From the Twitter feed of writer Chris Jones:

It’s 2006. I’m working at Esquire, assigned to write about George Clooney. He invites me to his house. Now, understand something: Celebrities never invite you to their house. Except for George Clooney, apparently. The house! Amazing.

The night before our rendezvous—AT HIS HOUSE—I go out for dinner with friends. Cuban food. I return to my hotel, the delightful Sunset Marquis, and am beset with terrible, terrible gas. I decide I need to cropdust the hell out of West Hollywood.