During my freshman year of college in Oregon, I brought a friend home for his first-ever LA visit. He told me he’d be satisfied if he saw one of two things: A hooker, or a celebrity. I’m proud to say that I was able to produce both. (Courtney Cox was the celebrity, and this was during the height of the Friends craze, so it was pretty spectacular. She looked hot, and actually talked to us for a little while. My friend, who was from Scappoose, Oregon, was totally thrilled.) I’m definitely not a starf*cker, and I’ve lived in this city long enough to be decidedly unfazed by celebrity sightings. That said, there’s always something slightly amusing about encountering recognizable personalities in real life. It’s this strange collision of fantasy and reality, illusion and truth. In any case, today’s encounter was cute. My man and I walked the dog over to the La Brea Tar Pits park, where we immediately encountered a handful of paparazzi shooting a couple with a baby exiting the Page Museum.
“Who is that?” I asked Charlie Cox, resident musician there.
“Gwen and Gavin,” replied the somewhat smug couple standing with him.
“Oh,” we said, and continued on across the park, where we started kicking a soccer ball around.
A few minutes later, the paparazzi had joined us, and my man was saying hello to someone behind me. I turned around and there they were: Gavin on his knees with 2-year-old Kingston, and Gwen standing behind them. For a few strange moments the tables were turned and they watched us, entertained by our soccer ball-chasing dog. A few cordial words were exchanged–the same kind of interaction we have every weekend with dog-happy children and their young parents–and then they were gone, back to the screens of our TVs and pages of our magazines.