Nobody Magnet

Because I live in Los Angeles and go out to fabulous places a lot, you might suppose I see glittery famous people scurrying around every corner, somehow emanating the enticing glow of perfection and Stolier-than-thouness despite incognito baseball caps and huge sunglasses.  

You'd be wrong, though.

In fact, there's none of that in my life.  I have a very different brand of star-magnetism.  Yes, this is my super-power: I see many, many people from film and television, it's true, but they're all useless, semi-famous, barely noticeable folk that only an outrageous pop-culture junkie with a good memory for faces (read: me) would recognize.  

The "famous" people I see?  Well, much like their prototype, the Mad Rapper they ain't got no hot cars, and they ain't even got no bitches.  Many, in fact, might still be living with they moms, yo.  

You may wonder: who are these fantastical creatures? 

Are they celeb-reality stars?  Yep!  As I've mentioned before, my list includes Mr. Boston from I Love New York, Hulk Hogan's (now ex-) wife AND daughter, the blond chick with the scarred up face from Rock of Love 1 and the butchy half of the lesbian couple from this season's Top Chef.

But wait!  "What about B- and C-list actors?" you ask.  Hell yeah, I got those, too:

Just yesterday I was at a bar in Santa Monica with Mark Feuerstein, whose best moments were certainly the few episodes of West Wing he did, but who's probably best known (if he's known at all) for playing the lackluster love interest in Woman on Top and In Her Shoes.  By the way, possibly because the extra E in his name makes things extra confusing for wannabe semi-celeb spotters who need to cross check him on IMDB, Feuerstein was wearing a sports jersey with HIS OWN NAME on the back as he paced in front of the bar, gabbing maniacally into a cell phone and having a conversation about what I can only imagine is his next break-out role as, perhaps, Kelly Ripa's charming yet lovelorn brother in an ABC Family original movie.  

Another example: as you all know, it was my birthday last week (a day I proudly share with our own Dave Housley) and I had a cocktail birthday party extravaganza to celebrate the fine day two powerhouse Barrelhousers were born.  And because the fates are with me every day, but especially on my birthday, I was lucky enough to party in my very own home with Laurence Mason, who apparently rocks it out on the not-quite-hit series Prison Break, but who I personally will forever know as (and only as) Lord Nikon from the not-even-remotely-hit film Hackers, with Angelina Jolie (pre-babies, and even pre-incest kiss with her bro at the Academy Awards) and her soon-to-be first husband Johnny Lee Miller.  Yes, Mr. Mason and I got cozy over the makeshift bar I set up in my dining room, where he and his hot video-ho girlfriend (in a nineties-tastic C+C Music Factory-looking spandex booty dress) got their drink on.

The funny thing is, even the actual famous people I see--the ones who've been in tons of stuff and really are talented--aren't the recognizable ones.  Like, I saw Fisher Stevens chilling at my favorite Venice Beach coffee shop, but I was with a friend who didn't even know who he was.  And, seriously, name more than two movies Fisher Stevens ever did off the top of your head.  Can't?  Exactly.

And Angie Harmon!  While admittedly the most famous of this crew, I couldn't even remember what show she starred in when I saw her chatting intimately at a corner table in my neighborhood sushi joint.  However, I will say she looked super duper hot, which makes me happy.  I always like it when my celebrities live up to their inhuman expectations.

Which is something I can't say about Mira Sorvino, who takes her dog to the same vet I take my dog Special to and is, if cute, not exactly star material in person.  However, this can't be said of her husband, D-list actor Christopher Backus, who was perusing the doggie treat offerings with her, holding their adorable little girl and looking way more rock star than seven mustaches.

Anyway, the point is, if I don't see Britney's vagina in person soon, I'm going to cry.  I can't sit in front of Kitson forever, just hoping she comes back for a must-have Lauren Moshi tee!  (Besides, umm, the paparazzi have threatened to give Perez Hilton my address and tell him Victoria Beckham lives there if I keep taking up valuable sidewalk space.)  

Regardless, I've decided to revel in this ridiculousness.  It's clearly my fate to be the shepherd to this wayward, blinged-out flock, as Moses (and/or) Michael Dell was to my own Jewish people.  So, wish me luck.  As your Barrelhouse Reporter-at-Large, I solemnly pledge to see/stalk a higher caliber of almost-famousness.  I will come to the fabulous places, I will seek a richer, drunker and even less talented group of pathetic former child stars and current heiresses and I will, indeed, conquer them.  

(And by conquer, of course, I mean that I will ask them what their favorite Patrick Swayze movie is.  And I will get an answer, by God.  I will!)

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