My other half and I are just back from a fun, touristy week in Los Angeles. Did we see any celebrities, you ask? Well. . .
One evening (after fabulous Korean barbecue at the Farmer’s Market), my other half and I go for a walk at “The Grove,” a fancy-shmancy outdoor shopping center. As we are strolling down the promenade, we pass another couple headed in the opposite direction. She is done up in a short, flirty dress and bright red headband. He looks a little scummy in t-shirt and baseball cap (Really, dude? Is that the best you could do for a date?)
The woman and I make the briefest eye contact, but it is not until a split second later that I realize who she is. Or rather, who she looks like. The woman looks exactly like Paris Hilton. In fact, she looks a little too much like Paris Hilton. I decide she must be a professional impersonator.
Meanwhile, my other half is focused on another onlooker with a video camera who is chasing after the couple. Curious about who might be arousing so much attention, my other half asks me, “Who was that?” I say, “It looked like Paris Hilton, but I think it was just an impersonator.”
Here’s where the story gets a little embarrassing. Do my other half and I have a quick chuckle about our encounter with the Paris Hilton impersonator and continue on our way like two mature adults? Of course not. We decide we must know whether this Paris Hilton is real or faux. We stop dead in our tracks, turn around, and pursue the couple into a nearby movie theater along with all the other creepy psycho celebrity stalkers.
Inside, I pretend nonchalantly to assess what flicks are playing while my other half strains for a better look at “Paris.” Suddenly, the couple seem to change their minds about the movie and make a quick exit, passing once again within a few feet of us. Definitely just a look-alike, we conclude. Even worse, no good movies are playing.
And now for the epilogue: A few days later in the tabloids we see headlines declaring that Paris Hilton was seen at The Grove with a new man. Oops. Well, what do we know?
When we get home from our trip, we tell all our friends the story of how we saw Paris in Los Angeles. Several of them seem doubtful. I mean, who actually goes to Hollywood and sees Paris Hilton? Isn’t that a little, well, clichéd? Besides, they point out smugly, isn’t she in jail?
Well, she is now. But doesn’t every condemned heiress deserve a final night on the town with a t-shirted boy toy . . . a last meal, so to speak?
