Gentle readers who do not live in the vicinity of Hollywood may be unaware of a perilous, millennial phenomenon which has come to plague the refined citizenry of our fair city: the shocking, shameful scourge of The Stalker Celebrity.

No, not Celebrity Stalkers, I tell you, but Stalker Celebrities. Yes, you heard that right! When a celebrity stalks, who do you turn to? Do you go to the police? They won't believe you. This I can personally vouch for. The studios? Expect to leave a thousand, furious messages with a callously uninterested PR person. Even outlandish tabloid hacks shrink from reporting on it, despite reams of fastidiously supplied dates, times, specifics.

But M. Chariot is here to reveal, in no uncertain terms, that all is not lollipops & golden statuettes in our sunny village on the Pacific, no indeed! The unsuspecting gentleperson might imagine Los Angeles as a place where celebrities typically come and go, bustling hither and thither without incident. A naive and dangerous illusion! For the average citizen of this fair burg may suddenly find him- or herself terrorized by persons Famous – and Unhinged. Gripped by an unspeakable madness, film and television stars have been known to become chillingly obsessed with the Inconspicuous and the Unremarkable. With genteel yet Obscure ladies and gentlemen. Gentlemen like myself.

Scoff not, mesdames et messieurs! For M. Chariot is the hapless, overwrought victim of a half-crazed Stalker Celebrity! Why just yesterday, I was heinously attacked by my stalker – a famous, some might say ravishing 35 year-old actress whom I shall call, simply, 'Chloe' – at the Whole Foods supermarket quite near my cloistral apartments in Old Hollywood. Compose yourself, noble Reader, for my tale of horror and madness!

I'm sure you've seen one or two of her films and have sensed that the girl is not a little deranged. Perhaps you've encountered her photos on the 'Worst Dressed List' in the tabloids, where she appears with some regularity. Verily I tell you, those unsettling, haute couture fashions and hairstyles can be heartstopping when you turn around in an empty supermarket aisle and there stands 'Chloe', wearing an outrageous Dolce & Gabbana printed chiffon soufflé, whimsically tattered and ill-fitting, and she's staring at you with diabolical, bedroomy, I-eat-scummy-sex-puppies- like-you-for-breakfast eyes! But I lurch, panting, ahead of myself.

The day began innocently enough. As is my wont, I was delicately plucking a single White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Cookie from the baker's cabinet with a thin, patisserie-grasping paper, courteously supplied by the establishment for the spotless gentleperson. Blithely turning to drop said biscuit into a little pastry bag, I was stunned by the spectre of the trendishly bedraggled ingenue, careening toward me through the epicurean aether!

Previous week after ghastly week, it had seemed that everywhere I turned, there was 'Chloe'! Wheresoever I pushed my tiny carriage – Vegetables, Tinned Goods, Baking Accessories, Condiments – there, peripherally, a mere shelf's length away, slunk the glowering starlet, aisle after aisle, baleful, lurking, pretending to "browse the wares" – Ha! Such persons may be masters of performance, but nothing escapes M. Chariot's keen powers of the observation! No, it was perfectly clear, obvious even, that she had fixated on your humble author a fiendish infatuation!

But now, at last, the dreaded moment had come sweeping into the Bakery Section of the Whole Foods. Penned in on all sides by pastry cabinets glittering with sugary confections, I found myself trapped! There, abruptly, face-to-face, looming o'er my tiny top hat was 'Chloe', surrounded by a riot of muffins, of cakes! Spellbound by her sinister visage, I saw with frozen eyes, the full, intimidatory splendor of my crazed huntress!

In place of her hair there fell a pale, platinum blonde shroud with short, Children Of The Damned bangs. Long in back, not shiny but dull, lifeless, a damaged curtain reaching down to her knees. Tall, wraith-like, affectless, 'Chloe'! Daemonic, resplendent, suspended in a pale Imitation of Christ satin pouf minidress gathered tightly at the neck and puffed out into a large fluffy ball that stopped at the tops of her predatory, succubusial thighs, her feet adorned in brutal Louis Vuitton ankle boots with golden leather straps. Raiment of a psychopath!

All sound seemed to go out of the supermarket except for a very high-pitched note, an electronic wheeeeerrrrrr. Aeons swirled past like whorled croquants! I thought I might collapse in a swoon of surrender, a delectable buttercream impala felled by a ravenous, caramel lioness! But gathering my bedazzled wits and forcing my wobbly licorice skeleton to action, I took one panic-stricken step backward and heard the agonizing crunch of the White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Cookie 'neath the heel of my Prada Spectator crocodile boot. It was only then I realized that in the shock of the moment, it had fallen to the floor where it lay scattered in luscious, crumbly morsels!

Disarranged, mad with fear and pirouetting awkwardly on the sugarslicked tiles, I spun to flee! Left and right, collapsing inexplicably, towers of stacked vendibles crashed and tinkled 'round my scurrying velveteen form. Finally reaching the doors and before hurtling myself into the street, I paused to take one, horror-struck look back! (The sensitive may not wish to continue reading further.) I'm quite certain I saw 'Chloe', on her hands and knees, staring at me, picking bits of white chocolate off the floor, eyes glowing with undisguised menace!

. . . . . . . . . .

Apalled readers will be relieved to know that I have finally filed a restraining order against this madwoman, who has been stalking me at the supermarket for close to 3 years now. I am loath to sound melodramatic, but I feel the need to mention this situation, fearing that my very life may be in danger. If I stop posting for a prolonged period (over two weeks) I should like to be reported missing.

Thank you.