I Touched Jodie Foster – The (Wo)Man in the Mirror

 

Unless you sat through the People’s Choice award-winning Lifetime movie chronicling my personal saga (starring Meridith Baxter-Berney in her most challenging role yet, ‘natch), many of you may not be aware that I spent my formidable (read: sober) years growing up on the redneck streets of West Virginia.  And by redneck, I don’t mean that time you bought that gold by the inch necklace at the Glendale Galleria.  I mean country.  Like gun rack chic.  Cracker Barrel couture.   During my tenure in John Denver’s (R.I.P.) home turf, I took it upon myself to bring pop culture to the Blue Ridge Mountains, often challenging the hillbilly status quo in the name of fashion or consumables.  For example, I was the first to wear my overalls with one strap untethered– an incredibly bold choice for the time, later found on many a Karl Lagerfeld runway and Color Me Badd band mate.  But, perhaps my most daring statement was my flowing, shoulder length blond hair.  If Dorothy Hamill was bouncing and behavin’, I was bouncing and befuddlin’, confounding onlookers with my perfect androgynous symmetry.

 

The only issue with my groundbreaking tresses was they were exceptionally comparable to another child star of the time, who was just making a mark in Hollywood.  You see, the Freaky Friday had recently premiered on the big screen, proving to be a star turn for one Jodie Foster.  In the film, Jodie donned a perfect blond shoulder-length haircut, identical to my own.  It wasn’t long before locals (those with teeth and without) were remarking I bared a striking resemblance to the young thespian (she wasn’t a lesbian yet).  This went on for some time until my family moved to Arizona; there the dry air and my sister’s Conair Diffuser allowed me to sculpt the perfect parted-down-the-middle-feathered-back - again drawing comparisons to another celebrity of the day – Farrah Fawcett (R.I.P.).

 

So you can imagine my surprise, recently, when I found myself at the airport in Los Angeles strolling in front of whom I could have sworn was my fifth grade doppelganger.   Frankly, it was hard to tell if it truly was Jodie Foster behind me, stomping the ground in very sensible shoes as she marched towards the exit, or perhaps it was Tammy from the Brookstone store, weary after a day of peddling massage chairs and noise canceling headphones.  That is when I heard the confirmation I needed, as she spoke gruffly into her phone: “George, it’s Jodie.  I am coming outside.”  Bingo! 

 

Now the challenge: how could I execute a Celebrity Touch™ with her behind me?  I was certain at this point she also knew I was on to her, given the Linda Blair impersonation I kept doing to try to figure out if it was her or not.  Given this, she would surely be on guard for any rookie touching maneuver. 

 

The escalator presented the perfect opportunity.  We were now both on it now, slowly descending.  As I reached the bottom, I feigned that my on-trend Filson backpack had slipped from my broad shoulder, tumbling to the ground.  With me having to lean over to pick it up, Jodie’s exit off the escalator was effectively blocked. 

 

As she inched closer and closer I could see the trepidation in her eyes as she realized she was going to indeed cascade into me.  She was without hope at that point.  There was no escape.  At the last moment, she made a less-than-graceful attempt to sidestep my imposing form, brushing against my left side, and coming in direct contact with my Rag and Bone pencil thin trousers.  Celebrity Touch secured! 

 

As she headed towards the door, she turned back, looked at me and seemed to give a knowing nod.  Perhaps she thought she was looking into a mirror back in time; a more innocent time when blond bobs were au rigor.  Or she was thinking: “F*ck you. You clumsy asshole.”  It is really hard to say.

 

Celebrity Quick Touch - Adele

 

Celebrity Touch Target:  Adele

Why:  Because this UK singer and Hefty Hideway gal is burning up the charts

Where:  London Hotel West Hollywood

How:  I have to credit my faithful travel companion Elizabeth for this one, as I was not paying attention when Adele’s black Escalade pulled into the valet line.  It must have been because I was admiring my new Ted Baker leather coat in the mirror, which is truly fantastic.  Anyway, as Adele sprung (well, more like kinda flopped) from the car, Elizabeth slapped me hard across the face, with her good hand, and pointed her out.  I sprung into action, pretending to walk back into the hotel right in front of her.  As Adele neared the door, I opened it for her, as a gentleman does, touching her on the shoulder as she walked past (as only a creepy gentleman does).  Touch secured!

