Before heading into a grocery store to pick up some bubbly for New Year’s earlier today, I plunked myself down on a bench in WeHo to sift through my morning mail.
Out-of-the-blue, a dude striding down the Boulevard with a friend in tow spotted me – at which point – he lurched forward and invaded my space.
“Heh, you’re a movie star, aren’t you? Aren’t you?” he grilled me.
As I attempted to grapple with the situation – at times like that, I feel a bit awkward after all – he excitedly continued.
“You are. I saw you on Facebook last night,” he quipped, as he turned to his friend and his voice trailed off in the distance.
“He is", I overheard him assure his pal.
Last week, I was strolling down the Hollywood Walk of Fame when a pretty blond looked my way.
“You’re a celebrity, aren’t you?” she gushed.
“Well, some people think so,” I laughed.
It’s gotten to the point where I am recognized everywhere I go.
Pretty soon they’ll be snapping pictures, chasing me down the street, and trying to snatch up a lock of my hair.
No, folks, you don’t want my DNA.
One of me is enough on the face of this Earth, believe me!
Oh well, it's better to be famous than not, eh?
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