idris Elba!", I say. I'm trying to get away from the goblin ASAP.

"Who is that?"

Now, I'm looking perplexed. "He's an actor. Have you seen 'The Wire' or 'Takers'?"

"Naw. He know Jaime Foxx??" He was SO serious with this question.

At this point, I'm looking for the cameras because this shit can't POSSIBLY be life. "I don't know. Possibly."

"Oh. Let me ask you a personal question..." The gremlin is really pondering this question of his.

Now I'm just bracing for a fight. "What, dude?"

"If I had money like that dude, would all these hoes be in here to see me?" He looked up to me, waiting for the answer.

Before I could even filter my response (hell, he might have had a razor blade), I said, "HELL NAW!! BWAHAHAHAHA!!"

He was pissssssssssed... "WTF you mean 'hell naw'??"

I stooped down one last time and said, "Sir, we're not here for his money. You have a good night."

All disturbances now quelled, I was back to my focus. Drunken lovliness finished his set and got on the microphone and apologized for messing up, even asking people to edit out his mistakes before they uploaded videos to youtube. Awwww...

As he was preparing to leave the stage, Idris went around to the left side and across the front and shook hands with the ladies. Then, he went back to his glass. I recognized the DJ from my cousin's wedding on the stage (Shout out to the McLain's!) and Britni & I shouted his name. He turned around and I gestured to have Idris come and greet the right side of the stage. And come he did.

Though it was only for a few seconds, it can say that he touched me and now I am no longer the same. Oh, the joy that floods my soul... Oh, wait, that's a church song, huh? My bad.

He is fine, though.