“Kristen’s your biggest fan!”
Did I hear that right? I scramble to locate the remote in the crevices of my bed sheets. The darkness of the room gets in the way of my effort to find that hard piece of plastic, the Holy Grail to my Stephen Dorff movie marathon.
This Friday night ritual was nothing new. Following my weekly shopping trip to Wal Mart for frozen Lean Cuisine pizzas and cat food, it was the highlight of my week. Although, going on the People of Walmart website to see if I made the cut always came in a close second.
Yes, as you can tell I didn’t get out much. But who needs a date when there’s the chance of catching Stephen Dorff in his birthday suit? It was more than an even trade in my opinion.
On screen I watched Dorff stand coyly in the elevator, oblivious to the sheer power he now exuded for being at the wrong place at the right time. Always playing the part of the bad boy with a persona that projects the sheer cool of “so fucking what.”
And after rewinding that portion of the DVD for the 100th time, there was no question about it, Kristen was his biggest fan. I’d sell my right ovary just to meet Stephen one day. Unfortunately, that was the least of my problems.
I discovered my future husband lived in a little beach town called Malibu; in a state I had been banned from for sending one too many fan letters to JTT as an 11 year old. But I was sure the statute of limitations was well exceeded. If I left today and loaded up on No-Dos, I’d make it there in less than a few days. So I packed the car, slipped on my Team Dorff tank, and hit the road.
When I sport my Team Dorff tank many people ask, “Dorff? Who’s that?” Instead of finding the closest object and hitting this person over the head, I simply begin to list his films in chronological order, starting with The Gate and ending with A Glimpse in the Mind of Charles Swann III. Less of a glimpse and more like an hour and a half of my life I will never get back. But these are the types of sacrifices one makes for those three minutes of Dorff in tight jeans.
When they continue to stare at me blankly it still doesn’t matter. I’m proud to be on Team Dorff, whether it be team of 20 or team of 1. And this team of 1 was about to meet her destiny.
I decided the problem with just showing up on Dorff’s doorstep was that I might be perceived as a tad ‘mentally deranged.’ I needed a cover and quick. But what did Malibu have to offer besides bikini clad women and rehab centers?
My answer came from Miss Norma Jean herself, exactly ten of her on display at Pepperdine University. Andy Warhol, who had an obsessive fascination with the cult of celebrity, much like the whole cast of Jersey Shore, had once said about Hollywood, “Everyone here is beautiful, plastic. I love plastic. I want to be plastic.” I mean who doesn’t dream of being rich enough to afford to pump lethal amounts of Botox into your face.
It was a brilliant ploy; the problem was it took only five minutes to view Warhol’s Marilyn’s and survey the entire museum. I felt that showing up at Dorff’s door now would still negate the goal of not being perceived as ‘mental’. I had no choice but to stall for more time.
I walked up the girl at the front desk. “So, what’s there to do around here?” I asked. She looked at me with her large framed glasses, put down her Hemmingway, and stared at me squarely.
“Well, you could grab a Starbucks and window shop at the mall?”
There were so many things wrong with this suggestion. For one, I didn’t want to be reminded of all the fancy things I couldn’t afford, nor did I want to be seen in public consuming an overrated cup of coffee.
“Any other suggestions?” I asked.
“Well, there’s always the beach,” she pushed her glasses back over her nose and stuck her head back in her book. It was obvious she was done humoring me.
I realized that despite the fact that Malibu was home to my soul mate, the city itself did not have much to offer. This could explain my childhood aversion to Malibu Barbie. Not to mention she had horrible taste in men. It had always been my theory that like Malibu Ken, bottle blondes lacked in the IQ department. Maybe it made him more apt to follow her around like a doting puppy dog but personally I preferred a challenge; like scaling Dorff’s beachside property in order to get a glimpse of him coming out of the shower.
The beach it was.
