I once brought a friend to the L.A. area with me and the only celebrity we ran into was Neil Patrick Harris. I didn’t think much of the encounter because his career was post Doogie Howser, M.D. and pre- How I Met Your Mother, so he wasn’t exactly on anyone’s radar at that moment.

In fact, I don’t think anyone else at the Johnny Rocket’s on Melrose even knew who he was. The only reason we did is because NPH is from Albuquerque, the very place we were visiting SoCal from. We both found it funny the only celeb we saw in five days in and around Hollywood was someone from back home.

***

Whenever my love and I head to L.A., we always get tickets for one of the improv shows at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater. It is by far the best $5-$8 ticket in town and it gives us the excuse to have an early dinner near the venue. Hence, late yesterday afternoon we headed to Franklin & Company and ate and drank our fill before the show, but when we were done, we still had about 30-40 minutes to kill. So we decided to get some supplies – bottled water and the like – at the nearby Gelson’s supermarket and walk it all back to the rental car.

As we approached the cash register, I glanced about at the impulse items and spotted Ron Perlman – yes, Hellboy himself – pushing a cart to a nearby register.

I elbowed my love and gestured in that “don’t look now or too quickly” fashion only couples and others who are close seem to share. (It’s like a kind of telepathy, really.) He was the very picture of nonchalance when he took a discreet look and nodded at me to confirm that yes, it was indeed Ron Perlman, right there in the flesh.

Neither of us approached the man, but we did have that “oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god” moment with each other. I love the man’s work, and though I haven’t watched Sons of Anarchy, I have tuned in to many terrible movies just because he was listed in the credits. (Acts of Violence, anyone?)

Once in the parking lot and safely out of earshot, my love turned to me with a sudden realization:

“Holy crap – I’m taller than Hellboy!”

***

We dropped our bags off at the car and headed back toward the theater. As we crossed the street, I noticed a small crowd had gathered near the door to one of the restaurant/bars, so I scanned for an opening to pass through … and looked right into Steven Tyler’s face.

Yep. Two major celebrity encounters in less than 15 minutes. My charmed life, right?

We walked on by – Tyler hasn’t really been on my list of “WOW” for a couple of decades – but it was neat to see him in person. He is one tall, lanky dude, too.

We checked in for the show and I immediately texted my sister, who is a HUGE Steven Tyler fan. Not to gloat, but to let her know it’s possible to have encounters like this just a few miles from her own front door. Of course, you have to be willing to leave the house and head into unfamiliar neighborhoods in the Hollywood Hills, but I digress …

When I looked up from my phone, I noticed there were three very pretty motorcycles parked on the street right in front of where we were standing. I told my love I just knew Tyler was on one of them, and sure enough, he and his two companions – one of whom I recognized but still can’t place – each made their way to a bike and off they went.

I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to pull out my phone and video record the entire experience, but I did manage to get off one decent photo of Tyler before he took off into traffic.

Truthfully, though, I’d rather run into Neil Patrick Harris again.

Yeah, I said it.

We stopped at the Whole Foods to pick up some snacks and Emergen-C, as we’d both awoken with that tell-tale throat itch which usually portends a cold or some other bug. It was flu season and we’d spent the weekend clubbing in and around Hollywood, so it was possible we’d managed to pick up something along the way.

We were on yet another “stealth mission” to SoCal, one of dozens we’ve taken over the years. That’s what we call it when we visit but have zero intention of notifying any of my family we’re nearby. Though most of them live in one of the country’s most vibrant, hopping, always-something-to-do region, hardly any of them take advantage of the dining, drinking, shopping, museums, concerts, and other activities offered just a few miles from their doorstep. So we take these “stealth missions” to fill ourselves with all El Lay has to offer without family obligations getting in the way.

We parked the rental car and my love headed for the supplement aisle while I headed for the restroom. We were in no hurry, really – we weren’t due at the airport to head for home for several hours yet – but we did want to get in and out ASAP. The Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s stores in and around Hollywood are always packed with people, no matter what day of the week or what time, and therefore are no place for two cranky misanthropes who just want to fly home and recuperate.

After using the bathroom, I washed my hands thoroughly because I’m conscientious like that. I was craving the fresh, wholesome goodness of the salad bar and if I was indeed getting a cold, I found no sense in spreading the wealth. I instantly got annoyed at the thought other people don’t do the same, because if they had I wouldn’t be feeling so poorly. Lost in this thought I approached the lettuce end of the bar, picked up a plastic container and …

… literally bumped into Al Yankovic.

You know, “Weird Al.”

Yeah, that guy.

Wrapped up in my own head, I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings. And it wasn’t a bump, really, more a shoulder tap. Still, I excused myself and apologized before I even realized exactly who it was I’d made contact with. Like I said, I’m conscientious like that.

He smiled a little, said, “No problem,” and returned to filling his own plastic container. I was too tired and irritable to strike up a conversation. I also was more-or-less raised in the area, so I know most celebs don’t wish to be bothered when they go out in public. (Conscientious. Me. Yes.)

On the way out of the store, my love asked, “Hey, was that Weird Al in there?”

Yes. Yes, it was.

