Martin Landau Popped My Cherry

...my celebrity-encounter cherry, that is! Picture, if you will: a sleek, sunlit Mediterranean restaurant on a tucked-away Beverly Hills street just East of La Cienega. Walking distance to that great shop "Trashy Lingerie," but at LEAST a hundred-dollar cab ride distance in terms of "Class."

"Class" was a new concept to me. I still don't think I get it. I gawk, I cough, I crack my knuckles... especially back then. It was December 1999; I'd been in LA for 3 months and just snagged a hideous job as an Assistant Media Buyer. Basically, we represented advertisers, and we decided which TV networks to "buy time" on. So, naturally, the TV network sales reps were required to kiss our asses, shower us with promotional schwag/tchotchkes (any journalists in the house will know what I'm talking about).

They also wined-and-dined us. Which brings us back to the sleek, sunlit Mediterranean restaurant off La Cienega. The MTV ad salesman had booked us a table for 5. Me, a few other $23k-a-year grunts, and a few burned-out bosses. The salesman looked like Joey Lawrence, but he wasn't. "I get that a lot," he scoffed, with a grin that said "Buy advertising time on my network! I have a quota, dammit!"

Anyway, the dickhead ordered that nasty carbonated water for the whole table. NO, I wasn't hoping he'd pop for a bottle of Merlot. (This was just before my alcoholism flared up like Paris Hilton's herpes.) But I hate that bubbly water. Europeans, explain it to me.
On second thought - DON'T. The shit is gross, end of story. USA all the way.

The meal resembled dandelion leaves and carrot peelings ornately drizzled with KY jelly on a grossly oversized, gleaming white plate. The napkin was thicker than my "casual Friday" khakis and whiter than my ethnic roots. As I placed the napkin daintily on my khaki lap, the MTV guy leaned across the table and whispered:
"Do NOT all look at once. But that's Martin Landau by the window."

Naturally, I was the first to start whipping my head in every direction, demanding "Weer?" (I still had that Wisconsin accent, dontcha know). But wait. It gets worse. Actually, looking back - it gets better.

I finally spot the old codger dabbing the corners of his thin lips with a thick napkin.
I squint at him for way too long. Eye contact was made. And then I blurt loudly at the MTV guy, in a most accusatory tone:
"THAT's not the guy from 'Grumpy Old Men'!"
I was thinking, of course, of Walter Matthau. I STILL insist that Mr. Landau was amused by my gaffe. Because of course I kept squinting at him and all of 90212 could hear me. (Or is that WeHo, 90069? Eh, who keers.)
ANYhoo, my tablemates were not amused. But at least we got to high-tail it out of there without sipping that nasty carbonated water and talking about the Nielsen ratings "Celebrity Death Match" had scored among the 12-22-year-old male demographic in Q4 1998.

Who puts bubbles in water, anyway? It's simply uncivilized.

Jeebus at Mile 17

I saw Jeebus (more commonly known as Jesus, but I don't want to be sacrilicious) on my first Marathon, 2002, Los Angeles. You've heard of "runner's high," where your overtaxed endorphins force your entire body/mind into an indescribable state of euphoriorgasm. I've told people this many times: if I could bottle "runner's high" or press it into a pill or a snortable powder or injection or ANYTHING, I'd be richer than Bill Gates.

The LA Marathon has music groups set up along the route, for motivation. Rock, rap, polka (I may have hallucinated that one, but accordions were involved). At Mile 17, there was a gospel choir. I am neither a Jesus freak nor a Gospel music admirer/tolerator. But they were waving their arms in the air and singing about Jesus like they just didn't care! Mile 17, man - that's where you really start to get numb and delirious and religious. (QuikTip: the human body is NOT designed to run 26.2 miles.)

Anyway, the choir was testifying from rafters outside a gas station on 3rd and LaBrea. The choir leader turned to the runners and exhorted us: "raise your hands and praise Jesus"! And I'll be damned if I didn't do it. I kept running, but I pumped my hands up toward the sky and rasped out "Jesus!" The choir recognized me and shouted "you almost home, girl!" Actually, I still had 10 miles to go. But I was in no position to quibble with my robe-wearing, enthusiastic encourager.

