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Guess who popped up at Jack in the Box? |
Current rating: 0 |
by Michael Green Fonte
Email: michaelfonte (nospam) yahoo.com (unverified!) |
03 Oct 2004
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A column on the challenge of stars mingling with the proletariat. |
MALIBU—After spending over a week in South Central Los Angeles, I decided it was time to escape the concrete jungle. The frenzy of traffic, ghetto choppers and the constant bombardment of spoiled children canvassing the less fortunate Los Angeleno community had simply taken a toll on my mind.
So I traveled with a friend up the 405 and the 101 to wind through Malibu Canyon. We passed an area that reminded me of the environmental-activist cult compound in the film “Safe,” starring Julianne Moore. Then, after emerging near Pepperdine University, we raced down Pacific Coast Highway.
We bypassed the Malibu pie festival and soon spotted a crowd at what was to be identified as the inaugural Rip Curl Malibu Pro surfing event. The competition is the First ever stand-alone women's world championship tour surf event on mainland USA soil.
Despite going to school at the University of Southern California for nearly five years, I never actually learned how to surf, nor did I learn anything about the world of the water sport.
Surfermag.com described the event's location as “A place that offers miles of magical, south facing coastline, (and)a history rich in Hollywood film making.” The popular Internet media outlet further cited the images of Gidget and Mickey Dora on the Malibu beaches.
Indeed Malibu is still a setting for glim and glamor. I took in the sights of the closing wave rides of the surfers, and then couldn't resist the temptation of the beckoning call of Jack in The Box tacos. I've always been known for late-night runs to the fast-food chain branch on Figueroa. I like to dip my hot-sauce doused tacos in cool buttermilk ranch.
One friend once said he wished he could hook up an intravenous needle to supply an unending supply of buttermilk.
When we walked through the “Jack in the Crack” parking lot, paparazzi photographers ran to the drive-through intercom. An ivory-colored SLK Mercedes was accosted by men snapping their cameras. I just rolled my eyes and headed in for my fifty-cent tacos.
Living in Los Angeles means learning the etiquette of leaving stars alone during their private time. But some so-called journalists apparently don't respect this. Though stars should graciously supply autographs to fans, they have no obligation to make a profit for some guy with the latest digital hardware. Uncouth behavior can lead to danger such as the death of Princess Diana.
Conversely, an example of disrespect for the media and the public is exposited by the time Ashley Judd bi#*@! me out twice at the Indy 300 in Joliet, Illinois.
Despite the fact that I had media credentials and only politely asked for a quote about her visiting Joliet, she continued to verbally harass me with two tirades about how I had no right to talk to her or be in the same area where she partied.
The only way I could get Ashley to stop yelling was to simply say while pointing to my Trojan ball cap, “I may be local but take a good look at my hat.”
She only winced and immediately smiled.
Of course the white-trash Judd behavior would have been in the news soon after, since there is an egregious police report, but Fox Valley Press and The Herald News of Joliet worked with police and reporters to cover-up the incident. They didn't want the Chicago Tribune or entertainment gossip columnists having a field day.
While people like Judd gets to fly around in a helicopter with her James Bond-loving husband, the hard-working Latino immigrants of low-paying jobs slave away at satisfying appetites. I've always admired their pride in doing the most menial of tasks. Other Americans don't realize how lucky they have it.
I can say I know how it feels after I lived out of my car, stocked groceries at Jewel, worked at a video store and eventually wound up above a funeral home watching “Six Feet Under.”
But the order of Britney Spear's new husband was apparently too much for Malibu's workers to stomach. It took over ten minutes to actually place my order. The female workers were all running around star struck as the manager tried to keep them focused on meeting the carnivorous needs of people like me.
All I wanted was my tacos and buttermilk.
Kevin Federline, who I had never heard of nor cared to hear of, drove the Mercedes up to the window while his friend in a black football jersey adorned with the number 80 jumped out of the car trying to keep away the photographers.
Wearing sunglasses and a NY Yankees ball cap, Federline just stayed calm and picked up his food at the window. Meanwhile I tried to explain to the clerk that a patty melt was a burger not a chicken sandwich. Well, we eventually sorted out the “Oops,” and I got my tacos and melt.
Myself and others trying to eat after the surfing just shook our heads as one customer said, “That guy is nobody. Who cares?”
Indeed, it took me over a day to actually decide to take the time to write about it. I just thought it was a good example of comparing and contrasting both media and star behavior such as Federline and Judd. |
This work is in the public domain |
