I happened to be out on the Left Coast this week, checking out those institutions of higher education that my daughter has deemed suitable for gracing with her presence next year. One of the colleges on her list is Pepperdine University, so we schlepped up to Malibu from San Diego County to check out these possible digs.
Since I’m always early for everything and terminally anal, we arrived in the general area with more than enough time to spare. After driving up the coast a bit, blinded by one gorgeous vista after another (it’s So Cal, and yes, the sun was shining and the sky was blue), I decided we would get a light lunch in before the Pepperdine tour.
I pulled into a beachside eatery that looked like it might have the kind of food that would appeal to a food snob like me. (I won’t go into it indepth here, but it was.) The restaurant was nestled on a bluff overlooking the ocean – beautiful, just beautiful.
I should have known this wasn’t your normal surfer joint by the Maseratis, Mercedes, and Porsches crammed into the postage stamp-sized parking lot. I should have gotten a clue by the “harrumph” of the valet as he took the keys to my rental Hyundai that this was the stomping ground of the rich and famous, but no.
I maintained my normal, blissfully unaware composure and we charged in like we owned the place. (I must admit I’ve had this attitude since frequenting a 5-star resort when I was a 16-year old hippie. After all, my money spends just the same as a rich persons’.)
Usually food is the centerpiece of my day, and as I was slobbering over my lunch (which was heaven, pure heaven!) I tried to ignore the super-tanned, super-buff, and super-boob-ie-licious diners all around me – that is until the hostess tried to seat one gentleman at the table next to ours.
After some discussion between customer and hostess, which I totally ignored because I was having a food orgasm with a bowl of soup, the man was re-seated along the back wall of the restaurant, out of the way of the general dining public. He was equipped with a pile of papers and a highlighter, and it looked like his was going to be a working lunch.
Only after an ensuing commotion of some of the wait staff did I realize who the gentleman in the baseball hat and shorts was. This is because I finally finished my soup orgasm and looked up.
It was Steven Freaking Spielberg!
I kept my cool, but just to make sure, I took the scenic route back from my potty break and glanced over his shoulder to find him working. I own a business, so I’m familiar with copy paper. I know how many pages are in three-quarters of an inch of paper, and I’m writing a book, which just eclipsed the 75-page and 30K mark, so I know what a manuscript looks like.
I maintained a wonderfully blasé attitude within the restaurant. I didn’t trip over his table or take pictures of him with my cell phone. I know how to act graciously and not like a celebrity-struck goon, even though I don’t get much of a chance to refine a look of disinterest.
In the Podunk Rust Belt that is my city, celebrities are few and far between. One time I saw Dr. Kervorkian at our local farmers’ market. Another time we dined next to Geoffrey Fieger. Who’s he, you ask? Well, he’s only the brother of Doug Fieger of the Knack (“My Sherona”). Oh, yeah, and the one-time attorney for Dr. Kervorkian (yeah, I know; I’m lame).
Only after we retrieved our Hyundai from the valet, locked the doors, and headed down the PCH did both my daughter and I squeal at the same time, “Steven Freaking Spielberg!” After we calmed down, I started thinking about SFS (Steven Freaking Spielberg). What the heck was he doing there at that restaurant? Was he working on script?
It’s a pretty sure bet he wasn’t thinking about Orlando Bloom. The only person thinking about Orlando is Wanda Rizzuto, and that’s only by judging her satire. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times: Although he’s eye candy for some and a constant source of fascination for Wanda, Orlando Bloom does absolutely nothing for me. Still, I have to feel a little sorry for the rat-faced and slightly fey actor (I mean that in the nicest way, Wanda) who has been perched on the cusp of a really big break for such a long time.
Then my mind did somersaults and I surmised that perhaps I had missed a golden opportunity. Wanda and I are friends. Steven is a big-time producer. Orlando is a wanna-be-big-time star. The nexus of these relationships is compelling. After all, little, old regular-gal me could have turned the tides for Orlando. I could have introduced myself to SFS and asked him to consider the late Bloomer for one of his upcoming movies or TV shows.
It appears that Orly has not had much of an opportunity to work with SFS, and that’s too bad. However, instead of becoming a liaison between the two, I kept my mouth shut and acted as if having a bazillionaire with almost as much power as God in the same restaurant as me was just another walk in the park.
My only hope is that SFS reads this and gives the poor guy a chance. After all, he can’t count on Hong Kong Phooey to see him through. Think of it. Collaboration between SFS and Orlando Bloom could only help the hapless actor. Saving Private Bloom. This would be a movie sure to tug at the heartstrings of the most hardened soul, whether you are for the war or not.
Orlando would have made a better choice in Catch Me If You Can. There's something about Leonardo DiCaprio that makes my stomach turn. Come to think of it, how did Orly miss out on Transformers or Memoirs of a Geisha or the new Indiana Jones movie? Hmm. Food for thought.
Seems like a conspiracy. Seems like a crying shame.