PLUS I saw Jeebus! He wasn't running... I think he might have been on the sidewalk, a few rows back. He offered no water or gatorade or a "high five" as so many marathon observers do... but the dude was THERE. He had a beard and everything. Beards weren't even trendy at the time, so it must have been Jeebus. Well, maybe it was Santa Claus who had travelled back in time before his hair got white. My thought process was slightly muddled by exhaustion, dehydration and the fact that I'D JUST RUN 17 FUCKING MILES.

You never know WHO you'll spot at 3rd and LaBrea. Or any Marathon 17-mile-mark. I ran Chicago in 2003, but I didn't see any celebrities anywhere along the route. I was too busy screaming inwardly "Why are you doing this AGAIN?!"
I've never been too adept at learning from my mistakes, so I'm bound to repeat them.
Jeebus, please stop me before I run 26.2 miles again. Amen.

Burning Rubber with the Dazz Band

While I'm on the topic of post-9/11 Paramount Studios...
Every year, Magic Johnson throws a big AIDS benefit party. Ordinarily, the performers would get to park their cars in the studio's parking garage. That year, they had to park elsewhere. They were not pleased.

I was assigned to greet the performers/VIPs at the gate and shuttle them to the party/stage area on my golf-cart. Here comes a gaggle of sweaty, middle-aged black men lugging musical instrument cases. They plunked themselves down on my golf-cart and grumbled.

Trying to lighten the mood, I go: "I love your music! Especially 'Burn Rubber on Me'." And I proceeded to warble the chorus to the song... before being cut off by one of my passengers snapping, "That was the Gap Band. We're the Dazz Band."
I inserted my foot in my mouth and burned golf-cart rubber.

"Let it Whip"! That was the Dazz Band! How could I confuse the two bands? Oh yeah: they sound exactly the same.

FYI: The Dazz Band is available for Corporate Entertainment Booking.
Here's an excerpt from their promotional website http://www.delafont.com/music_acts/dazz.htm
(Warning: it's kinda depressing. I've highlighted the most depressing parts in puke orange for your convenience.)

"Dazz" is a contraction of "danceable jazz"... they registered two minor US hits in 1978 and 1979. ...their irresistible blend of dance rhythms and commercial melodies established them as one of the Motown label's hottest acts of the '80s.
Their early albums were firmly in the jazz-funk style pioneered by Earth, Wind And Fire ... They graduated towards a harder, less melodic funk sound, enjoying a US Top 10 hit with "Let It Whip" in 1982, which won them a Grammy award for the best performance by an R&B Vocal Duo or Group.
Notable British success followed with the tougher, sparse rhythm of "Let It All Blow." "Jukebox" marked a transition towards a more rock-orientated sound which brought them continued success in the specialist black music charts, though crossover recognition among pop fans proved more elusive...
Musical trends may change, one hit wonders may come and go, but if you're looking for the real thing, look no further. The Dazz Band is back in Action! Groove merchants, funk masters and whenever needed – smooth soul men vocals of silk. The group serves up a tasty menu of new, hip-hop music stamped indelibly with that instantly recognizable sound.

As a group touring band, the Dazz Band had few equals. The group tours with such artists as Cameo, Kool & the Gang, The Commodores, The GAP Band, Roger Zapp, Earth Wind & Fire, and many many more.

The Dazz Band presents a slammin' mix of musical jams designed, quite naturally to dazzle the world!...so watch out! The spell has been cast and once you hear the sounds and see the shows, it's guaranteed that the rhythm in your hearts and souls will not allow your body to stop its movement for one second. Let It Whip!

Alley, Kirstie - one

This encounter falls under the category of "Weird Stuff that Happens when you're a Paramount Studio Page." Our day-to-day duties were 1) giving tours and 2) ushering sitcom tapings. Every now and then, the Studio would tap us as their in-house temp-agency, and we'd answer phones in an office or assemble press-kit folders or whatever. But this assignment was a true trip. I wish it were a pleasure trip.

There was a guy who wrote for "Cheers" and climbed the ladder to Producer when "Frasier" launched. He and his wife were passengers on the plane that hit the North tower of the World Trade Center.

