By Gustavo Arellano
By Aimee Murillo
By Matt Coker
By Vickie Chang
By Matt Coker
By LP Hastings
By Michael Goldstein
By R. Scott Moxley
I had intended this column as a meditation on why I don't like famous people. I had intended to have unsatisfying encounters with them, where I'd be made to feel squat and subpar, and then ruminate on how our status as little people with unbleached teeth is now being instilled in us even as toddlers. (Like at Disneyland, where you can no longer go up and hug Cinderella. Instead, small children wait in Russian breadline lines, with an autograph book.) I had intended to ramble amusingly and at length about how, after I met the Angels' Adam Kennedy, I had to break up with my imaginary boyfriend—Six Feet Under's dreamy breeder brother, Peter Krause—because I realized talking to famous people is stressful and not fun and they all think you're a stalker, and if Peter Krause and I were to meet, and I were to send him a note saying, "Check one box: [box symbol] I would like to buy the young lady with the unfortunate housewife hair a drink, or [box symbol] I am a big puss," he would probably not laugh and would not take me for a starlit walk where he would almost immediately be pulled into my deep sea. Instead, his entourage would whisk him to safety—and into the arms of a taller, more conventionally pretty groupie hopeful.
I met Chris Isaak a couple of times. He told me I had a fine-looking boy—my small buttercup of a son had sat on stage with him during a terrific show at The Grove. After a solid 90 seconds, I came up with the witty rejoinder, "You betcha!" Another time he told me I was good-looking. I couldn't say anything at all to that—just watched as the fetching young woman in the becoming dress got onto his bus with him and they drove away into what should have been my sunset.
Chris Isaak isn't my imaginary boyfriend anymore either.
But my intentions went awry, as they so often do, when the famous people refused to make themselves known. Were they there, and I'm now too old to spot them? It's entirely possible—it's not like Portia Di Rossi (the world's most beautiful real-life lesbian, who plays Jason Bateman's helpless 'n' greedy socialite sister on Arrested Development) was there. Her I'd recognize. Or Jeffrey Tambor, who plays Jason Bateman's happily incarcerated crooked developer dad. Or David Cross, who plays Jason Bateman's bizarre thespian brother-in-law. Or the guy who plays Gob, Jason Bateman's inept magician brother. Even though I don't know his name, I could still go, "Hey! Gob!" That would be cool. Even cooler would be a plot line where decent single dad Jason Bateman attends a gala at the Balboa Bay Club(where most of the show is set anyway) and meets a good-lookin' single mom who it turns out is a communist who loathes everything his family stands for, and is a reporter to boot! Watch out! Sparks would fly!
When the cool-girl DJ starts to spin Siouxsie Sioux, I pull myself from the warm fog of It's Your Move memories. Time to open the dance floor—a duty about which I'm terribly conscientious. As has been demonstrated for years (and years), if I don't get tha party started (or my sister, in a pinch), no one will.
But the dance floor is already opened, with a dozen slim starlets shaking their Pucci dresses to Prince and Nelly. Cameras flash as people get shots of A-list asses in action. And I slink off, soundly beaten on my own turf. I grab all the gift bags I can carry and walk off alone into the dark night.
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