I Touched Jessica Simpson – What A Doll!

 

The iconic Barbie Doll was first unleashed on an unsuspecting world in 1959 (the same year Fidel Castro came to power in Cuba, which explains a lot).  A huge hit for Mattel, apparently the throngs of repressed mothers who bought them for their precocious daughters didn’t give much thought to the fact that Barbie’s proportions didn’t reflect reality in the least.  If she was a real person, Barbie would be a horrifying 33” hips, 18” waist - same as mine - and a Dolly-challenging 39” bust, all immortalized in shiny, slick and highly-flammable plastic (apologies to my sisters… plastic boobs are flame magnets).  Barbie’s glossy, seam-busting frame is exactly what came to mind the night I touched Jessica Simpson.

Jessica Simpson was on display at an exclusive hideaway in New York’s West Village (which wasn’t so exclusive as to not allow my alcohol-enhanced entourage to walk in the door).  She was perched at a table with scores of frenemies and her surprisingly handsome husband, all apparently having just arrived in Jessica’s Barbie Corvette.  As I stumbled into the room, I instantly detected her presence using my Celebrity Location Assistance Powers (the CLAP). 

What strikes you immediately, like so many Amanda Bynes-driven vehicles, is that every single thing about Jessica looks a little bit fake – her hair, her face, her clothes, her breathing. It is almost as if she just came off the highly mechanized Barbie assembly line.

As I watched (read: stalked) her, I notice she really didn’t say much.  Apparently someone had broken the string in her back from pulling it too many times to make her talk (or more likely, her husband cut the cord).  She just sat there with a permanently painted smile on her plasticized face, like Ann Romney in a pharmacy.  Of course, her face was over-shadowed (thanks to dramatic up-lighting) by her massive breasts, which were trying to escape their bindings like so many women’s feet in China.

She simply looked like a giant, weird doll.  To be clear, like a Barbie doll (see above), not like a sex doll because I don’t think Jessica’s stretched skin could make that “O” face. 

Now, while she didn’t come in her original protective packaging, this Celebrity Touch™ wasn’t going to be easy.  Jessica was seated behind a long table, and apparently this doll was not a Betsy Wetsy, because she did not get up once in nearly three hours to tinkle.  Why was she making this touch so difficult?  I had more drinking to do!

So, there I sat, with trusted touching companions Spice Rack, Darling Nicky and Brooke – our meal long since finished – waiting for Jessica to leave, so I could obtain a pretty premium Celebrity Touch.  Finally, she showed actual signs of life, standing to make her move to exit the restaurant and return to her Dream House with Ken.  Now was my chance!

She would have to walk past me to leave the tiny, trend-right restaurant.  As she did, I slid my chair back across the former leather factory (see note:  trend-right) floor and my elbow made contact with Jessica’s bottom.  Truthfully, my elbow fully ricocheted off her bottom, because it was Spanxed within an inch of its life, creating kind of a plasticky trampoline which bounced my elbow from her ample derriere, causing my Campari and Soda to splash towards The Rack, who easily dodged it like so many male genitalia over the years.  Party foul (and Spice Rack’s wrath) averted and Celebrity Touch secured!

I Touched Susan Sarandon – I Wanna Feel Dirty

 

When touching young Hollywood starlets, I do so enjoy the thrill of the chase and the very real chance of contracting a venereal disease.  However, it is the more mature silver screen royalty who I enjoy pursuing most of all.  This is particularly true of Oscar winners, because their skin is extra soft and they have that new car smell.  But, much like Mel Gibson’s sanity, Oscar winners are hard to find.  This is why I was so surprised and excited to have crashed a party recently, only to find myself staring down the ample bosom of Academy Award-winner Susan Sarandon.

 

Well, I guess I really shouldn’t have been so surprised.  After all, I did crash a Susan Sarandon meet and greet at the Sonoma Film Festival.  My Latino drinking buddy and sock stylist Manuel had gotten me in.  And there was Susan, looking resplendent in a burgundy Chinese silk wrap-around number that would make Helen Mirren insane with jealousy.

