Too Cool to Drool

After 13 years living on the fringe of Tinseltown’s luminosity, I find myself somewhat jaded. I’m seldom starstruck and get little thrill from star sightings. Plus I’m usually not sufficiently connected with the world around me to actually notice someone famous if the walked right past me. I think I once saw Robert DeNiro in a restaurant on La Brea (Bob, if you’re reading this, please confirm) and I did once meet Jack Lemmon and Sophia Loren, which was pretty cool. So when the Black Pearl sailed into our sleepy marina recently I was more irked that my bicycle commute was diverted for the base camp than I was excited about the prospect of bumping into recently crowned mega star and super hunk, Johnny Depp. Sadly, not everyone shared my nonchalance.

For the next two weeks, I dealt with increasing security along my bike route, as word got out and lookie-loos gathered, until finally I had no other option but to dice with death out on the busier than usual streets in order to get to work. Even my morning run became an obstacle course of hopeful fans out at six o’clock in the morning, hoping for a chance sighting of their idol. The parking lot at my office was full everyday with the cars of tourists peering over the sea wall in the hopes of spotting the famous ship sliding back into port at the end of the day’s shooting. I found myself amused at the sight of hordes of extras clad in their pirate garb boarding the high speed motor boat usual reserved for tourist thrill rides, while adolescent girls yelled flirtations. It was all too much.

But as the days passed and the fervor mounted, I found myself craning my neck as I rode by on the off-chance of spotting Johnny or what’s his name, the other one. I diverted my run down along the beach in case I got to see the Black Pearl sailing out beyond the Palos Verdes Peninsula for a day of shooting. And while I wasn’t willing to wait in line for three hours for the chance of an autograph, I found myself wanting to be the one to make the first or closest or most random Johnny sighting. I wanted the glory.

On the afternoon of the day that filming was scheduled to wrap and we all looked forward to resuming our pre-Jack Sparrow lives, Jody (my boss) came flying into the office. “He’s coming!” she squealed. Word had been passed through a complex underground system of communication that the launch used to ferry the stars back and forth between base camp and the ship was on it’s way—with Johnny on board. Mayhem ensued as my co-workers scrambled for a look.

I’m told that from the upstairs balcony the girls had a clear shot of Johnny. I’m told that Janeen (voted #1 fan, by far) called out his name. I’m told that he looked right at her and waved. I’m guessing she was overcome and probably almost fainted, but I couldn’t say for sure. I wasn’t there. As the one voted too cool to drool over Johnny, I got to hold down the fort. While my cohorts were flirting and waving and snapping pictures, I was answering phones and dealing with crotchety customers. It was my own doing. I’d perpetuated the myth of my disinterest and I was paying the price.


So when friends and family back home ask, “Do you ever see movie stars in L.A.?” I still can’t reply, “Oh yes. All the time.”