Actor Sylvester Stallone - 66th Venice Interna...

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I was living in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico for a few months when one day I decided to take a healthy walk by myself along a dried up river.  I could hardly hear the nearby traffic, which the birds did a beautiful job of drowning out.  The patch of earth was a desolate spot even though it was so close to the cobblestone street that kind of marked the edge of town for me.  It was near the same little bridge where I once watched a horse break loose from its owner, cross the street despite the traffic, and laugh at the man he escaped, who was desperately trying to get ahold of him again.  

The sun was melting my face off and the humidity was 200% with no rain when I realized I wasn’t alone.  Approaching me, I could see from a distance, was a largely built and very fit runner.  He was wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses.  His red sleeveless shirt, drenched in sweat, made his muscles gorge out of his arms.  It was disgusting, but it was a perfect place for a famous person, like myself, or a really disgusting sweaty person, like the man in red, to go walking or running.  He zipped right by me, ignoring my existence.  In that instant, just as he swept away, I turned around to see if I had indeed been star struck.  Was that Sylvester Stallone?  He was healthy enough to go running, I’m sure.   This is a town that supposedly attracts “stars.”  It must have been him.  I told all my friends that day and I am still convinced that I had a silent encounter with Stallone.

But I don’t care.  Famous people are just people, you know.  What am I supposed to do?  Scream?  Rip my shirt off?  Pa-lease.  So when we were walking around the farmer’s market this past weekend and my husband told me, in Spanish mind you, to look at the man exactly to the left of me so that if I even turned left I would have wacked him in the eye, I’m thinking, “Oh man, not again.  Now who could it be?”  I don’t know who it would have to be for me to get excited.  Not even Johnny Depp or Salma Hayek would make me break the code of normalcy.  So who was it?  It was Jack Kevorkian.  Of course it was!  My husband took pictures of him on his phone a couple of years ago when they were both standing at a computer at the public library, which was a year after he got out on parole.  In prison for eight years serving a 10-25 year sentence while in his 70’s, he should be about 82-years-old.  It’s like living in Little L.A.