The invitation comes from the stall next to me. Anna Faris and I have already finished lunch and said our good-byes when she pops into the restaurant bathroom, cheerfully identifies herself (or the bottom of her jeans), and asks through the tin wall where I'm headed. I tell her I'm not sure. "Do you want to come to my house?" she offers. "We can have some wine!" I wait for Faris to emerge--mostly to make sure it's really her, and not a waitress playing a prank--and soon she's walking me to my car. She points out her white SUV and tells me to follow her, since I don't know my way around L.A. "I'm not gonna take you to a cabin and kill you," she promises.