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.
No comments:
Post a Comment