About a decade ago, I landed in Hollywood for the first time, ready to bask in the glitz, the glamour, and—if the universe was feeling generous—a celebrity sighting. Or, at the very least, lock eyes with a B-list celebrity at a coffee shop and pretend not to care.
I was in town for a five-day recording stint at Margarita Mix Hollywood, a cozy, ivy-covered studio tucked among LA’s many beige, brutalist buildings. Compared to its concrete cousins, Margarita Mix was an oasis—a charming little box where the staff was friendly, the vibes were good, and our every request was met with a smile (and possibly an eye-roll, but a polite one). It wasn’t quite red-carpet glitz, but hey, Hollywood is all about illusions, right?
On my first day, during a break in recording, I decided I needed a real caffeine fix (no offence to the kitchen barista, but their coffee had the same energy as a supportive pat on the back). Casually, I asked the receptionist if there was a Starbucks nearby. Without missing a beat, she waved off my concern. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said with the breezy confidence of someone who had never personally fetched a coffee in her life. “I’ll have an assistant grab whatever you need.” Flattered—but also determined to stretch my legs (and maybe witness a celebrity having an existential crisis over the oat milk shortage)—I insisted I didn’t mind walking. That’s when things took a sharp left turn. She gave me a look like I’d just suggested juggling chainsaws. “People don’t really walk around here,” she said, her voice heavy with the kind of concern usually reserved for toddlers near electrical outlets. “It’s… not the safest area.” Then, as if sensing my skepticism, she nodded toward the front entrance.
“That’s why we have the extra-secure gate.” Ah, yes. Nothing screams “Welcome to Hollywood!” quite like being gently discouraged from walking to a Starbucks in broad daylight. Now that my team and I were officially studio-bound for the week—thanks to our friendly neighbourhood security warnings—I decided to make the best of it. With all the comings and goings, I managed to build a respectable lineup for my “Guess Who I Met?” celebrity roster. Oddly enough, when I look back now, three out of the four actors I met were Canadian. Coincidence? Fate? A secret Hollywood-Canada pipeline I wasn’t privy to? Who’s to say? But if I had stuck around longer, I half expected Ryan Reynolds to personally hand me a Tim Hortons coffee and welcome me to the club.
Smokin’ Sutherland
That first afternoon, in strolled Kiefer Sutherland—casually cool, effortlessly confident, and ready to record voiceovers for some car brand (or at least that’s what I gathered while definitely not eavesdropping). He was in his forties, still rocking the classic rebel look—white t-shirt, jeans, and blond hair that somehow managed to be both messy and perfect.
I tried to get a better look, but he kept to himself, splitting his time between the studio and the patio. And speaking of the patio—wow, did this man smoke. I mean, I’ve seen factory smokestacks put out less. By the time he was done, I was convinced he had single-handedly nudged LA’s air quality index into the danger zone. If you told me he went through an entire carton that week, I wouldn’t just believe you—I’d assume he had a rewards card.Oh, and remind me to tell you about the time I worked at The Bay in downtown Toronto in the men’s shoe department, and Kiefer Sutherland waltzed in to outfit his entire wedding party. It’s a doozy. But for now, let’s all take a deep breath—preferably far away from that patio.
Trivia with Rogen
The next day, I was in the kitchen, minding my own business (read: aggressively foraging for snacks) when Seth Rogen walked in. Now, I could have played it cool, acted unfazed—but no. My brain, ever the saboteur, decided the best course of action was to pretend this was just another totally normal Tuesday in my incredibly glamorous, definitely fictional life where A-listers just casually wandered into my snack zone.
“Hey!” he said. Probably to me. I was the only one there, but I still did the classic look-around-to-make-sure-there-isn’t-a-more-important-person-behind-me move. You know, just in case. He strolled over to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and then his eyes landed on the trivia question taped to the door:
“What was the first interracial kiss on TV?” I watched as his brain revved up. Eyebrows furrowed. Wheels turned. Then, suddenly, he turned to me.
