"No offense taken-"

"-but I know that you wouldn't willingly jeopardize my deal."

"Well, I didn't jeopardize your deal."

"No," he says, "but you slept with the person who did." I've seen Brady up, and I've seen Brady down, but I've never seen or heard him be this . . . vacant.

"And we didn't exactly sleep."

"Your semantics aren't helping." He sighs.

Oops, says my thought bubble. See?

"Just out of curiosity, what part of your brain thought it was a good idea to say that?" he asks.

"Wow," I say.

"Wow, what?"

"I was just thinking that."

"You were thinking what?"

"That I seem to have this uncanny knack for saying the wrong thing all the time."

"And doing," he adds.

"Yeah, that too," I say. And start to genuinely feel awful. I mean, I felt bad before, but now I'm starting to think that I may need a muzzle.

I get up and grab my jacket.

"Where are you going?" Brady asks.

"Just for a walk." I grab Strummer's leash, and he jumps off the bed, putting his paws up on me to assist the attachment of leash to collar.

"Why are you making me feel guilty?" he asks.

"I'm not. I'm just taking Strummer for a walk."

"Fine," he says. "I don't feel guilty, you know. I'm not going to feel bad because you feel bad that you had acrobat sex with Darren Rosenthal."

"Good. I don't want you to. I'm the one that feels bad about it, okay?"

"Okay," he says. And Strummer and I head out for a walk down Sunset, and over to the Starbucks where we can sit outside.

It's 6 a.m. and people are starting their day. I haven't slept yet, but that's okay.

A guy walks by and smiles at Strummer. He tells me how cute he is, and I thank him. As if I had something to do with it. I watch people get their coffee, and there's an almost physical change that happens when they drink it. If they are uptight or pissed off or just plain tired when they walk in . . . you can see an improvement the minute they are handed their triple shot, no-foam latte-and then when they're done at the fixings bar and actually take their first sip, it's like all is suddenly right in the world. Shoulders become un-hunched. People look around and actually notice that other people are there. It's a helluva thing to watch.

Then a guy who looks an awful lot like Ben Stiller walks in. I'm sitting out on the patio, and when he passes, he looks at Strummer and smiles. When he comes back out he walks over and I can see that he is indeed Ben Stiller.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," I say back, a little in shock that Ben Stiller is talking to me.

"Great dog," he says.

"Thanks," I say. Again, I think about how funny it is that we take credit for compliments to our dogs. But then again, if Strummer had green dreadlocks, and I dressed him in a tutu, it would sort of be my fault-so conversely, the fact that he is a good-looking, non-dreadlocked, undressed dog . . . is to some extent my doing.

"What's his name?"

"Strummer."

"Hi, Strummer," he says. "Is he friendly?"

"Totally," I say. Ben leans down and starts petting him.

At which point, Strummer lifts his leg and pees on Ben Stiller. I can't believe my eyes. I'm mortified. Ben jumps back and sort of squeals.

"Whoa, what the fuck?" he says. In his little dance to get out of the way and shake the pee off, he knocks his coffee over.

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry," I say.

"Jesus!" he yells. "You could have warned me that your dog pees on people!" He's pissed off-and now pissed on-but it's not my fault. I've never seen Strummer do anything like that before. How could I know that Strummer was going to pee on him?

"I said he was friendly . . . I didn't say he was potty trained," I say in my defense. Strummer's defense.

"That's great. That's just great," he says. "Thanks a lot."

"I'm sorry!" I say. "I've never seen him do that before. He didn't mean anything by it."

"Whatever," he says as he tries to shake the remaining urine off his pant leg.

"I'll be happy to pay for your dry cleaning," I offer.

"That's okay," he says.

"And if it makes you feel any better, it's probably good luck."

"Yeah?" he says. "How do you figure?"

"Well, if a pigeon shits on you it's supposed to be good luck. I can only imagine that a dog peeing on you would bring you some sort of . . . something."

