A Malibu Moment

I was standing in line at the Malibu Ralph’s supermarket on Superbowl Sunday, grabbing last-minute stuff for our party. Half the town was there doing the same thing, so I had a lot of time to stare at the tabloid rack. The usual suspects stared back at me: Britney, Lindsay, Mel. It’s sad how fame highlights our all-too-common personal problems. None of these troubled souls would garner so much as a mention in the local police blotter if not for their fame, and yet here they are, paraded daily in our faces so we can… what? Pity them? Not likely. So I guess we’re supposed to take delight in their misfortunes, right? (There’s a creepy pop-psychology term for that: Schadenfreude. Try dropping it at parties. It’s fun.)

So the checkout line finally gets me to the register and I’m still gazing at the covers of the Enquirer, Weekly World News and People as I absent-mindedly load my stuff onto the conveyor. Suddenly Gary Busey’s head pokes in from behind the rack: “Excuse me, where can I find the bottled salsa?” The checker and I both startle. “Uh, aisle three”, she says after a moment. “Thanks,” says Gary Busey and he’s gone. The checker and I exchange a glance. Then the giggling starts.

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