While wandering through Soho searching for the perfect 1970s bling to add to my collection, I noticed a smattering suspicious men taking photographs of my sister and me. Then the salesgirl at the jewelry stand finally commented: “Lindsay Lohan is always so much shorter in person.” Lindsay Lohan, the child-star-turned-lesbian-rehab-frequenter-extraordinaire was hovering a mere two feet away from me and I didn’t even notice her.

So I did what any former teeny-bopper would do: I broke into a sprint and followed her three blocks down the street and into a vintage shop. Lindsay Loho was so fierce in person—menacing black leather sandals that snaked up her legs, black cape, no pants or shorts to speak of, freakishly long bleach-blonde hair—that my usual celebrity solicitation skills melted away. I remained a pathetic voyeur for the duration of the shopping trip. Lindsay kept commenting on the retro-chic dresses in the store with a typically ’90s exclamation of Long Island fondness: “That’s sick … that’s sick.”

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