"I don't think it works that way," he says, and he's probably right. By my logic, an eight-hundred-pound gorilla taking a dump on you would surely bring you fame and fortune. Okay, so it doesn't exactly make sense. But it sort of does. To me, at least.

"Okay, well, I hope it does. Bring you good luck."

"Thanks," he says.

"Can I at least buy you a new cup of coffee?" I ask. But as the words are coming out of my mouth, the barista from inside walks out with a fresh cup of coffee for him.

"Hey, Ben . . . I saw you spill your coffee," he says. "Here's a fresh one."

"Thanks, Adrian," Ben says and takes the coffee from him. I guess Ben is a regular here. And I guess I should probably never show my face here again.

Ben starts to walk away, and I can't help but think I need to say something. Anything.

"By the way . . . I'm a really big fan of your work," I call out, and Ben sort of guffaws and shakes his head. He doesn't even turn around. I am a fan, though. I really do like his work.

When I get back to the room Brady is a heap under the covers, and the lights are out. I sit on my bed and look over at him in his.

"You sleeping?" I ask, but he doesn't answer. "You asleep?" I ask again, and he sort of groans. I jump off my bed and climb onto his.

"What do you want?" he whines.

"I had my first celebrity sighting in Los Angeles."

"Good for you," he says, and he rolls over.

"Don't you want to know who it was?"

"Not right now," he says.

"It's now or never," I say.

"Then it's never," he says, pulling his pillow over his head.

"It's a really good story, though," I say.

"I'm sure it is," he says.

"And I mean it. If you don't let me tell you right now, I will never tell you."

"I'm okay with that."

"I mean it."

"Okay."

"For as long as I live," I assure him.

"Understood."

"You're no fun."

"All righty then," he says, and it seems like he's fallen back asleep. Just like that. Not even the least bit curious about my story. Unbelievable.

Well, I'm not going to tell him when he wakes up. I don't care if he begs.

I climb off his bed and get back on mine. But I can't sleep. For starters, I just drank a cup of coffee. But even if I hadn't, I just have so much nervous energy right now that I can't stay still.

So I don't. I get up and leave. Of course, I can't go too far because I don't want to take our rental car. Plus, it's 7 a.m. so it's not like there's a lot happening on the strip. The stores aren't open, so nobody will be out, and I can't exactly people-watch.

So I decide to just sit in the lobby. And it's there that I meet a man who claims he was once in a famous rock group.

"Hi," he says. I look up from the window I've been peering out of to see a red-faced older man. "Hello," he says again.

"Hi," I say back.

"Are you staying here at the hotel?"

"Yes," I say. "You?"

"No. Just visiting friends in town from London. What brings you to L.A.?"

"A band," I say. "My neighbor has a record company and he's scouting a band. I just tagged along."

"Wonderful," he says. "I used to be in quite a famous group myself."

"Really? What band?"

"Manfred Mann and His Earth Band," he says proudly. At first it doesn't click.

"Wow," I say.

"I'm Manfred."

"Nice to meet you."

"You know us?"

"Um . . . no," I say apologetically.

"You must. We had a big hit." And then he starts to sing it: "'There she goes, just-a-walkin' down the street, singin' do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do.'" When he gets to the "do wah diddy" part he sort of nods and motions for me to join in. I don't. But I do know the song.

"That was you?"

"Indeed it was," he says proudly. Then it hits me. Manfred Mann! "Blinded by the Light," source of one of music history's all-time misheard lyrics.

"This is amazing," I say, jumping up in my seat. "You can solve something that's bothered me since I was born."

A curious look comes over his face. "Well, I'll try but I don't know-"

"Of course you know!" I shout back, aware that I'm talking way too loud for 7 a.m. in the lobby of the Hollywood Hyatt. "Is it: 'Blinded by the light . . . dressed up like a douche . . . I'm gonna run her in the night'?"

Out of the corner of my eye I see Brady storming over. "Please don't do that," Brady says to me.

"Do what?"