“Any idea?” My Canadian instincts kicked in.
“Sorry?” I said. Because, of course, when in doubt, apologize to Seth Rogen. He chuckled.
“The trivia question. Anyone get it yet?” And just like that, my brain short-circuited. I was having an actual conversation with Seth Rogen. Do I blurt out a fun fact? Attempt a deep-cut pop culture reference? Laugh in a way that subtly mirrors his iconic chuckle?
“I don’t think so,” I managed. And that was it. No grand punchline. No epic, slow-motion, Hollywood-worthy moment. Just me, Seth Rogen, and a trivia question standing awkwardly in the kitchen. Then, like a bolt of stoner-genius lightning, he suddenly exclaimed,
“I got it!”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Star Trek!”
“Star Trek?”
“YES. Captain Kirk and Uhura!”
“Oh, that makes sense.” Did it? I had no idea. But I was committed to this conversation now. He nodded, pleased with himself, took a sip of water, and with a casual,
“See ya,” disappeared into his session. And that, my friends, is the story of how I had a conversation with Seth Rogen and contributed absolutely nothing.
The Gobsmacking Truth
It was a Wednesday afternoon. I was in the bathroom, washing my hands like a responsible adult, then staring out the window like a poet contemplating life’s great mysteries (or, more realistically, just zoning out). That’s when I saw the gate swing open and a very fancy BMW roll in. The car came to a smooth stop, and out stepped none other than Will Arnett.
Yes. Gob Bluth himself.
Now, up until this point, my only reference for Will Arnett was Arrested Development, where he was chaotic, morally questionable, and—let’s be honest—not exactly leading man material. But in real life? The man looked GOOD. We’re talking sharp pants, crisp white shirt, like he had just walked off the set of a high-end cologne commercial. He handed his keys to the valet with an effortless coolness, then strode into the studio like some kind of well-dressed enigma. And that was it. Poof. No magic tricks, no Final Countdown playing in the background—just an alarmingly handsome Will Arnett disappearing into the ether. Naturally, when I got home, I relayed this earth-shattering encounter to my husband in painstaking detail—right down to the exact shade of Will Arnett’s devastatingly crisp shirt. A few weeks later, it hit me: Maybe going on (and on) about how ridiculously attractive Will Arnett is wasn’t quite the “bonding moment” my husband was hoping for.
I’ve made a huge mistake.
The Fishburne Directive
It was Friday morning, our last day at the studio, and I was in the kitchen, nobly fetching bottled water for the client—truly, my most selfless act of the week. Just as I was heroically fulfilling my hydration duties, one of the front desk assistants walked in and made an announcement with the gravity of a royal decree:
“Heads up, Mr. Laurence Fishburne is on his way. Please don’t stare. Don’t make contact. He prefers his privacy. He’ll be here in about ten minutes with his assistant.” Now, I consider myself a professional. But also—Morpheus, say it isn’t so. Was I really supposed to pretend that THE Laurence Fishburne was just some random guy picking up a mobile order at Starbucks? Like he wasn’t the voice of the Matrix, the king of gravitas, the man who could make reading a Denny’s menu sound like Shakespeare?
To be fair, Margarita Mix is a small place. Celebrities come and go, and nobody really makes a fuss. Which is why this little PSA felt… excessive. I mean, we’re all adults. We could handle it. But still—don’t stare? Don’t make contact?
What was I supposed to do? Pretend he was a glitch in the Matrix? Casually walk into him like an NPC in a video game?
Spoiler alert: I did run into Mr. Fishburne later that day in the kitchen. He had his back to me, deeply focused on the delicate art of buttering a toasted bagel—truly, a man of refined tastes. I resisted the urge to tell him he was the One and instead made an important observation: he wasn’t nearly as tall as I had imagined. Either I had severely overestimated his height, or he had severely underestimated mine.