Living in L.A., you’re bound to eventually run across somebody famous. Even at my daughter’s pre-school one of the parents is a recognizable actor. You can’t swing a dead cat in this city without hitting a celebrity. (Though, you really shouldn’t swing a dead cat under any circumstances.)
And yet, the experience isn’t always as glamorous as you might think. By way of example, read on for just a few celebrity run-ins I’ve had.
A sweaty Sheryl Crow jogged past Nina and I as we hiked in the Hollywood Hills. My heart almost stopped. Not because of Sheryl. I was practically carrying Nina back up the mountain.
Courtney Cox stood next to me at LAX for about 10 seconds before she was ambushed by a pack of paparazzi and ran off.
Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and Carla Gugino scowled at me on the set of “Race to Witch Mountain.” I may have been standing too close to the craft services table.
Mark Wahlberg opened a door for me when my hands were full. He was a true gentleman, though not nearly as funky as I’d been led to believe.
Miley Cyrus and her entourage barreled past me on a studio lot. Actually, I couldn’t see her through the thick layer of hangers-on. But I could tell it was her because of the distinctly annoying laugh.
A shabby looking Aaron Eckhart and I shared an escalator. For a second I thought he was homeless and felt compelled to give him some change.
But my favorite celebrity run-in so far has to be Marc Singer. That’s right, the Beastmaster. He tried to cut in front of me at a bookstore. It was an epic face-off. I shook my head “no.” He called his black tiger. I scoffed. A falcon landed on his shoulder. I laughed. Then his ferret crawled out of his sleeve. “Really, Marc,” I said, “you’re bringing Kodo into this?” That’s when he dropped his head in shame and walked to the back of the line. Yes, I'm pretty sure it happened exactly like that.