Paramount hosted a huge memorial service in the theater ordinarily used for film premieres. I was assigned to the East Gate of the studio (Orange Grove, Lemon Grove... some citrus Grove - just north of Melrose). That's the "secret shortcut" entry gate for higher-ups so they needn't wait in line at the main Melrose entrance. But on 9/15/01, the secret shortcut was closed. My assignment was to stand at the East Gate and direct people to the Main Gate on Melrose, explaining the "security situation." Everybody who pulled up to my gate was pretty cool. None of that *huff* "Don't you know who I am?!" crap that so many celebs pull at premieres and stuff.

I was wearing my Paramount Page uniform and holding a clipboard. For some reason, holding a clipboard is a very potent Hollywood gesture. Celebs see a clipboard, they think "Guest List." In actuality, my clipboard THAT day simply held down a list of instructions... the guest list clipboards were at the Main gate.

I stood at the Gate for about 90 minutes. Many vehicles pulled up, expecting "secret shortcut" access. At least 50 vehicles. But I only remember 2 celebs among them:

- David Hyde Pierce, sitting in the passenger seat of a gorgeous, brand-new Jaguar. A handsome man was at the wheel. Let's just leave it at that.

- Kirstie Alley, driving solo in a GINORMOUS Yukon Dinali. She sees my clipboard, thinking it's a guest list, and says: "Alley, Kirstie - one" (as in "party of one"). She didn't presume that I'd know who she was, and she apparently aimed to make my job easier by saying her last name first, in accordance with guest-list policy.

Say all you want about KA, but she's got a good mark in my book for her sheer non-celeb-attitudiness. Can you believe that?
"Alley, Kirstie - one."

That One Guy, From That One Movie

You know who I'm talking about! Help me out... he was in, uhh... that one movie! That GUY!

Such is the description suffered by Peter Greene and others known as "Character Actors." You've seen 'em a million times, but DAMMIT - you just can't place their name. If I were a character actor (thank Jeebus I'm not), that would take a toll on my actorly ego. Because NO actor wants their name JUST on the tip of your tongue. They want their dick on the tip of your tongue. Ego-metaphorically speaking, only. Eeeooo. I just grossed myself out.

One of my favorite websites, http://www.fametracker.com/, describes him as "Peter Greene, that jumpy, intense guy who played Redfoot in The Usual Suspects, Gus in Permanent Midnight, and Jimmy in Laws of Gravity." Complete resume available at http://imdb.com/name/nm0338886/

He is actually slated to appear in "War of the Worlds". With "Tom Cruise" and "Katie Holmes". Forgive the quotes - I'm a Google whore, and those are among the most-searched tips). Fret not, "Katie Holmes" fans - this blog "celebrity encounters" shall soon tell a tale involving "Katie Holmes nude". (Oooo, that one's gonna bring in the Google hits!)

Anyhoo, back to Peter Greene. I lived a few doors down from him in a dumpy apartment complex on Mansfield Ave. in Hollywood, circa 2002. In his early days of Character Acting, like "The Usual Suspects" (1995), Peter looked great. Then he disintigrated into a greasy, nasty little thing... like a chunk of powder coke getting cooked into crack. And I've seen him do both.

I helped that junkie move out of his apartment, cuz he was getting evicted. And then, one Saturday night when I was out rollerskating with my buds from Shitting Glitter (remember that monthly event, "Space is the Place"?) Peter broke into my apartment and stole my cash AND my stash. Then he had the nerve to come knocking on my door looking to buy a can of delicious, refreshing Coke (wink wink). Because he had just MAGICALLY come into some money. The actor claimed that he'd just received a residual check. Shyeah... from my silverware drawer, underneath the plastic divider thing. Is that an obvious hiding place? Or can druggies just sniff out money? The condition his nose was in, I'm surprised he could smell dog shit on his pillow. If he had a pillow. Which I doubt.

Peter gets partial credit for taking me to Jack in the Box on his motorcycle at 4am one time and buying me some curly fries (he was already,and then helping me hop the fence to Runyon Canyon. But then he would NOT shut up about how Kevin Spacey tried to jump his bones on the set of The Usual Suspects. (I think he'd just chugged a Jumbo Coke. How he held it down on the motorcycle, I have no clue. How I dared hop behind him on that motorcycle, I have no excuse.)

