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October 7th, 2004


one_11
06:14 pm - Double whammy.
"Don't look now," said friend Morgan, pointing over my shoulder, "But Justin and Cameron are sitting right over there."

We were at upscale Italian eatery Angelini Osteria, and at first I didn't grasp the magnitude of what Morgan had said. Justin? The only Justin I know lives in San Francisco, and Morgan doesn't know him. What the...

Then it dawned on me.

Yes, 'twas Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz. Perhaps the most representative of all the current spate of celebrity power couples. Young bright things with an air of shallow-yet-strangely-lovable idiocy about them. Seated together at a window table. Backs to the window, of course, the better to avoid causing a stir among passers-by on the sidewalk. Fashionably but reasonbly dressed -- she in a sparkly pink sweater, he in a tight, swank button-down vintage shirt.

They were behind me, so I managed to steal but a single glance during dinner, then a longer one on the way out, and then a few more -- through the window, of their backs -- while waiting for the valets to bring my stuttering half-dead junker around. But I can tell you that in those few moments, Cameron Diaz and Justin Timberlake... well, they surprised me.

They were sharing a table with an unidentifiable but equally pretty male pal, and the three of them were deeply engaged in what appeared to be serious conversation. Yes! None of the Valley Girl head-waggling or crotch-grabbing O.G. posing I'd expect from C and her J. They gazed intently at one another as they gabbed. Sipping their wine almost as an afterthought. This dinner was, for them, as much about the pleasures of intellectual rigor as it was about the enjoyment of food or drink.

What were they discussing? I feel certain it was the forthcoming election, and how they could use their fame to affect real change for the better, through stumping, perhaps, or launching a series of spectacular fundraisers. I could not hear a word they said, of course. But sometimes a fellow just knows.

It's weird, but I have a feeling if Kerry prevails November 2nd, we will in some small but important way, have Justin, Cameron, and their mystery friend for it. And to think: I was there.
Current Mood: impressedimpressed
Current Music: Justin Timberlake - Still On My Brain

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one_11
06:14 pm - Double whammy.
"Don't look now," said friend Morgan, pointing over my shoulder, "But Justin and Cameron are sitting right over there."

We were at upscale Italian eatery Angelini Osteria, and at first I didn't grasp the magnitude of what Morgan had said. Justin? The only Justin I know lives in San Francisco, and Morgan doesn't know him. What the...

Then it dawned on me.

Yes, 'twas Justin Timberlake and Cameron Diaz. Perhaps the most representative of all the current spate of celebrity power couples. Young bright things with an air of shallow-yet-strangely-lovable idiocy about them. Seated together at a window table. Backs to the window, of course, the better to avoid causing a stir among passers-by on the sidewalk. Fashionably but reasonbly dressed -- she in a sparkly pink sweater, he in a tight, swank button-down vintage shirt.

They were behind me, so I managed to steal but a single glance during dinner, then a longer one on the way out, and then a few more -- through the window, of their backs -- while waiting for the valets to bring my stuttering half-dead junker around. But I can tell you that in those few moments, Cameron Diaz and Justin Timberlake... well, they surprised me.

They were sharing a table with an unidentifiable but equally pretty male pal, and the three of them were deeply engaged in what appeared to be serious conversation. Yes! None of the Valley Girl head-waggling or crotch-grabbing O.G. posing I'd expect from C and her J. They gazed intently at one another as they gabbed. Sipping their wine almost as an afterthought. This dinner was, for them, as much about the pleasures of intellectual rigor as it was about the enjoyment of food or drink.

What were they discussing? I feel certain it was the forthcoming election, and how they could use their fame to affect real change for the better, through stumping, perhaps, or launching a series of spectacular fundraisers. I could not hear a word they said, of course. But sometimes a fellow just knows.

It's weird, but I have a feeling if Kerry prevails November 2nd, we will in some small but important way, have Justin, Cameron, and their mystery friend for it. And to think: I was there.
Current Mood: impressedimpressed
Current Music: Justin Timberlake - Still On My Brain

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September 14th, 2004


belleplankton
05:12 pm - debbie does shop class
Seen today in a big beige luxury car: Lara Flynn Boyle. She's so tiny, she could barely see over the dash, and her porn-star aviator shades were so disproportionately huge they practically covered her entire face like some kind of welder's visor. A porn-star welder's visor.

L. Bo was making a left turn in front of me and it took her like forever. No doubt she saw me and the unmistakable gleam in my eye unnerved her, the eye gleam that says: I'm kidnapping you and taking you to Cinnabon where I will force-feed you till next Tuesday. Wisely, she snapped out of it, made the left turn and floored it down Robertson. Ah well. Next time.

