Three of us TVgasm writers live in Los Angeles. We encounter celebrities quite often. We’re even friends with some of them (pause for “ooohs” and “ahhhs”). Now, in general, we try not to fire off a post every time we spot someone because honestly, that’s just not the style of this blog. We only share if there’s a story or a hook. With that being said, I wasn’t going to write about this next encounter because a) it really has no major point; b) it’s sort of one big name-droppy saga; and c) I didn’t want to do another celeb story right after the Rick Fox thing. But then I started to send this as an email to someone, and I was amused so I thought, why the hell not? So please pardon me as I relay another celebrity adventure…Last Friday I went to the Ivy for lunch (very hoity, I know). I had never been, and as I saw paparazzi lining the adjacent sidewalks, I became very excited for some glitz and glamour. Unfortunately, my dreams were quickly shattered as the first celeb I saw was none other than Ms. Star Jones, er, Star Jones Reynolds. She stood in line behind me, and at just over one foot away, her close proximity did nothing short of cause a mini vomit eruption in my mouth. Honestly, at that range, there are all sorts of things that the viewing public never gets to see. Be thankful. For one thing, her cleavage. Oh, her cleavage. You know how some women have those flat pancake breasts? The kind you see on National Geographic specials? That’s what Star has. Two deflated sausage casings, and in an unwise move, she had them on display for everyone to see. To her credit, she was a lot more svelte than I thought she’d be, but man, that powder blue sweat suit was a bit too body forming for me. Just imagine a sack of flour with sunglasses and lipstick.
Anyway, as I headed into the dining room, I was cut off by none other than Christina from Laguna Beach. She’s a sturdy flounder of a girl, but her presence was fleeting and therefore, I was left with nothing better to do than return my gaze to Star Jones. Honestly, fat or skinny, this woman is just ugly.
As it happened, I had a perfect view of Star from my seat. Or rather, I had a perfect view of Star’s ballooning derriere. She had a decent table on the famed Ivy porch, but for some reason, she chose to move to a more high profile spot next to the picket fence. You know, right where the paparazzi could get a clean shot. Sure enough, an SUV suddenly parked across the street and out poured two or three camera men. But wait – they weren’t photographing dearest Star. Their attention was elsewhere. Who could it be? Unfortunately, my obstructed view of the porch was completely undermining my ability to stare.
I sat all through lunch dying to know what celeb might be out there attracting wayward photographers away from our favorite Payless spokeswhale. Finally, the check came, and it was time to retrieve the car from the valet. As I suavely made my way through the restaurant (I had my Hollywood Cool look on), I nearly tripped off the porch as I spied Quentin Tarantino dining in the corner. So that’s what the fuss was about. I let out a sigh of relief. For a moment there, Star Jones and the Laguna Beach girl had me seriously doubting this place’s star wattage.
I don’t know why I feel proud about seeing a celebrity. It’s not like I accomplished anything beyond adding a story to my cocktail party canon. But there I was, standing at the valet, smugly happy that I would be able to demolish everyone else’s stories for the day. As I watched the paparazzi (who were everywhere), the other people around the valet rolled their eyes and made dismissive comments about the scene. “So intrusive”, ” It’s unbelievable” and “There’s no privacy anymore.” They then of course craned their necks to see if Tarantino was still in fact there. Some even busted out cameras and took pictures of the paparazzi. It was very meta. The best part of all this though was that for the photographers to get any decent shot of Tarantino, they had to somehow shoot over or around Star Jones, whose doughy body had inconveniently been seated in the only sight line for the cameras. Needless to say, a ladder was used.
Luckily for them, Star eventually finished her meal. As she rose to her feet like a mighty marshmallow woman, the paparazzi temporarily ignored Tarantino and descended upon her like a pack of buzzards. I guess the rule is that the cameras have to stay away until a celebrity is ready to leave. I stood at the valet and watched as she and her pack of shutterbugs slowly gravitated towards me, and suddenly I realized I was standing right in front of her limo. I was momentarily paralyzed. I wouldn’t call it “star struck”. More like “ugly struck”. How did we let this woman into pop culture? Nevertheless, I knew I had to move because honestly, I refuse to have my obit say “Trampled by Star Jones.” So at the last moment I scooted aside and watched our velour-clad legal eagle climb into a limo. I really wanted to snicker and bust out my camera phone, but instead I turned to a woman and rolled my eyes. “Ridiculous,” I said, all snobby-like. Yeah, I’m cool.
Oh wait, I did bust out the camera phone. I took a picture of Tarantino’s Pussy Wagon, which was prominently parked in the front of the restaurant. Not that he wanted attention or anything…
Quentin Tarantino’s ride to The Ivy