Taking it up a notch

A privilege guaranteed to Angelenos is celebrity-sightings. One statistic has it that 75% of the world's famous actors and movie-shakers live in southern California, so the street corners should be dripping with wealthy, well-known faces, yes? I'm told that Pasadena, in particular, is a haven for movie stars.

Nada. 

We haven't seen one famous person in our 50 weeks here. (Well, okay, Hulk Hogan was on our flight from Tampa to Los Angeles, but I told Matt he didn't count. When he asked me why, I irritably said, "Just because.")

Mr. Chang, the calculus teacher in the room that abuts mine says there's no logical explanation for this. He probes with questions, such as, "Do you walk around a lot?" (we only buy gas twice a month), "Do you eat at ethnic, non-chain restaurants?" (only), and "Are you on the lookout?" (probably not).

I think Mr. Chang has decided that we live in a hole and wouldn't know a famous person if she bit us in the butt. In fact, Mr. Chang said we've seen dozens of celebrities and just didn't recognize them. Mr. Chang can be a jerk. (Not really. He's probably the nicest teacher I've ever met. I'm just mad that I haven't had a celebrity sighting.)

Until yesterday, that is. We were walking down Colorado on our way back from an ethnic, non-chain restaurant when I noticed a gorgeous, hairy beast of the jumbo terrier variety. We stood at a corner with his expensively dressed parents while we all waited for the walk sign, and I said, "Gosh, your dog is stunning. Boy or girl?" His owner/handler graciously smiled and allowed that the hairy beast is male. "Ah," I cleverly replied. What is his name?" She said Notch. My next brilliant query was, "Oh. As in, N-O-T-C-H." She replied, "Well, Notch, as in Top."

Ahem.

As we crossed Los Robles, I pointed out that Notch seemed to know he's a looker, walking with such obvious ownership of his environs that I dared not pat his head. "I should say so," said his owner/handler. "He's just returned from Westminster. He was invited to show." When we got to the other side of the street, she condescendingly explained to me that dogs are either invited to Westminster or they win a lottery. Notch had been invited.

I suddenly lost all interest in Notch and starting skipping and clapping. "Matt," I chirped, "we've had our celebrity sighting!" Suddenly, Matt lost all interest in Mrs. Owner/Handler because she and Mr. Owner/Handler were waving away a meter man who was about to write them a parking ticket. I think Matt lives in fear of meter men and meter maids. 

As Mr. and Mrs. Notch condescendingly explained to the meter man why city ordinances require all meters to accept credit cards, and since the one in front of their car didn't have credit card capabilities, blah-blah-blah, I sang, "Notch, my celebrity Notch, handsome, Notch, what-a-man, Notch."

Notch, of course, didn't give a rip about any of this. No one was complimenting him or putting a ribbon around his neck. He just waited with bored indifference for his owners/handlers to open the door of his Audi SUV so he could step inside.

All confirmation that yes, we had a celebrity sighting indeed.