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With Hollywood's younger generation proving on a near daily basis that it can't hold its booze, we feel it's important to celebrate the more seasoned individuals on the scene who can have a drink or ten without shaving their heads, trading their babies for a pack of smokes, and then heading off for a month of poolside rehab to battle their lightweight demons. And so we pass along this story from the Pop Stand blog, in which a civilian's very late night encounter with Official Eastside Drinking Buddy Kiefer Sutherland on the streets of the actor's Los Feliz stomping grounds refreshingly does not end in shaky TMZ video footage of a famous person mowing down a pack of paparazzi in their luxury automobile:

As I approach my apartment I see this girl walking down the sidewalk away from me toward the crosswalk at Melbourne. She's by herself, wearing really tight pants, and she has a pretty attractive figure.

Then I hear some catcalling, some whistling, and my peripheral vision registers a figure crouching by the bushes in front of my apartment. A male figure; he's the one doing the whistling. I assume it's a homeless man, probably drunk. I ignore him, purposefully refusing to make eye contact so I don't become an unwitting recipient of whatever late-night desperations are swirling through his head. He continues to yell at the girl, who responds with a girly, not-entirely-convincing, "Leave me alone."

I stop at the door and take out my keys. "Hey," he says. Shit. He's trying to engage me. I ignore him.

"Hey man."

I turn around. He's standing up now. He's not homeless. He's clean-cut. And his features are somehow...familiar.

"She's lookin' good, right?"

He wants my approval.

He's Keifer Sutherland. And he's definitely intoxicated.

"Yeah," I say, "She's got nice legs."

This is exactly what he wants to hear. "Hey!" he yells after her, "I need a fuckin' cigarette!"

He runs after the girl.

Unfortunately, our narrator didn't stick around to see the end of this particular scene, so we may never know if Sutherland ever got that cigarette, or, for that matter, if somewhere on his jog towards a potential sating of his nicotine jones, he succumbed to a Jack Daniels-induced Yuletide flashback and tackled the pretty girl like a Christmas tree that called him a Hollywood pussy. No matter what the outcome, we'd admire him just the same.