When we left off in part 2, Martin Sheen and I were parked with driver’s-side windows together, our cars blocking the small neighborhood street. Meanwhile, the stalker in the white pickup was slowly coming up behind my car, most likely realizing I’d just obtained A-list mother-fucking help.
Oh, …and we learned that I’m as bright as a cliff-jumping lemming when panicked.
As the white pickup approaches our cars, he pulls over to the side of the road as – if waiting for me to finish my conversation – so he can then continue on with terrorizing me.
Martin says to me, “Turn your car around and pull up behind me. I got through to the Sheriff’s office and they’re going to meet us at the old Malibu station.” He said ‘US’ !!! 🙂 Yay Martin!
(It’s important to note two things here: A, The police agreed to come out for Martin Sheen – not when it was just little old, not-famous me calling, but for Martin. And B, The lazy cops still only agreed to meet us so far – at a station closed years before, in an empty parking lot about 15 minutes away from where we were now.)
I do as Martin says, and the stalker also starts to maneuver his car as if readying to make a u-turn like I did.
But then Martin Sheen, A-list megastar and rescuer of blond-haired lemmings, starts yelling at the stalker!!
*swoon* (somewhere a lemming just fainted)
Martin to stalker: “Hey! What are you doing terrorizing this woman?!!” But, wait! There’s more…
When we left off, I had just realized I was being followed by some stranger in a beat-up pickup truck with dark tinted windows. If you missed part one you can read it here: The Time Martin Sheen Saved My Life. Part three (the conclusion) coming soon.
Trying to lose the strange vehicle stalking me, I quickly drove around corners and waited for him to pass by. Whenever he realized I was no longer in front of him, he would search the short streets for me. When he’d spot my car, I’d pull out and speed off in another direction. After one such turn, I got stuck in a dead end culdesac with him right behind me! I think it surprised him, too. Oddly enough, he didn’t block my exit, instead backing up to let me out of the narrow dead end.
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, after passing him I sped down another street.
Thinking I’m safer in this small neighborhood of nice houses, I’ve become afraid to return to the main highway that pretty much goes nowhere for 27 miles. But I’m frantically trying to call the police. Cell service on Point Dume? Damn near non-existent.
My calls to 911 kept getting cut off part way through. Unlike the police in Northern California, the 911 operators in LA just don’t give a shit, probably jaded by the many horrendous calls they get. They made no attempt to call me back when we got cut off. None. Had this been Northern California, the 911 operators would have blown up the phone trying to call back a terrified woman cut off during a 911 call. (To give you a little better idea of the police mentality down in LA, if you ever get pulled over for a DUI, just make a $2,500 donation to the police department and there will be no DUI. Heard stories of police brutality? All true. You’re not famous? Oh, no help for you until after your murder. That’s the treatment I was getting from 911. This probably also explains the high rate of homicide in LA: 911 is apathetic to your pleas for help.) But, wait! There’s more…
I’ve been promising you all this post since I started this blog up again several months ago. I’ve held off until now because it was a terrifying experience for me, one that’s hard to relive. There’s another reason, too. This event is like a scene straight out of a movie, and includes a very famous actor. Most of you don’t know me personally (not that I hold much back on this blog! heh). So, up until now I worried you’d think I made it up, determine I’m prone to flights of fancy, and potentially even more bonkers than I admit to. But if you’ve stayed with me this far (and through the Holiday Letter From My Cat), I figure you’ll be with me after this. However bizarre it seems, this story is quite true. The Malibu Sheriff’s office probably has some record of it, too. And I’m no more bonkers than I’ve told you outright.
By the way – this is fairly long, so I’ve broken it up into a series of posts. I don’t know how many, because I’m still writing it. (Not quite the pro-blogger you thought I was, huh? <— dripping with tongue-in-cheek sarcasm) I’ll post one every few days or so. Probably ‘or so’.
The True Story of How Martin Sheen Saved My Life (yes, THE Martin Sheen)
‘Saved my life’ might be a bit of an overstatement, but that Saturday night nine years ago I was terrified for my life like I have never been before or since.
All I knew was this complete stranger was following me – everywhere. At first he kept his distance, following my car as I ran a few errands and headed for a 30-minute drive to Point Dume in Malibu. I could see he was male, with dark hair and skin, driving a beat-up white pickup truck with darkly tinted windows. (Beat-up cars, with darkly tinted windows were not at all common in Malibu.)