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September 13th, 2004


one_11
12:32 am - No, Joe, you don't amuse me.
Seen walking from the curb to a day spa on Beverly Blvd: Joe Pesci. As I passed, I stared just long enough to confirm it was the mad little troll himself, and he glanced over and caught me looking at him and gave me a look like, "What the fuck are you looking at?" I'm looking at you, Joe. Here in the real world Where you don't have the power to pick up the phone and have me whacked.

P.S. His car? Big white windowless van. I won't hazard a guess as to how many kidnapped children and fertilizer bombs he had packed in there.

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July 8th, 2004


askthesky
02:33 am - is this thing on?
I don't know if anyone is out there anymore, but I decided my first loyalty is to y'all instead of Defamer. These are my not-so-exciting celebrity sightings of late:

At a mid-day opening weekend screening of Fahrenheit 9/11, Backstreet Boy A.J. McLean was walking around looking all pseudo-gangster. I am ashamed to say that I recognized him *and* knew his name, but apparently I'm secretly 13. Also at the screening was Tara Benson of Buffy fame.

The Arclight is apparently the celebrity cinema of choice--my neighbors spotted Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore there taking in the Terminal.

I've also seen Andy Dick a lot recently, but that doesn't count because it was at work, and also because he's *everywhere*.

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March 5th, 2004


one_11
09:42 am
Sunday morning breakfasts are so much cooler when Jodie Foster is in the house.

Yes, I had just been served my bowl of granola and dried fruit at the Fairfax-district breakfast nook called The Authentic Cafe when Ms. Foster popped in, along with a lady companion, who because Jodie Foster is a lesbian I will assume she is fucking, even though the chances are they are just friends.

Here's the thing about Jodie Foster -- she is unimaginably cute. Cute cute cute. Very tiny and very very cute. This was surprising because she has played hardened -- or at the very least staunchly professional -- ladies for as long as I can remember, in which roles she tends to downplay her hotness. But I am telling you that Jodie Foster is a cute hottie.

I could not tell what Jodie Foster was eating, as she was on the other side of the restaurant and I had to peek through some wooden beams to get a look at her, which if I'd done it enough would have been creepy. But it seemed to be an egg dish of some kind. My guess is the three-cheese basil-tomato-pesto omelet. I don't know, that omelet just seems somehow "Foster."

Every time I snuck a glance, Jodie was leaning forward with her chin in her hands, intensely focused on whatever her companion was saying. Probably they were discussing Proust, or some sort of fantastically complex mathematical equation, or maybe they were planning an elaborate archeological dig in the Andes. You know, Harvard graduate stuff. If I ever meet Jodie Foster it will be hard to convince her not to be a lesbian and date me, because she is surely far more active and intelligent than me, or for that matter anyone.
Current Mood: dorky
Current Music: JFA - Jodie Foster's Army

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February 28th, 2004


belleplankton
05:35 pm
Espied in West Hollywood: Lara Flynn Boyle. I was parking my car on Sunset Blvd and she was parking her car behind mine. We got out of our cars at the same time and glanced at each other awkwardly. She was wearing an ecru ensemble and was sporting those aviator-style sunglasses that make the wearer look like a porn star knock-off.

I just realized that if you J.Lo-ize Lara Flynn Boyle’s name, it’s L. Bo. Which I think is funny, but then, I’m writing this from an emergency room so my humor barometer might be off. (My guy has an alien mother case of pneumonia. Pneumonia is bad. Down with pneumonia.)

So I know you know this, but L. Bo was like, skeletal. Except for her lips – she had enormous, Tokyo-stomping mega-pouty lips. On a clear day, you could see her lips from the next county over.

I should have trucked her and her lips over to the nice cafe on Sunset, Ambrosia Espresso, and force-fed her a cafe breve and a number of excellent festiva biscotti (Italian for "party in your mouth"). There we would talk about her Twin Peaks days and the whole Jack Nicholson fracas and I would make her drink another breve. I was in a rush, so I didn’t do any of that. Next time, however, I’m putting her in my purse and hightailing it to a Cinnabon.

Anyway. Don’t get pneumonia.

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February 8th, 2004


belleplankton
10:17 pm - nobody doesn't love versailles
Espied Steven Seagal at Versailles, the very best Cuban restaurant in Los Angeles. I was tucking into the garlic chicken with fried plantain accompaniment when what's-his-name stalked in. Would that all meals were accompanied by Versailles fried plantains! And a Roscoe's waffle.

