Celebrity Intrusions : Hey, Isn’t That Bruce Willis? Wait Just a Minute, What’s <i> He </i> Doing in <i> My </i> Neighborhood Hangout?

Celebrities do have their place in the world. They belong in movies and on television, in magazines, newspapers and tabloids, bouncing through exercise videos and pushing hair-care products. We expect them at Spago for dinner, Aspen for Christmas, talk shows for conversation, the Oscars for their strokes.

That doesn’t bother me. What bothers me are celebrities who don’t know their places, who show up unexpectedly on everyday, common ground.

Bruce Willis and Demi Moore don’t belong at my favorite little Thai restaurant, but there they were. If they can afford to have that limo idling at the curb while they dine on the $5.95 special, they can afford to go some place where the floors aren’t so badly buckled that the chopsticks roll off the plates. More important, they can leave plain folk to enjoy their evenings in obscurity without having to wonder what Bruce and Demi ate or why we aren’t celebrities too.

Moore-Willis were celebrity intruders, an increasing problem in a society threatened by an exploding population of the famed. While notables whine about the impossibility of leading normal lives, they still insist on trying to do so. And in so trying, they panic good citizens, turning them into autograph-seeking fools or liars compelled to issue such false statements as, “I loved you in ‘Hudson Hawk.’ ”

Just the other day my husband came home with a bounce in his step, a wild light in his eyes and a bizarre question. “Guess what naked celebrity I saw today?”

The answer was John Travolta. The actor had appeared in the steam room of a modest Burbank health club and my husband was going to burst if he couldn’t tell the world.

I sympathized with my husband’s plight. The celebrity intruder should have been sweating it out in Beverly Hills or Brentwood where he belonged.

But for my husband and thousands of other victims of celebrity intrusions, the disturbing aftereffects can linger like a bad head cold.

When I passed Zsa Zsa Gabor (or her identical twin; my companion is sure it was her) on a mountain trail on my way back from a pit toilet, I felt compelled for days afterward to mention it to everyone I encountered. Nearly a year later, I find myself haunted by unbidden thoughts about what might have transpired had I offered her the spare tissue in my pocket (there was no paper left in the ladies’ pit). Would she have slapped me? Would she have been grateful? Better she had been a rattlesnake or a bear, then maybe I could get on with my life.

William Randolph Hearst built Marion Davies a Santa Monica beach house large enough to host hundreds of celebrities during Hollywood’s Golden Age.

The remaining cabanas and gaming courts are now part of a public club. For a ridiculously low fee, we peasants can lounge under the same palapa Charlie Chaplin may have enjoyed.

Al Pacino’s presence on the tennis courts last August was a downright nuisance. Word of his activity turned women into zombies. Children, tans and reading material went unattended. Men became edgy.

Fortunately, I snapped out of it just in time when I heard a woman 10 feet away, baby on hip, headed in the same direction as me, shout, “Let’s go see what Al Pacino looks like.”

I felt as foolish as the hypnotist’s subject who wakes to find herself onstage, arms flapping and clucking like a chicken. For the rest of the afternoon I was tormented by whys--why was he here, why didn’t he play at a private club and why couldn’t I think about anything else?

Celebrity intruders are no longer confined to the major urban centers. I was certain when I landed in the abandoned town of Thompson, Utah, that I would be safe from fame’s magnetic pull.

Then the owner of the only cafe in town informed me that the phone I had just used was the same one Geena Davis called home on in “Thelma & Louise.” The dog at my feet had been a paid extra in the movie. He was sweet, but he was a celebrity intruder.

With time, and as the number of surprise encounters with the acclaimed grows, I am learning to cope. Recently we were dining at an elegant, secluded restaurant on California’s central coast. As the hostess sat us against a wall, I couldn’t help but notice a vacant table next to the picture window in which a full moon hung. Before we could ask to switch, the seat I coveted was taken by Sarah Jessica Parker.

I was as steamed as the vegetarian plate.

Within a few minutes we moved to another table. A couple now blocked our view of the lovely Ms. Parker. She was out of sight, out of mind and I was able to return to the enjoyment of my ignoble self.

Until, that is, I got a glimpse of her companion. It was Matthew Broderick. He was adorable. I had no idea they might be an item. Admirably, I stifled the urge to alert the media. Tragically, the experience has rendered me incapable of remembering what I had for dessert.

I share this with you all in hope of giving others the strength with which to face the famous. And Oprah, Donahue, Sally or Joan, if you’re listening, I’m available to discuss it. Maybe that way, I can become a celebrity too.