Paris Hilton, Tiger Woods and Tabu?

While I can appreciate the perks of being rich, I've never understood the quest for celebrity. Sure, it may get you past a velvet rope or two, but what about when you're on the way to 7-11? Do you really want paparazzi dogging your Slurpee-craving butt?

Last week in Tampa, my friend Allie was very amused when I got "outed" on the street. Some poor slob in a pickup- probably an honest hobbyist or lurker- comes rolling up as we're walking back to our hotel, coffee in one hand, Walgreen's bag in the other, in jeans, sunglasses and in decidedly non-provider mode.

"Hey," he yells from the driver's seat. "Are you Tabu?"

I quickly glance at Allie in a bit of a panic. "Excuse me?"

"ARE YOU TABU?!?" he bellows.

"I don't know what you mean," I manage to stutter out, blessing the red light that's keeping him from following us as we turn the corner.

We get all of ten feet away before Allie bursts out laughing.

"Shut up," I mutter. "Jesus! Just tell everybody in Tampa, why don't you, asshole!"

She can no longer contain herself. "Hah, hah, you're famous! I'm so impressed! I'm with a celebrity!"

"Oh, yeah, that's great," glancing back over my shoulder. "What if you'd been my sister, or a civvie friend who doesn't know I'm Tabu? That would be pretty hard to explain, wouldn't it?"

For a nano-second she considers that scenario."Well, yes, that could be pretty awkward," she concedes. Her face sobers, then lightens again.

"But I'm not! And you're so famous he knew you from a single glance! Oh my God!"

Well, dear readers, I do not consider myself famous... at least outside of a small circle of interested parties in Miami, Chicago, DC and now, perhaps, Tampa.

But if in your wanderings, you do spot a certain busty redhead that you're sure you've seen before, do me a favor, please. Wait till I'm gone before alerting the media.

I'll do the same for you.