 

When I saw Susan, I had to think back to the first time I had ever experienced her work and how ironic that experience was in light of this very moment as an official Celebrity Toucher™.  The Rocky Horror Picture Show was the entertainment vehicle.  A very young Susan was on the big screen dressed in nothing more than her D-cup Maidenform bra and lacy panties, singing a song with the lyrics:  “Ta, Ta, Ta, Ta, Touch Me!  I wanna feel dirty!”  Well guess what Susan? Tonight it wasn’t only going to be your hot 30 year old ping pong-playing boyfriend who was going to be touching you.  It would be me, the original Celebrity Toucher™.  As far as the “feeling dirty” part goes, well, you are on your own unless you want to do Kiehl’s mud masks together over a cup of Celestial Seasonings.

 

You must understand, with an Oscar winner, I really don’t like to leave anything to chance in my Celebrity Touch™.  This is why I was going to execute the daring, patented “Back to Back” lean in.  For this maneuver, I would position myself behind Susan and slowly lean back until my back touched hers.  Now, this may sound like an easy move, but let me remind you of the time my faithful companion Spice Rack (see Ben Stiller Touch) leaned too far back into Jeremy Piven, actually toppling over due to her top- heavy nature, sending them both cascading to the ground in a heap of breasts and hair plugs.

 

Needless to say, I wasn’t about to let that happen with Susan.  I moved in behind her as she was taking pictures with the amateur celebrity stalkers (Remember:  a real Celebrity Toucher™ NEVER takes a picture with a celebrity… that is beneath us).  I set my feet properly, aligned my back at the right trajectory and began the slow, slow, slow lean back.  Well, dear reader, that’s when things headed the same direction as Tara Reid’s career… downward.  I was bumped by a waitress and I was about to pull a Spice Rack.

 

Thankfully, my years in the Blue Man Group paid off and I was able to catch my balance before I squashed this Oscar winner with my broad shoulders (and tiny, tiny waist).  However, I did touch her a lot harder than I would ever touch myself.  Startled, I turned to look to see if she even noticed, which amazingly, she hadn’t.  I guess too many ping pong balls hitting her in the face had dulled her senses.  Premium, Academy Award-level Celebrity Ta, Ta, Ta, Ta, Touch ™ secured and no one ended up feeling dirty.

 

I Touched Aretha Franklin – R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

 

There are stars in the world who are on a very special Celebrity Touch™ list that I call the “That Bitch is Gonna Die” list.   This is the list of celebrities who I need to hurry up and touch before they die, because once they are dead, it is really hard to touch them and not feel just a bit creepy.  Now, you can make it on the list if your personal tragedies HAVE interfered with your ability to do good hair (Amy Winehouse), you are just plain old (I got my eye on you Betty White) or you have some health ailment, usually obesity, that is going to lead to a very early demise.  The person at the top of that category is the Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin, who is my latest Celebrity Touch victim.

I happened upon Aretha at the US Open tennis tournament.  Now dear reader, you may be wondering what I am doing at a sporting event, as I don’t strike you as the athletic type given how busy I am with my glass blowing.  But, the US Open is prime Celebrity Touching territory, plus we all know how much I adore men swatting at fuzzy balls, but that’s a tale for another day. 

Celebrities attend the US Open not because they are interested in tennis, but because it is soooo easy for them to get on TV.  Got a new TV show coming out?  Show up at the Open!  Want show off that sex reassignment surgery?  Show up at the Open! Want to demonstrate you’re not at Lavo sniffing cocaine off a toilet seat for the fifth night in a row with Suri Cruise?  Show up at the Open! 

Aretha was apparently at the Open for two reasons:  to prove she is still alive and to show the world that she misplaced some Aretha somewhere.  That bitch has lost like ten Jada Pinket Smiths and looks pretty damn good… not dead at all.

Now, when you go to the Open and you sit in the front row, as one does, you will spend 10% of your time actually watching tennis, 20% of your time looking for Matthew Perry’s chin (he was seated in our row, an easy Celebrity Touch victim who’s fame and facial features… how would you say?  Have drooped a bit), and 70% of your time scanning the stadium for other celebrities.  Lucky for me, Aretha stood out like Michelle Obama at a Waffle House, resplendent in a green Chinese silk pants suit (yes, the bitch can now even fit into pants!) and a wig that looked like a golden roller coaster spun from the locks of 40 awkward Mormon children.  She was kinda hard to miss, but also was going to be tough to touch on the other side of the stadium in a luxury box.

