Papa can you hear me?

Last night, Brad, Trevor and I caught a movie which was followed by an intimate gathering of close personal friends. Except the movie was a red carpet premiere and the gathering was in the hollywood hills at a multimillion dollar mansion.

I don't want to name drop, but we were two rows behind a woman otherwise known as "Babs." That's right, we were breathing the same air as Barba... I mean, Babs Streisand. I'm pretty sure I could sell the clothes I was wearing on eBay and there would be a bidding war between a fabu homo in West Hollywood and an equally fabu homo in small town Poland, just because they were in the vicinity of her holiness. But as usual, I digress. So we watched the movie and boogied over to the wee house party.

After Trevor and I excused ourselves and pardoned ourselves through Oscar winners and someone I tastefully deemed Phil Spector, we were surprised to find a table covered in designer cupcakes, chocolate covered strawberries and other such deserts. An hour and a half later, Trevor left long enough to stand in line next to Diane Lane, order a Corona Light, and get the evil eye for being a pussy bitch that drinks Corona Light. Once back in the comforting glow of the cupcakes and after I had made fun of him for ordering a Corona Light, we left the table and joined Brad outside.

All night we had been eyeballing an older woman (albeit a hot one) in an impossibly tight dress and her young daughter in an even tighter dress, wondering, who the hell are these people? Then our questions were answered and we all felt the dumber for not previously cluing in. It was the forty year old director's twenty year girlfriend and her mom.

After our faces turned red with stupidity, we decided it was time to leave. We sashayed our way around the pool and after successfully not falling in, went into the humble abode in order to say goodbye to the host. At this point Trevor pointed out a starlet whose initials are Megan Fox and her boyfriend whose initials are BAG. They were sitting on a couch like casual humans and I couldn't help but snap a photo and send it to my contact at Star Magazine with the caption, "Stars! They're just like us."

We drove home and wondered to ourselves when we'd be able to afford the paint for the gate that surrounds the multimillion dollar mansion and I couldn't help but recite to myself; the happiest people don't have the best of everything, they just make the best of everything they have.