The good thing about Malibu this time of year was it had a Boys of Summer feel. The beaches were completely deserted. The houses empty except for a few hired maids, dusting original Norman Rockwell pieces. I couldn’t help but feel as I walked La Costa beach, that I was trespassing into a realm I did not belong.
I eventually tired of picturing myself rich living in one of these houses and instead pictured Dorff running down the beach, shirtless and tossing a football to his schnauzer. “Funny running into you here Stephen,” I’d say pouting my lips in a way he couldn’t resist.
Maybe I’d run into him sitting on his porch strumming away on his base guitar, svelte in a fresh shirt and slacks, much like his role as Stuart Sutcliffe. He’d invite me up for a drink and a quick romp in the sack. Afterwards he’d light me one of those electronic cigarettes, preferably some girly flavor like cherry or nutmeg. We’d sip espresso and discuss surrealism and classic movies; two of Dorff’s favorite pastimes, following models and beer of course.
I was almost too busy salivating over this thought that I almost missed the fact that Dorff’s house was only a short distance in front of me. Unfortunately so were a pile of rocks, making what would have been an easy stroll on the beach into an obstacle course of doom.
I approached the edge of the rock pile and watched as the white surf violently crashed against it. The tide was coming in at an astronomical rate (although never having studied oceanology, I couldn’t say for sure).
I sat down on one of the boulders and peered out across the rocks contemplating my next move. If I did survive it across, it was highly likely the tide would be fully in before I could make it back, blocking me on the other side. I would have no choice but to knock on Dorff’s door.
Deciding I had come too far to let a little rock pile get in the way of my fate, I took a deep breath and stepped onto a large boulder, my muscles shaking weakly below me. I guess popping the lazy boy back from a reclining position did not qualify as a workout.
Hopping rocks on slippery wet flip flops proved to be quite difficult, a feat even Houdini couldn’t master. I had no choice but to get down on all fours, hoping no one was a witness to this new low. All I kept thinking was ‘Stephen Dorff, I hope your happy.’ But I was unable to shake my fist, since I was using both hands in order to avoid cracking my head open.
I looked up to see how much progress I had made, which hadn’t been but a few feet and was directly sprayed in the face with surf. Since I was already on my knees, I prayed I wouldn’t be swept out to sea before ever meeting Stephen.
I had pictured a million ways I would meet my demise driving to Malibu; botched kidnapping, having a piano fall on my head but never in a million years would I have considered dying this way, stalking a celebrity who was in a movie entitled, Tennis, Anyone…? I didn’t even like tennis.
After what felt like hours but by the looks of my watch had only been minutes, I sat down on one of the rocks for an overdue sanity check. Here I was over a thousand miles from home, trying to get to a house that may or may not even belong to Dorff (the picture on Google Earth was a little grainy). Maybe stalking celebrities for a living wasn’t my forte.
But before I was able to delve any deeper, I looked down and noticed the tide was nearly to my feet. I realized at this rate, any decision was better than no decision.
I quickly scrambled over the rocks to the beach ahead of me, twisting my limbs in ways that were just not natural. Before I knew it I had managed to crawl my way across to the other side. I could no longer feel the soles of my feet, but I had made it.
It was then that I looked up at Dorff’s very expensive property before me, inhaling the sweet salty air and realized his house was completely dark.
“Why God, Why?” I screamed up towards the sky.
Maybe there was no such thing as destiny. Because if destiny really existed, that would have been me frolicking shirtless on a beach with Dorff not Owen Wilson!
If I could only put the determination it took to drive over a thousand miles and scale a pile of deadly rocks just to look at Stephen Dorff’s empty house towards a good cause. Perhaps discover a cure for cancer or invent a new form of Velcro, which would make unsnapping my pants after a big meal all less strenuous.
I took one last look at his house, sighed, and started off in the direction I had come from. I promised God then and there that if I tricked death one more time I was going to make something out of myself; invest my time in something important, something worthwhile; something that would benefit all of mankind for eternity and beyond. But first I should swing by Bradley Cooper’s house and see if he’s home.