Dr. Paul Weston

I'm pretty sure it was him, sitting there at a little table with his head bent, reading. I walked past him, on my way out of a cafe where Oliver and I had grabbed some lunch. I had leftover meatballs and tomato sauce in a plastic container, he had a book. He looked up and smiled.

If I could or would or did, I'd have fainted.

I watched that show, In Treatment, religiously when it was on a few years ago. I got so involved in it that I'd drive around the city thinking that if only Dr. Paul Weston were my therapist, my life would be perfect. I imagined all sorts of scenarios, both ethical and unethical. Of course, my obsession was not with Gabriel Byrne but with the tortured, intelligent character that he played. I write all of this perfectly aware of my folly and of how ridiculous it sounds. I figure, though, that Ms. Moon writes rhapsodically of Keith Richards and Radish King of Tom Cruise, so humor me. I wonder what those two ladies would do if they nearly bumped into their own true celebreloves and made eye contact?

Ms. Moon?

Radish King?

Me and Russell Brand

So, remember my encounter with Russell Brand?

Go back and read about it, if you haven't yet. I should tell you that shortly after my brush with Russell Brand, he led a walkout of the class, including the teacher who had been there for at least twenty years. I had proudly stopped going to that class after being snubbed, and when I heard about the Great Walk-Out, I could have killed myself for having missed it. Evidently, Demi Moore was there that day and packed up her mat and sheepskin with the rest of them and walked out.

Anywho.

You know how much I love living in Los Angeles, and even though I live right in the middle of "it all," the whole celebrity thing is really not a part of my daily life. Until it is. The other day, I walked around the corner and toward CVS drugstore, but I decided at the last minute to check out the newest addition to the block, a fancy-schmancy juicery right next to a hot yoga studio (that I tried once and decided was too hot for the likes of juicy me). I'm not sure whether this juicing craze has hit your city or prairie town, yet, but if not, it's coming as sure as Starbucks did a decade back.

Now, I'm not a skinny, juicing kind of woman (in fact, when Oliver was quite young he told me that I was too juicy to be pretty!), and I sure as hell don't intend on replacing a meal (or two!) with a juice every day like a fancy decorator does who I think I told you about in another superficial post. But, good lord, those juiceries are popping up all over the place here in the sunshine, and I figured since it was in the neighborhood, I'd give it a try. I turned inside the tiny store and stood behind a tall, extremely sweaty (those hot yoga classes are hot) guy giving his order to the decidedly unjuicy young thing behind the register. Reader, you know where this is going, don't you?

The tall guy was Russell Brand who appears to be frequenting my neighborhood yoga studio and juicery because since the events of this story, I have seen him several times, walking down the street and into and out of the yoga studio and the juicery. Do you believe that I inwardly groaned and then was overcome with madness and actually tapped him on the shoulder and asked him what had happened to our beloved kundalini teacher and that 9:00 am class? The moment the words came out of my mouth, and Russell looked down his long nose at me, pausing for a moment mid-text, I died a thousand deaths. I won't tell you what he said because it's not interesting at all. He turned away from juicy me and took the juice handed to him by the unjuicy girl and walked out of the store. I ordered some juicy concoction of ginger, lime and spinach or kale, paid $1,000 and walked, juicy as ever, out.

The Semi-Annual Visit to the Dentist in Beverly Hills

So, yes, I stood across the street from that black sports car and took this photo while my boys went inside the building behind me for their semi-annual dental check-up. It's a Lamborghini, Mom, Henry said, dismissively, and it might cost $1,000, 000. I think he was serious, but don't quote me as you know I tend toward hyperbole, and certain apples actually don't fall far from the tree.

Anyhoo.

The fact that I'd just given him a hard time for wearing his gray, polyester gym shorts to the dentist that he picked out at Target despite my protestations (I despise athletic shorts when they're worn as clothes and not for athletics), made his dismissal of the million dollar car and the subsequent posturing of the various large men positioned everywhere, cameras hanging from their necks, seem even more jarring to me, still a bit of a star f**ker when it comes to celebrities. I might be reading War and Peace, but when it comes to star sightings, I'm as excited as the next moderately overweight middle-aged woman to perhaps glimpse Johnny Depp or, if lucky, Javier Bardem. Just the other night, I walked in front of Annette Bening at a local restaurant as she waited for her car, and I admit to a frisson of pleasure that I'd come full circle. It was just a few years back that I stood on the steps of Royce Hall during an intermission of King Lear, looked to my right and noticed that it was Warren Beatty standing right next to me. I nearly jumped into his pocket.

Reader, I imagine you're wondering whether a moon, worns as if it had been a shell  has lost its devotion to all things disability related and might be morphing into a gossip rag?

So be it.

After fifteen years in Los Angeles, a city that I never thought of as anywhere in particular other than the cover of an Eagles album when I was my sons' ages, I'm still a bit freaked out that I have two boys who are Angelenos. We're from LA, they say when we go back east, and I startle like I did when I took my first husband's last name and whenever I uttered Elizabeth Supercalifragilistic, saw the words in a cartoon bubble coming from my mouth. Being born in Los Angeles doesn't mean that you have blonde hair and skateboard in empty pools or even surf in Malibu before school, but it does lend a certain insouciance to the sighting of million dollar cars and people, and I guess that's a good thing.

I waited a bit outside the dental office and tried not to crane my middle-aged neck too far to notice who the paparazzi were waiting on, and after a few minutes someone came out from across the street, there was a bit of shouting and jockeying, the other big guys with the even bigger camera lenses pulled them up to their faces,  and some very large men pulled up right in front of the million dollar car and blocked it with their Exxon Valdeez cars so I really didn't see anyone or anything. For all I know, it was Beyonce getting a hair extension or buttock implants. I pretended to be a native, turned away and walked into the dentist's office to retrieve my sons who both got a good report -- no cavities, sparkly clean, and when Oliver asked why his teeth were sort of yellow despite brushing them all the time, the dentist told him that only million dollar teeth are that white. As reward for no cavities, I bought them each a cupcake from the fancy cupcake machine up the street, and then we walked up the stairs of the parking garage, got into our sexy white Mazda  and sped off.