For those of you who would accuse us of suggesting that Los Angeles is entirely populated by B-list actors, wannabe screenwriters, and obscenely rich producers hiding behind electrified fences in Bel Air: We now have an account that proves that L.A. has at least one professional basketball coach and one crazy homeless guy:
Phil Jackson was eating dinner with a large group at Primitivo in Venice. It was a pretty late meal the night before a Lakers home game, and I saw Phil down several glasses of wine. But they won the next morning, so obviously, dude knew what he was doing.
A whole bunch of parties were waiting to be seated outside the restaurant. A shirtless, homeless guy walks by, and sees Phil. He asks my friends "Is that the great Phil Jackson?" We nod politely, and the guy walks away. He comes back a minute later with a piece of paper in his hand, scribbling something. He goes right up to Phil, and says "Phil Jackson! What's happenin' man! Just wanted to give you my autograph!" He hands Phil the paper, then keeps walking down Abbot Kinney Blvd.