When I was seventeen I left my tiny, snowbound hometown and enrolled as a freshman at UCLA. There were as many students in my Psych 101 class as there had been in my entire high school. This was, of course, why I’d elected to go there: L.A. represented The Outside World I had heard so much about.
One thing I didn’t expect, however, were the non-stop celebrity sightings. Now of course I knew that L.A. (or Hollywood, wherever that was) was the Celebrity Capitol of the World. And I’d heard of people catching a glimpse of, say, Sylvester Stallone, shopping for a diamond tie pin on Rodeo Drive. But I hadn’t prepared myself for the daily encounters with the semi-famous, the B-listers, the dude who stands in front of you in line for a Tommy Burger and makes you think: I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to know who this guy is… he’s the guy from… And whether he’s the guy who played the best friend of the star in that lame romantic comedy or not, he will act as if he is Marlon Brando. So it can be confusing. I had prepared myself to act nonchalant in the presence of, say, Robert De Niro. But Suzanne Somers? It had never crossed my mind.
Early on in my freshman year, my roommate’s mother came down to visit from Burlingame. This woman was incredible: she predated and predicted the force of nature that is Fran Drescher, from the dyed black hair to the long red nails to the unforgettable voice. She was a nice lady and she wanted to show her daughter and her daughter’s friend (me) a good time — one that we could otherwise never afford — so she took us out to dinner in Beverly Hills.
I don’t remember the name of the restaurant, but it was 1988, the height (or was it depth?) of the California Cuisine fad, and apparently that’s what this place was famous for. Everything was white: the walls, the linens, the customers. One of them in particular caught my eye: not only was he wearing all white (was this a cult?), but he looked like… that guy… from… nope, I couldn’t place him. But I couldn’t stop staring, either. He had a deep tan and a dark beard and mustache that really stood out against his flowing white shirt-and-pants ensemble. I was about to ask my roommate for help in identifying him when the waiter appeared and presented him with his appetizer: “chilled cantaloupe soup.” This was a pale orange puddle nestled in the biggest, widest, shallowest soup bowl I had ever seen. It was the size of a hubcap. A huge, white, porcelain hubcap. Chilled cantaloupe soup? I know, I know; it’s passé now. But in 1988 to a seventeen year-old from the High Sierras, it was freaky.
And that’s when I figured it out. The soup’s sipper was… Kenny Loggins. I felt simultaneously thrilled and disappointed. Kenny Loggins? That’s the best the universe can do for me? I thought. Kenny Friggin’ Loggins. Mr. “Footloose.” Kenny “I’m Alright” Loggins. With his chilled cantaloupe soup. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had just experienced my Ultimate Eighties Moment.