When I visit L.A., I only see these types (as they're practically anonymous); I saw the father from 'That 70's Show', everyman John C. Reilly, and dorky Illianna Douglas. They're always in Tai restraunts or the Farmer's Market.
I delivered groceries to them for Jurgenson's market. They tipped better than the A-listers, and treated me like an equal. Christopher Lloyd carried in his own groceries and behaved like the pool man.
The big stars made me enter by a side door, ignored me, or pressed their tits in my back My boss would advise I ask "Is there anything else I can do for you?", but I was too shy. A hideous crone in a nightgown (that smoked Tiparillos and left carpet cat waste unattended) wanted me for a houseboy (I didn't even know what that was). Another biddie with rampant dog waste and a peg leg, decried brown bags (as she could step in them). She kept the heat at 80, never dressed, and had scores of empty wine bottles on the floor.
Once I saw Lee Remick in an elevator; She was in a tailored pink suit and made up for a shoot. She was tiny, and looked straight ahead with unearthly glowing blue eyes (like a mannequin come to life). She was too perfect, and the trace of a grin confirmed this in her own mind. Jennifer O'neill looked at me like I was simultaneously a vulnerable 10 year old and Brad Pitt. Elizabeth Montgomery and Madonna also gave me a wholesome yet lascivious glance.
I was living with a Jewish Princess at the time. A stranger roommate, referred by a mutual friend. She had a boyfriend that looked like 'Wierd Al', yet she slept with me off and on. She kept a scrapbook of her hundred ex-boyfriends. When she thought I'd impregnated her (she hated condoms), I had dinner with her parents. Her intense, prying and doting father would get personal when I answered the phone. I confronted 'Al' and she left for Europe in a huff (with my Yogananda organ casettes). I left a message on the mutual friend's machine saying I'd "kill" him (the same thing happened to him).
My friends came to move my things, the day a postcard arrived begging me to stay (probably for the rent), but the car was loaded and they intervened. This is the story behind 'Palm of my Hand', a tender ballad on my new Anti CD, 'Shades of Dorian Gray'