About three months ago while in Los Angeles, Jon and I met with an old friend at the Roosevelt to catch up over drinks. Upon leaving, I thought I recognized a familiar face in the lobby. She was an older woman, probably in her late sixties; an actress I’d seen several times before, but I couldn’t place my finger on exactly where. Whereas I’d normally continue on my way unconcerned, something (several vodka sodas) was telling me to get to the bottom of it. I asked my friend if perhaps she recognized the woman, to which she confidently replied, “You’re hurting my arm.”
I decided to get a closer look.
Unfortunately, subtlety is not the art of a drunk. What I thought was merely stealing a couple glances evolved into a Larry David-esque stare down that quickly ended with a distinct look of panic settling across her face. Like any grown man who inadvertently frightens an old woman, I sprinted in the opposite direction and hid behind the largest piece of furniture I could find.
Once the coast was clear, I emerged to show my friends that I had found her on IMDB. Mystery solved! With her headshot plastered on my iPhone, I declared, “I think it’s Grace…”
“WHAT are you doing?!” an exasperated Grace Zabriskie cried over my shoulder.
I turned around to a horrified expression that I’d previously only seen reserved for George Costanza on Seinfeld.