I walked down my street this morning to do a little math to confirm an observation I’ve made about my new neighborhood here in Malibu. Of the 38 houses on my dead-end drive, 31 are tucked behind massive, yet incredibly landscaped, walls and gates. And every one of these quasi fortresses comes equipped with entry codes, security system signs, video cameras and some even feature real, live human guards. My street is just one of many such streets in this upscale beach community.

On the one hand, I understand the need for privacy, especially among the famous. I have witnessed the insidiousness of paparazzi and heard stories about antics that would render the most sane person paranoid.

On the other hand, I have just finished reading a slew of local newspapers to try and familiarize myself with the community and I am amazed at how many of these same celebrities rail against a certain President Elect and his calls for exclusion and walls and policing.

And what of the lesser famous? What need drives them to erect these same barriers? A disproportionate sense of grandeur? Or perhaps they just bought these places from celebrities?

I hail from a very upscale community in Connecticut where the only walls are generally old stone affairs left over from the farming era. There are no codes, no security guards, no tinted windows. Admittedly, we have more land and are able to surround ourselves with trees, but supplanting our cute, white picket fences with actual barriers is not our style, even our celebrities agree.

I don’t really have a point here, I confess. I just find the dichotomy (dare I say double standard?) interesting. Nor do I have an answer—striking a balance between finding fame on the screen, yet avoiding life in a fishbowl, has got to be near impossible. So, a wall might be the only answer. (And please note that I have resisted the urge to turn to trite metaphors about walls, even though I love a good metaphor. You’ve heard them all anyway.)

I guess what I am trying to say is that the whole thing makes me a little sad. I love community. I love people. I should also divulge that I love checking out other peoples’ gardens and houses. For now, my ever-inventive mind simply makes up stories and conjures up images about life behind the walls. And until I am shown otherwise, my neighborhood consists of circus performers, eccentrics who collect garden gnomes, a time traveler from 3172, a mob boss, and an elf who is nurturing dragon eggs until they are ready to be hatched (or maybe he’s just growing weed).