I couldn’t shake him. I tried evasive driving maneuvers, quickly turning corners, hiding down the hill. He searched the neighborhood until he found me each time.
Before I continue with the details of that terrifying night, let me provide a little backstory… But, wait! There’s more…
Malibu Colony #63 from the deck... this was my favorite spot to sit, and where I was when Rob Reiner tried to talk to me. I'm so lame. Sorry Rob. Love your movies!
Several years ago I transferred to Malibu to work as Marc Andreessen’s Estate Manager, overseeing care of the property in the Malibu Colony and managing the staff. It was a great job, for the most part.
Malibu was pretty, and pretty boring for a single gal. Not much to do so I stirred up some trouble. (You can read a bit about Malibu and one of my more interesting exploits here.) I’ll write about some of the crazier stuff later, like when my parents get tired of reading their kid’s new blog (or just give up on my ever achieving greatness, or providing grandchildren. Ya, like a starving dog with a fat bone…).
So instead, I’m going to gossip about celebrities I saw when I was lived in ‘Bu (“Bu” as the locals call it – ’cause they’re special). It’s a random list of my encounters so don’t get too excited. (The stuff I could sell to tabloids for cubic dollars I’m saving for later.)
Breakfast with Spielberg. But, wait! There’s more…
The Date with Exiled Royalty Continues: Lost in The Crenshaw District of L.A. (Not a safe place, in case you didn’t know.)
(You can read the previous post about my date here: Flirting with Disaster: Dating Exiled Afghani Royalty . Trust me, it’s true.)
Not even Starbucks, which is EVERYWHERE in the world, dares venture there. (They weren’t there then, but they may be in the area now. I hear Starbucks is going to take over the world by winning the Franchise Wars.)
(No, this isn’t what happened – but it could have. Photo courtesy of blackarmor.com.)
Picture this: A darkly lit and filthy street, bordered by run-down and abandoned warehouses covered with graffiti and broken windows, and shiftless people (who hopefully don’t read this blog) lingering on street corners.
In the middle of this: A flashy, shinny black Mercedes driven by an older, well-dressed gentleman wearing a flashy Rolex. Seated next to him is a tow-headed white gal (that would be me) dressed in a suddenly-too-revealing little dress. Also flashy.
There are no other cars – parked or driving – on the street. There are no hookers on the streets. Not even hookers want to be here. But, wait! There’s more…
A random medallion, not Kahlil’s.
I’m not going to use his real name because I’m pretty sure he’s in hiding. Let’s just call him Kahlil.
(You can read the first post about time life in Malibu here.)
I was introduced to him by a mutual friend. Kahlil, a bit older than myself, is a good man, loves growing roses, and reading Kahlil Gibran’s poems. He has seen and experienced some truly awful things in his life, and I don’t envy his position.
How do I know Kahlil is Royalty? There’s a video of him getting out of a helicopter, wearing flowing white robes, with scores of minions on the ground, bowing and scrapping profusely.
There’s also the bulletproof Mercedes. Never been in one? Neither had I. It looked like any other Mercedes. And then I rolled down the window – the ¾-INCH-THICK-GLASS window. ??? But, wait! There’s more…
Malibu from the air. Photo by Doc Searls.
This is the beginning of a 3, 4, 7? several part series about my time in Malibu.
Around the beginning of the millennium, I transferred to Malibu to work as an Estate Manager, overseeing the luxury beach-front property and household staff of a very wealthy individual.
My (Preconceived) Idea of Malibu vs. Reality:
You’ve probably seen celebrities profiled on popular shows like TMZ or in the news: They’re always hanging out in Malibu, often getting DUIs, getting into fights, or being “seen with so-and-so”.
This lead to my first preconceived idea: Malibu is a hotspot of celebrity activity!
Couple that with what I already knew about the person for whom I was working, Marc Andreessen: He lived in Palo Alto (at the time) and shopped at places like Stanford Shopping Center. I assumed he would choose to live in a place with similar amenities.
Which lead me to my second preconceived idea: The shopping is going to be great!
Boy, was I wrong on both counts. But, wait! There’s more…