A-List in My Book

My older brother moved here to embark on his career in "the biz" while Y and I were still living in NY. For about a year, until he met my now sister-in-law, actually, he boarded at my in-laws' house. My mother-in-law claims that she loved it, because for the first time in her life, she had a son who would load the dishwasher before going to bed. Such is my lot in marriage. But anyway.

One week, Y and I were in LA visiting, and my brother was out doing an errand or two in the very Taurus I now drive. He called the house from his cell, reporting that he'd been in an accident. He assured us that he was perfectly okay, but agreed to let my mother-in-law and I come meet him at the scene because he wanted a camera to take pictures of the damage and the broken glass in the street. He wanted proof for the insurance company that it hadn't been his fault.

"Oh, and Mag?" he said, just before hanging up. "I think that the person who hit me is Paula Abdul."

When we arrived, I spent about a second making sure my brother was whole before heading to check out who was sitting in the dented Jag convertible a few feet away. It was, indeed, Paula Abdul. And I wasn't excited because of her American Idol fame - in fact, this occurred a few months before the show first aired and became a smash hit. No, I was shaking in my boots because I had spent the ENTIRE span of time between eleven and twelve years of age choreographing "Straight Up," and "Cold-Hearted" in various friends' basements - and then forcing the parents to applaud these performances, an hour later, up in the living room.

Paula in the flesh was, to say the least, disappointing (to say more, she was borderline-disturbing). For starters, she was sobbing and heaving uncontrollably, trembling like a leaf regardless of the fact that this was little more than a fender-bender, and nobody had gotten hurt. Her face was covered in runny mascara and pancake makeup, her jewelry and hairstyle way too young for it, and she was half-strangling a hideous Hollywood Chiwhawha, in CLOTHES, for moral support. If I may say so, the only sight more unsettling than one of those scrawny, squirrel-dogs peeking out of a woman's purse is that of one of them dressed like a mini-human. It's very upsetting. I'm willing to bet she'd also been driving with the thing in her bra, which probably hadn't helped matters.

Paula was obviously having an anxiety attack, and could barely manage to hand my brother her insurance information. My mother-in-law had no idea who she was, and had little patience to suffer spoiled fools who had done damage to the family car. As only a Jewish mother can, she ever-so-sweetly-and-ever-so-condescendingly asked if Paula would prefer for her to take the phone, speak to Paula's manager, hammer out the details, so P wouldn't have to worry her pretty little head about it all. I winced, but luckily, any patronizing was lost on Paula, and she surrendered her cell. Her irritated manager apologized profusely, explaining that this happens every so often.

When he mentioned that it was nice meeting her, despite the circumstances, Paula grasped my brother's hand in both of her own, tears streaming down her Botoxed cheeks.

Such was my first experience with - and impression of - running into celebrities in Los Angeles. Since then, Paula went on to explode in popularity (and laughing stockdom) on national television, I moved here, and have run into countless famous and semi-famous people on the streets of this city.

And here's the thing: in LA, you are never supposed to publically acknowledge that you recognize anyone in any way. Real Angelenos treat a run-in with Jack Nicholson the same as they would the guy behind the cash register in the gas station, and raise their eyebrows at the touristy types punching the air and yelling, "'You can't handle the truth,' man!"

Personally, I'm not a celebrity worshipper. I don't read US Weekly, or Life & Style, and I certainly don't admire or envy the lives of almost anybody I see on the silver screen.

But that aside, I am also NOT a native Angeleno, and I AM someone for whom seeing a celebrity in the flesh is UNDENIABLY THRILLING. There is just something surreal about looking at the face of a person who is a national or personal icon - offscreen. They never look the same up-close, and it forever changes the way you view them in a movie or a magazine afterwards. I'm endlessly curious about the experience. So when I do run into a familiar face, I have to try really hard to be cool and NOT say anything.

When "The O.C." was in its first season, and its cast became teen idols seemingly overnight, my sister-in-law (remember, Ray?) and I ran into Mischa Barton at a mall. She didn't disappoint, at first: she was tall, beautiful, and striking, dressed in Chanel, and making out with her greasy then-boyfriend. Since we were addicts of the guilty-pleasure show at the time, we decided to tell her. She, all 18 years of her, brand-new to fame and fortune, looked at us like we were scum stuck to her totally-inappropriate-for-Sunday-afternoon-at-the-mall silver stilletos, rolled her eyes at the greaseball, flipped her hair back, and went "Thanks," with the enthusiasm of a kid greeting the aunt who gives sloppy kisses at Thanksgiving.

We walked away, first mortified, then pissed at ourselves for letting the little slut mortify us, and alternated between telling everyone we knew how tacky Mischa really was and being too embarrassed to tell them that we'd spoken to her at all.

That incident, combined with my brother's with Miss Abdul, scared me out of speaking to anyone remotely famous, no matter how big a fan I was, for a few years.

But in the Valley, you see lots of TV actors. Not the ultra-famous, ultra-chic A-listers that you find in parts of Beverly Hills, not the types who live in a gigantic lavendar-scented bubble with absolutely no recollection of what life was like before they became more important than the President. Here, you find lots of B-list, semi-normal, family folk who happen to be the stars of hit TV shows and the like, and they are, generally speaking, worlds more approachable. So when Mark Moses, who plays Paul Young on Desperate Housewives - and who was solely responsible for the wonderful creepy-crawly overtones of the entire first season, if you ask me - walked into Tony's barbershop to get his kid a haircut alongside Elan, I spoke to him. And he was incredibly friendly and upbeat, utterly unlike his character on TV, and the thrill was brought back for me.

Today I ran into Walgreens to buy a bunch of Father's Day cards at the last second, and saw Leslie David Baker, who plays Stanley on "The Office." In case you don't watch it, "The Office" is only THE funniest show on today, with one of the best casts in history, and my extended family and I have spent countless meals together quoting our favorite episodes ad nauseum.

"Stanley" was getting a price check on The National Enquirer (he'd already decided that US Weekly was a definite yes) and his voice sounded nothing like the belly-deep, rumbly one he uses on the show, which - as Mark Moses had with his warmth - simultaneously threw me off and impressed me. I told him that I was in serious deprivation mode over the summer, complimented his work on the show. He assured me that they'd be back on in the fall, and seemed genuinely pleased and flattered to have been recognized. Very cool. He even said an extra goodbye to me when he left the store.

Lots happened today - a bridal shower speech that made me cry, seeing my gorgeous 4-month old niece, a movie with the kids, dinner out - but for me, the highlight was talking to Stanley. Because at the end of the day, while I'm not exactly star-struck, I do appreciate quality artistry combined with normality in the personality department.

And say what you will about living in Los Angeles, but I don't think the coolness factor of seeing a face that takes you to an imaginary world and context on, say, a weekly basis, shrouded in sunglasses at the drugstore checkout - I doubt it'll ever wear off completely.

For me, anyway. I'm so from Chicago.