Vegan Cookbooks and James Franco

Tonight, I walk to the Tribeca Barnes & Nobel.  I am a woman on a mission to find the ultimate vegan cookbook.  Upon entering, I notice a voice being projected throughout the entire store.  Then I see a few plasma screens back at the music and movies area.  Someone is giving a reading.  But I can only see the top of his head.  I listen a little more closely, and then it hits me.  Oh my gosh.  That's James Franco's voice.  That's James Franco!  He's in the building.  No freaking way.  I guess I shouldn't be surprised.  After all, just in the last month or so, I've passed Alan Cumming walking down the street in a kilt, and I've watched Naomi Watts pick up her little girl from Montessori across the street.  Of course James Franco is giving a reading in my neighborhood Barnes & Nobel.  Of course.

And of course my guts swirl in a minor case of star-struck giddiness.  But thankfully, it doesn't last long, and my ego isn't damaged too badly.  I calmly saunter over to the back of the bookstore where masses of young women--and a few regular, middle-aged folks--have flocked to hear their beloved actor/artist/writer extraordinaire.  He really is beautiful to listen to.  I had no idea until today that he'd published a book, and I find myself quite enraptured in his prose.  Great storytelling.  But I guess you'd expect as much from an actor like James Franco.  I can't see him behind the crowd, so I just lean back against a bookshelf and listen, eyes closed.  For a minute, I think about buying his book--and joining the throng of adoring fans--so I can wait in line for him to scribble his illegible name across the cover of my freshly-bought copy.  

But I came here to buy a vegan cookbook.  James Franco is just a happy coincidence.

Smirking a bit at the scene Mr. Franco has created, I retreat to the cookbook section and settle down for some serious vegan cookbook browsing.  I drop my purse and sweater, and situate myself cross-legged in front of the shelves marked VEGETARIAN and VEGAN. 

I chuckle to myself as I imagine James walking around the corner, annoyed by the hordes of facebook profile pic-snapping college girls, only to find me intently searching for the perfect culinary guide.  Maybe he'd think me a little mysterious.  I'd imagine a guy like him might stop to wonder why I'm not falling all over him.  Perhaps he'd pause for a minute, offer a suggestion on his favorite title, and smile that squinty-eyed, dimpled grin of his.  I could go for that. 

But James doesn't come to the cookbook section.  I sit at my station, drooling over recipes for singaras with fresh mango salsa and spiced eggplant couscous while groups of drooling, giggling girls pass by on their way out, signed books in hand.  

They squawk and whine, "Oh my gosh!  I must have sounded so stupid.  Did I sound stupid?  Oh geez.  My camera's crap.  Did you get any good photos?  I can't believe I only had my camera phone!  He's so cute!  And he's so nice, too!  Oh my gosh.  James Franco.  Oh my gosh."

After carefully perusing half a dozen photo-saturated cookbooks, I pick my favorite.  I pick my way back through the thinning crowd toward his book-signing table.  I see him, and he's just as good-looking in real life as he is in the movies.  He's got a nice smile.  And he doesn't seem too fake.  That's nice.  I whip out my phone and snap a few photos for posterity's sake, then call Ben to brag.  He's jealous, of course.  

I just chuckle and buy my cookbook.