Michael Jackson

It's noon, and somewhere in the San Fernando Valley, the front shades of a row of condos are lowered against a hazy glare. Through the metal gate, the courtyard is silent, except for the distant splat of a fontaine against its plastic basin. Then comes the chilling whine of a real-life Valley girl. "Grandmuther. I am not gonna walk a whole block. It's bumid. My hair will be brillo."

And the soothing counterpoint of maternal encouragement: "Be good pup, Jolie. Make for mama."

All along the courtyard's trimmed inner paths, poodles waddle about trailing poodle-cut ladies on rose leashes.

"Not what...