Thsi kind of thing happens to me more often than you'd imagine: This afternoon, I was dining al fresco at Farmers Market here in L.A. with my good friend, screenwriter Adam Rodman. We were talking about the O.J. Simpson case (we're right on top of every current issue) and about some of the detectives involved in it. One of us mentioned Phil Vanatter, who was one of the lead investigators of the matter…
About ninety seconds later, I looked up at a gentleman who was walking past with his wife. I whispered to Adam, "Take a look at that guy in the flowered shirt. Is that who I think it is?"
Adam looked and, sure enough, it was who I thought it was: Phil Vanatter. Probably still carrying that vial of Simpson's blood around with him.
I immediately changed the topic of conversation to Halle Berry and Carmen Electra but without, alas, the same result.