Liv Tyler
When I was in high school, I once babysat Liv Tyler. Of course, I didn’t figure this out until many years later.
At the time, she was just my friend’s cousin’s rambunctious 7-year-old daughter Liv. My friend’s cousin was Bebe Buell, infamous for her encounters with various rock stars (a few of which were chronicled in a pop culture book “Rockstar Wives”), and back then she and everyone else thought Liv’s father was Todd Rundgren. Bebe had, as one might imagine, a few issues, and she spent a chunk of time in the mid-’80s in rehab. During that time, she sent her daughter to live with her well-heeled aunt and uncle in Maine. Their son was a year ahead of me at a private school nearby.
One weekend they had some function to go to and needed someone to watch Liv for an afternoon, so they swung by campus and dropped her off with their son, who immediately realized he couldn’t handle this kid himself, and brought her over to the girls’ dorm for help. Oh. My. God. We spent the next several hours trying to keep her from climbing the walls. “Why don’t you come over here and watch cartoons, Liv? Don’t climb up on the furniture, Liv. Don’t touch that, Liv. Hey, where are you going — come back here!!” She was an absolute nightmare.
Finally toward dinnertime his parents reappeared and took her back, and we were all relieved to see her go. But that experience sure made an impression, I never forgot that horrible kid.
Fast-forward to a few years later. Steven Tyler’s daughter Liv is a budding international superstar, and I read a biography of her in the NY Times discussing how her mother Bebe Buell didn’t realize for many years who her daughter’s father really was. Something goes *click* in my brain and I realize OMG, I once babysat Liv Tyler.
I’m glad she turned out okay. Back then, we were all a little worried. 
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