Turbo into the pink-and-yellow van of Petal Pusher Florist at the corner of Sunset and Larrabee on Wednesday night after having drinks with an unidentified female friend at Le Dome’s famed circular bar. Moxie escapes with only minor cuts and bruises while the driver of the van is loaded onto a backboard and taken to the nearest hospital.
As paparazzi swarm, a shaken Moxie extricates herself from the airbag and runs into the Easy View diner next to the Viper Room to escape the attention. She reappears a few minutes later to retrieve her purse from the damaged car, then hides in the diner’s bathroom until her mother arrives. The police gather statements outside while the young star pulls herself together.
“She seemed very upset when she ran across the street,” reports one bystander. “Her face was red and she was in tears. I think she was in shock. I told the EMTs. I hope she’s all right. The Nancy Drew Files is my favorite movie.”
When Moxie reemerges three hours later to tell her version, she claims the accident was caused by rabid photographers chasing her down Sunset Boulevard. She was only trying to outrun them when she sped through the light at Larrabee.
The story makes the rounds on the 11 o’clock news, but by Thursday morning conflicting reports emerge.
“I didn’t see any photographers on her tail,” says an eye witness. “I was buckling my little girl into her car seat and all of a sudden this car comes racing out of nowhere. It was the only car for blocks, and I remember thinking how dangerous it was and good thing my daughter wasn’t in the street. Then I heard the crash. Poor Willow was so scared, she started crying.”
Two dozen other witnesses and eight traffic cameras corroborate this account. Nobody believes the paparazzi story, especially not Julien Zevon, Mr. Petal Pusher himself, who immediately brings a multimillion law suit against Moxie for reckless endangerment. During the second hour of Good Morning America he charges the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department with conspiring to cover up Moxie’s drunkenness. “Why did it take three hours for them to give her a Breathalyzer?”
While pundits extrapolate what a .07 blood alcohol level three hours after the fact means, gossip columnists speculate what in her purse was so important she braved swarming photographers to retrieve it.
“Her stash of blow?” asks TMZ, voicing the thought had by Moxie watchers everywhere.
“Why do you think she went into the bathroom. Hello? The toilet. Everyone knows it’s the best place to dispose of illegals,” adds Carmen Cardosa of HotScoop.com.
While the speculation flies, Moxie’s publicist, Jessica Hornet, sticks closely to the paparazzi story, insisting that photographers giving chase on foot are just as terrifying as those in cars. She cites their immediate presence as proof of their culpability. They were at the scene of the accident as soon as it happened, ergo they must have caused the accident.
The logic is dizzying and takes Matt Lauer, a senior correspondent and a dry-erase board five minutes to figure it out.
I watch the story unfold with a growing sense of detachment. At first I’m incensed at the paparazzi. There are enough things that can go wrong with a movie in Hollywood without voracious photographers running your star off the road. In my head, I write letters to the editor, invoking the name of Princess Diana and calling for sweeping changes in the paparazzi laws. Ten years minimum for tailgating.
For once this is something I can control. Public outrage will lead to a political response, which will make Moxie just a little bit safer.
But then the truth comes out, and I realize it’s just another act of an out-of-control teenager. They all trash their parents’ cars. It’s a rite of passage.
In many ways, this is a comforting thought. Seeing Moxie as a run-of-the-mill eighteen-year-old gives her an edge of invulnerability. Every generation has its parties
As paparazzi swarm, a shaken Moxie extricates herself from the airbag and runs into the Easy View diner next to the Viper Room to escape the attention. She reappears a few minutes later to retrieve her purse from the damaged car, then hides in the diner’s bathroom until her mother arrives. The police gather statements outside while the young star pulls herself together.
“She seemed very upset when she ran across the street,” reports one bystander. “Her face was red and she was in tears. I think she was in shock. I told the EMTs. I hope she’s all right. The Nancy Drew Files is my favorite movie.”
When Moxie reemerges three hours later to tell her version, she claims the accident was caused by rabid photographers chasing her down Sunset Boulevard. She was only trying to outrun them when she sped through the light at Larrabee.
The story makes the rounds on the 11 o’clock news, but by Thursday morning conflicting reports emerge.
“I didn’t see any photographers on her tail,” says an eye witness. “I was buckling my little girl into her car seat and all of a sudden this car comes racing out of nowhere. It was the only car for blocks, and I remember thinking how dangerous it was and good thing my daughter wasn’t in the street. Then I heard the crash. Poor Willow was so scared, she started crying.”
Two dozen other witnesses and eight traffic cameras corroborate this account. Nobody believes the paparazzi story, especially not Julien Zevon, Mr. Petal Pusher himself, who immediately brings a multimillion law suit against Moxie for reckless endangerment. During the second hour of Good Morning America he charges the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department with conspiring to cover up Moxie’s drunkenness. “Why did it take three hours for them to give her a Breathalyzer?”
While pundits extrapolate what a .07 blood alcohol level three hours after the fact means, gossip columnists speculate what in her purse was so important she braved swarming photographers to retrieve it.
“Her stash of blow?” asks TMZ, voicing the thought had by Moxie watchers everywhere.
“Why do you think she went into the bathroom. Hello? The toilet. Everyone knows it’s the best place to dispose of illegals,” adds Carmen Cardosa of HotScoop.com.
While the speculation flies, Moxie’s publicist, Jessica Hornet, sticks closely to the paparazzi story, insisting that photographers giving chase on foot are just as terrifying as those in cars. She cites their immediate presence as proof of their culpability. They were at the scene of the accident as soon as it happened, ergo they must have caused the accident.
The logic is dizzying and takes Matt Lauer, a senior correspondent and a dry-erase board five minutes to figure it out.
I watch the story unfold with a growing sense of detachment. At first I’m incensed at the paparazzi. There are enough things that can go wrong with a movie in Hollywood without voracious photographers running your star off the road. In my head, I write letters to the editor, invoking the name of Princess Diana and calling for sweeping changes in the paparazzi laws. Ten years minimum for tailgating.
For once this is something I can control. Public outrage will lead to a political response, which will make Moxie just a little bit safer.
But then the truth comes out, and I realize it’s just another act of an out-of-control teenager. They all trash their parents’ cars. It’s a rite of passage.
In many ways, this is a comforting thought. Seeing Moxie as a run-of-the-mill eighteen-year-old gives her an edge of invulnerability. Every generation has its parties
Similar Books
