Living in Hell A, the opportunity to run into the rich and famous is far greater than, say, when I lived in Milwaukee, WI (often running into the drunk and bitter) or Columbus, OH (the slightly less drunk and a smidge more bitter). Noticing the likes of "Weird Al" Yankovic walking out of Home Depot, wearing an accordion tee shirt no less, is kind of neat at first, but, seriously, I figured that they were just people. Celebrities, I mean. Regular boring, farting, loathsome people -- just like the rest of us. It was never a big deal to me, but be that as it may or may not, I’ve become intrigued that the most well known folks I see are at Santa Monica’s 3rd Street Promenade, a nice outdoor mall of sorts that celebrities apparently haunt.

First up was a pre-death Chris Penn. He was just chilling at an outside table with some buddies, and my reaction was something like, “Oh, hey, there’s Chris Penn,” as I walked by him and went about my business or lack thereof.

The neatest bit, though, is that two of my “biggest” celebrity non-encounters took place at that promenade in competing bookstores, and each famous creature was accompanied by a small child…

Many moons ago, I spotted Bob Dylan at the promenade’s Borders. He was there with some little fella I’m assuming was his grandson or nephew or boy servant. I’m hoping it was g-son or nephew, of course, as the thought of the lead singer from The Wallflower’s father employing the services of a boy servant is troubling on several levels. The fact that the thought even enters my mind troubles me on several similar levels.

Moving on…

Just yesterday I was at a Barnes & Noble right by that Borders, killing time by looking at their overpriced DVDs when some little girl ran by me, and I heard a female British voice call after her, “Do you have Over The Hedge?” I had to look up, as the British accent is darn cool, even when asking about a movie as shitty as Over The Hedge. As the kid replied, “Yeah,” I saw her mommy. And Mommy was hotly familiar. Not wearing my glasses (which had broke earlier in the day), I wasn’t sure if I’d seen her on a screen of some sort, which, I think, added to my leering. She was tall, slender, and pretty. Like, oddly pretty. Oddly not in the sense that she was one of those ugly pretty types, but oddly in the sense that she was TOO pretty. Too pretty to be looking at copies of Over The Hedge in the same bookstore as me.

Suddenly, images her shooting vampires in a cheesy-cool fight scene wearing skintight black leather dripping in a constant drizzle popped in my fiendish head, and I realized she was none other than British starlet Kate Beckinsale. It was a bit of a shock, and I didn’t mean to stare, but as a hillbilly from Ohio who rarely sees the likes of Kate Beckinsale in the flesh, this was, like, whoa. She was right in front of me, looking at crap movies (note: I’ve never seen Over The Hedge, which makes my referring to it as “crap” uninformed and rash, though I still stand by that assessment). She noticed my squinty, open mouthed gaze and got subtly uncomfortable while I got cartoonishly embarrassed, wanting to explain that I wasn’t gawking; I just wasn’t sure if I recognized her because of my lack of glasses. I wasn’t staring because she’s in movies or anything like that… it was just my, you know, lack of glasses, and… uh…

Fighting the urge to go, “DUDE! You, like, totally kick vampire and werewolf and werepire ass! All while in leather! That kicks even more ass!” I instead too quickly went about my looking for movies that I would not buy. Without giving the action proper thought, I called to the guy at the counter, “Say, what section is Underworld: Evolution in? The hot chick in a shitty movie section? Or the shitty movie containing a hot chick section?” These not being sections, he just grimaced at me as Kate glanced up, increasingly uncomfortable.

I started to wonder if Kate Beckinsale would be right for either of the screenplays I wrote years ago while just out of college with that fresh “I got a future” glow still about me. Maybe, my ridiculous mental machinations continued, I could bring it up to her, do some of that networking that’s all the rage in this shit part of the world called Hollywood. Maybe it’d just lead to my future success and, possibly, if her marriage wasn’t working out (fingers crossed with apologies to her fella), a bit of a love connection, as well. Look, before you think me unbearably shallow, I wasn’t attracted to her because she’s a celebrity; no, no, it was because she was totally hot. Wait. Why am I using past tense? She’s still hot, and I’m still down, but, anyway, this story is past tense, so… where was I?

Kate Beckinsale. Right. Anyway, I wasn’t thinking marriage, as I’m not ready to be a step-father to some kid who has Over The Hedge, but, you know, maybe a nice dinner at Chipotle (I bet she’d get a burrito bowl, all lady like and whatnot as I chowed down viciously on my giant carnitas burrito with extra cheese), then maybe a flick, and, I dunno, back to her place. Or whatever.

Then I remembered that I have braces. And was wearing a Superman shirt that barely contained my man titties. And I hadn’t showered. And I was me while she was Kate Beckinsale.

I decided to then go get drunk at the local cheesy bar that wants to be a cool bar and have myself a weep.

Fin… for now, Kate Beckinsale… for now. Okay, no, just fin. Fine, whatever. It wouldn’t have worked out anyway. We’re too different. Different worlds. Different beauty levels. Braces. As if without them I would’ve approached her. Or as if I would’ve cared if she had them. Oh, here I go with the words again. All right, all right… fin.