I ate my salad in the passenger seat of the car, humming Eat It nearly all the way to LAX.

Have some more chicken, have some more pie …

When Bill Clinton was running for what became his first term as President in 1992, he made a campaign stop on the campus of the University of New Mexico.

I skipped an afternoon class that day and found a good spot to watch the activity at the rally. I did not know that I had located myself in the. Perfect. Spot.

I don’t recall a single word he said into the microphone. I was paying attention, but there was nothing particularly memorable about his speech. I have always had the tendency to tune out politicians who don’t really say anything; my lack of recall only signals Mr. Clinton was probably pandering to his base, which really was college students that time around. I am talking about the election that kicked off Rock the Vote, after all.

Anyway, I had planned to leave immediately when it was over, but as Mr. Clinton finished up, I noticed the Secret Service folk heading toward exactly where I was standing. They began thoroughly checking out everyone along what I slowly realized was the exit route. They searched bags, backpacks, purses, patted each of us down, and – I assume – stared coldly at each of us from behind those mirrored glasses, looking for any sign of trouble. Mr. Clinton followed, another contingent of agents in tow.

When I say that man has charisma, I mean it. All he did was look me in the eyes, smile, shake my hand, say hello, and I blurted out that I would vote for him in November.

I hadn’t planned to do any such thing.

I sometimes wonder if the day would have turned out differently had I been wearing a beret. Or a blue dress.

Have a cigar.

I’ve written about the day I ran in to Eddie Izzard in all its embarrassing glory, but it occurred to me he’s not the first – nor the last – celeb I’ve ever encountered. Hence, I’ve started a new category here just for these kinds of stories.

I was in the baggage claim at LAX when I saw the man approaching. He had a few people with him – assistants and such, I assumed, or “handlers” as they say in show biz – and all were making their way toward the very area where I was standing.

I’ll be damned, I thought. That’s Don Rickles.

This was in the mid-1990s, and his career wasn’t near done – hell, he’s still touring right now – but hardly any of my friends at that time had any earthly idea who the man was. I was familiar with him because my parents were faithful viewers of the Dean Martin Comedy Hour and the Dean Martin Celebrity Roast, and Rickles was a regular guest on both.

I’ve always loved his schtick. He was politically incorrect before it was a term (or a cudgel, some people might say) and he remains one of my favorites. He hasn’t lost his edge, either: His latest appearance on The Late, Late Show with Craig Ferguson had me howling with laughter.

Anyway, close to 20 years ago, one of his assistants stepped in front of me just as I noticed my bag heading toward us on the machinery. As I stepped around and behind him, I intentionally and loudly said:

“Outta my way, hockey puck.”

Then I winked at Mr. Rickles. He looked surprised for a moment, then smiled and winked back. To this day I think he was confused how a 20-something girl understood who he was, let alone knew he called people hockey pucks in his act.

The knowledge made a memorable moment in my life, sure, but it also made this scene in Toy Story …

… all the more hilarious when I finally saw the movie, about 5 years after it was released.

If you’re unfamiliar with his work, see the 2007 HBO documentary Mr. Warmth: The Don Rickles Project. Clips and DVD extras are currently available on Hulu.

It’s worth it for getting those in-jokes.

Hey, Ham, look! I’m Picasso!

Yes, that’s the one and only Kevin Pollak, who appeared at Comedyworks here a couple of weeks ago. I’m so glad we caught the show, not just because the guy is genuinely funny – we both wiped away tears a few times – but because I had to chance to find out he’s one of the nicest guys in the business.

By the way, his Talkin’ Walkin’ podcast is hilarious.

Wow … cement!

Without showering for the day, I made my afternoon run to the gym. Why bathe when it’s Tuesday and I have to spend an hour doing weightlifting? I’m only going to have to shower again when I get home.

I rarely am seen out in public in gym clothes, let alone do I make a stop on the 16th Street Mall while I’m downtown. Today, however, there were a few things I needed at Rite Aid. These items included some rather … personal products.

So there I am, headed for the cash registers with these items on top of everything else in my hand-carried basket, in my sweats and tennis shoes, zero makeup, hair up in a slightly destroyed semi-ponytail, and just generally looking like I’d been dragged through grease and sweat, when I see a person approaching me down the aisle from the opposite direction …

It’s Eddie Izzard.

EDDIE. FUCKING. IZZARD.

Everyone’s favorite crossdresser – excuse me, executive transvestite – comedian is playing the Paramount Theatre tonight and tomorrow night, so it stands to reason he’d be poking around downtown this afternoon. We tried to get tickets when they went on sale, but they sold out really, really fast, which is strange for Denver. Gives you an idea just how popular the man is.

But why was it necessary for the universe to give me this fantastic opportunity to meet, in the flesh, one of my favorite celebrities in the world when I look like shit and I have a 36-pack of Trojans, a large bottle of Astroglide, and a box of Monistat prominently on display?

I simply told him I was a huge fan as I subtly moved the basket to the other side of my body. I didn’t say another word, I just kept walking, which really bugs me now. I’m usually a LOT more outgoing during fan girl encounters. *sigh*

By the way, he’s only about 3 inches taller than I am. And he looks fantastic even without makeup on.

Unfortunately, I do not.