Peter is/was a knob, but if/when I go to jail (which is looking more 'n more likely), I'm writing a tell-all book about my Celebrity Encounters. Then Pat O'Brien from "The Insider" can interview me. And Pat and Peter can share a can of delicious, refreshing Coke. (You KNOW Pat be hittin' it. Look at that honker!)

Peter, if you're reading this: go suck Kevin Spacey's dick, you thieving, emaciated junkie.
You just don't rob your friendly local dealer while she's getting her skate on.

Melissa Joan Hart is a Bitch & a Half

She's what we Paramount Pages call a "shy" celebrity. In other words, she hates her fans and wants them all to die slow, nasty deaths.

Ordinarily, I MIGHT be able to look beyond that, but the bitch's fans are 97% innocent, harmless girls, aged 6 - 12. Yeah, the other 3% are probably pervy old dudes, but DAMN - get OVER yourself, you overrated skank!

During my Paramount tour-guide training, we were exhorted to avoid two particular soundstages: StarTrek and Sabrina. To appease the many unfortunate Sabrina fans who took our tour, the Studio set up a phony-ass trailer with a Hollywood Blvd.-style star-plaque on it, bearing the name "Salem" (the talking animatronic cat). The kids got a chuckle out of it, but us tour guides were always under pressure to hustle them along on the tour, away from the "Sabrina" stage, lest Her Majesty come in contact with the people who watch her ridiculous sitcom and therefore fund her Beemer lease.

She's a bitch & a half, y'all.

But this ONE time, I was doing a VIP tour (that's conducted on a Studio golf-cart as opposed to on foot) and I decided to roll the dice. The door on the "Sabrina" stage was partially open - a rarity. (She's "shy," ya know.) I could see the actors in there doing "blocking": learning where to stand, aided by colored strips of tape on the floor.
What a TORTUOUS life those thespians endure.

Anyhoo, my VIP tour included 2 young girls who were HUGE fans of "Sabrina." (I hope they grow out of it.) I smelled a potentially generous tip wafting from the parents, so, like I said, I decided to roll the dice. I put the golf-cart in park and snuck up to the door of the soundstage, kids in tow.

As I was whispering a definition of "blocking" to the girls, I locked eyes with one Ms. Melissa Joan Hart. To this day, I get chills. The bitch wanted me dead, with a quickness. She flagged down an Assistant Director, and here he comes to shoo the young fans away (lest Ms. Hart's precious creative process get somehow thrown off by their presence).

But check it: just as I'm about to get bitch-slapped, Paramount-style, here comes Caroline Rhea.
"Where are you girls from?" She glows. "Come on in! We're rehearsing, if you wanna watch!"

You'd better fucking BELIEVE I locked eyes with Ms. Joan Hart once again and shot her the most withering, smug glare you could ever hate to see. Ooo, I get goose bumps just REMEMBERING the daggers I stared at that stuck-up brat.

Oh yeah - and, to top it off, the girls' parents tipped me TWENTY fucking bucks for that tour.
And if you've ever been a Paramount studio tour-guide, you'll know that $20 is virtually un-fucking-heard-of.

BOO-ya, Melissa Joan Hart - in your skeezed-out face.

Clomp-Clomp-Clomp...

...that Clomping sound could only mean a limited number of things. In this-here context, it means Clydesdales.

I'm talking about pure-bred Bud-fucking-weiser Clydesdales, my friends. And (check it) - guess who saw said Clydesdales? In the furry flesh?

Answer: Yours truly.

Picture it: 2001. Beverly Hills, above SaMo (fuck the slums/flats of BH). Knowing me, I'm unemployed and training for some stupid long-distance race like the L.A. Marathon. Among my favorite proving grounds/training routes is BHNOSMB (Beverly Hills North of Santa Monica Blvd). I'm panting along, minding my negligible business, when what to my wondering eyes should appear?

A team of Clydesdales, shilling for beer!

I shit you not. They were filming a fucking Budweiser commercial in the Hills of Beverly, and these were the celebrity horses at the center of it all.

I pulled the earsphones off my head and spent a minute yakking with a Production Assistant. Our words escape me now. Let's not say that drugs 'n booze have blotted out my memory... rather, let's say that I was impotent to mind the conversation, so mesmerized was I by the majesty of the Clydesdales.

Clomp-clomp-clomp, my equine friends...
Clomp... Clomp... Clomp.