So right, Steven. He strode in, black-clad and freakishly tall, a couple of pals in tow. They were much shorter, which led me to believe they were his sycophants. Also, Steven had a mullet. It was surprisingly frizzy, like he'd just gotten a body wave perm that afternoon. It was a deeply unapologetic mullet; it was insouciant and yet undeniably sincere.

The fact that he had a sassy mullet, and that he had come to partake of the tasty tasty Versailles goodness endeared Steven to me in leaps and garlicky bounds. Which is saying something -- I've been a fan since Hard To Kill. "I'm gonna take you to the bank ... to the blood bank!" Aww yeah.

Steven and his pals left the restaurant the same time me and my pals did, and I was dismayed to see him drive away in a ridiculously huge SUV. I consoled myself with the thought that it wasn't Steven's SUV, that it must belong to one of his friends. Surely Steven was in the back seat, hands fluttering like hopeless moths around his face. "Consider your gas mileage ... or the lives being lost in the Middle East just to get us from the restaurant to the strip club," he was saying. "Next time, let's take my Civic Hybrid. Come on, guys. Come on."

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February 6th, 2004


belleplankton
12:27 am - maybe she and roger daltrey see the same surgeon
Okay so like me and my supper companion went to Morton's in West Hollywood a few weeks ago; we'd never been and were curious to see what the big deal was. It was surprisingly brightly lit and we squinted a lot and pretended to be famous but not obviously famous.

We were bemoaning the disappointingly small offering of steaks on the menu (2) when the restaurant's collective Spidey Sense started a-tingling and we all swiveled our heads towards the main door to see none other than Nancy Reagan sauntering in. When one, a mere mortal, is in the presence of a celebrity in Los Angeles, it is de rigueur to ignore the celebrity, or at the very least pretend not to see said celeb while covertly stealing glances behind sunglasses and novels. In Nancy's case, however, all decorum went out the chintz-framed window and we all stared agog, mouths gently ajar. Even Supper Companion, an A-Lister himself of some regard, said, "Hey, look, it's Nancy Reagan!" in a distressingly loud voice.

Nancy looked freakishly good, and like, younger than me and I'm thirty-three and Asian so you know, I look twenty-six. Her skin was perfectly taut and smooth and I had to resist the urge to bounce a quarter off it. It also looked really soft, like if you touched it you would accidentally poke a hole in her cheek and spiders would come pouring out. Actually, she looked a whole lot like Katharine Helmond in Brazil pre-meltdown. Dang, that's a stellar movie yo.

Nance was wearing a black wool coat that was trimmed around the shoulders in what appeared to be grey fox fur -- Captain EO cocktail wear! I don't know what she was wearing under her coat because I was too busy marveling at her buttery skin and resisting the urge to bounce a quarter off it. She could have been wearing a cellophane bodysuit and I wouldn't have noticed. Well, yeah, I guess I would.

Nancy was meeting her date, Rob Schneider, for a nice, quiet dinner. Oh, but I kid. She was hanging with six of her peeps who were not obviously famous. Most of them acted like sycophants. Many fellow diners at Morton's acted like sycophants and went up to Nancy to tell her how much they admired her. I'm all, admired her for what? Perhaps they were in awe of her oddly effulgent skin. And her excellent posture. And the deal she must have made with Mephistopheles to look younger than me. I mean, Nancy is like, 68 million years old; she emerged from the Mesozoic.

Anyway, dinner was fine and uneventful except for when Supper Companion shouted, "Look, it's Huey Lewis!" just to see me whip my head around hard enough to throw my neck out. Huey Lewis wasn't there. There was no Huey Lewis. I felt sad.

Supper Companion and I left Morton's about the same time Nancy did. We got into our dusty old cars and she climbed into a giant, shiny car that came with a giant, shiny chauffeur. The car was maroon; Nancy was fully pimpin'. I watched her big pimp car glide away, surely whisking her away to an austere yet beautiful home in Brentwood where a young lover awaited. Rob Schneider.

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February 3rd, 2004


belleplankton
11:36 pm - ha ha warren you kill me
Seen the other day: Warren Beatty, at a Starbucks in Beverly Hills. He was standing just inside the doors, thus making it impossible to get to the counter without maneuvering awkwardly around him. He was taller than I thought he might be, and like, a thousand years old. Warren'd clearly had a lot of work done, but his skin was creeping cretaceously over the flying buttresses in his cheeks. The overall effect was eerily fascinating and all eyes were fixed on him and his synthetic cheekbones. And, he was with a sycophanty little pal who kept laughing uproariously and saying HA HA WARREN YOU KILL ME!

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