Michael Cera.

i like him. like his work, like his look, the whole thing.

only, once, when i was working as a white girl in an indian restaurant in L.A. (an autobiographical fact which warrants its own invisible blog post), michael cera called to make an order for delivery. i didn't know it was him, obviously, and -- had i -- probably wouldn't have flinched either way (few things are impressive in a deserted L.A. indian restaurant at noon on a tuesday in june.), but nonetheless, michael cera called.

"electric lotus, sarah speaking."

the specifics fail me. all i know is that, at some crucial moment, the voice on the other end of the phone wanted something, and my voice said that we didn't have it, and our conversational quality quickly deteriorated from there.

"this is michael CERA calling," he said, in what i recognized to be an extraordinary effort to communicate something of grave importance.

and i thought to myself: michaelceramichaelceramichaelcera...? and came up with nothing. only that his last name was the same as my first name, which was pretty cool for 12:00 in a deserted L.A. indian restaurant on a tuesday in june.