Then, as Annie Lennox predicted, here came the rain again, pouring on Aretha’s wig like a tragedy.  People darted back inside the stadium halls, and I was crestfallen.  Aretha would surely leave the event and not wait out the rain delay.  One of the top candidates on my “That Bitch’s Gonna Die” List was slipping from my grasp, like so many suds at a foam party in Barcelona. 

I retreated to the concession stand to drown my sorrow in a beer and doughy pretzel, salty with failure.  Even the touches that night of Martina Navratilova, Judah Friedlander and Matthew Perry (again! Tell him to get away from me!), could not quell my disappointed.

But then, what to my lazy eye should appear, but the Queen of Soul and three giant bodyguards to fear (virtual high five to me for making that rhyme work).  But she was headed to the exit!  I had to move quickly.

Faster than you can say “Angora is the new Cashmere” (which we all know it’s not), I bolted into action, moving swiftly over the concrete floor, sticky with stale beer and Andy Roddick’s tears, directly towards Aretha.  Unfortunately, in my adrenaline and $15 beer- fueled haste, I was now literally charging at the R&B legend with my abort button nowhere to be found (I gave it to Kate Gosselin...)

Thankfully, as I was just about to collide with a bodyguard the size of Wilson Phillips (all of them), the group turned to go down a hallway, leaving Aretha’s ever-shrinking flank exposed.  I skidded behind her, just grazing her with my finger (the one not broken by the tranny volleyball player – again, a story for another day) on her silk-encased back.  Celebrity Touch™ secured!  And now, I can remove Aretha Franklin from the top of my “That Bitch’s Gonna Die!” touch list and put Whitney Houston where she rightly belongs.

I Touched Ice T – Coco Nono

 

Stealth is the sign of any truly great celebrity who wants to avoid being noticed.  Good stealth techniques can make a celebrity’s trip to Long John Silver’s all that much more enjoyable. Stars utilize a wide variety of intricate technologies to achieve stealth:  dark sunglasses, wigs and Von Dutch trucker hats (bonus points to me for dated pop culture reference!).  But charismatic-rap-star-turned-wooden-actor Ice-T has mastered another stealth technique – Distraction.  And, he uses the most powerful form of distraction known to man – it’s called Coco.

As far as I can tell, Coco is human, but at some point the government should really take a stand on when too much silicone renders the body into an action figure.  Coco is rapper-turned-crazy-guy-sitting-in-handicap-seats-near-the-front-of-the-bus Ice-T’s curvaceous wife, with physics-defying boobs and an ass that could house two Kim Kardashians.  And trust me, this Coco isn’t shy about showing off her marshmallows.

During a recent trip to New York, I happened upon Coco as she bounded like a Hippity Hop through La Guardia Airport, leaving smoldering heaps of manhood in her wake.  Her outfit: dead-hooker-in-the-trunk-of-my-car acrylic heels, what appeared to be a bathmat fur mini skirt, and a baby doll t-shirt so small it only covered about 3/4 of her ample bosom (peak-a-boo!).  Yes, all eyes, including mine strangely, were fixated on Coco.  So much so, that no one noticed, walking five feet in front of her, was rapper-turned-black-Michelin-Man Ice-T.  He was in one of the busiest airports in the US and no one was noticing him, thanks to his stealth distraction technique: Coco.  I would have missed him too, but boobs can only hypnotize the gays for so long before we start critiquing the clothes they are encased in.

Once Coco’s spell wore off, I noticed rapper-turned-angry-Starbuck’s-barista Ice-T and was able to concentrate on the fact that I needed to touch him.  Unfortunately, he and Coco were heading right on to the plane.  Luckily, however, we were on the same plane.  And this is where rapper-turned-irrelevant Ice-T made a rookie mistake.  He allowed Coco to sit by the window in first class (potentially blocking everyone’s view out said window, which is rude), and he sat on the aisle.  All good stars know to always sit by the window to avoid autograph hounds and that woman who doesn’t realize that when she turns sideways that, yes, her ass is in your face… I mean, really in your face…

I got on the plane and casually strolled down the aisle.  Coco’s breasts again caught me with their gaze.  How was she doing that???  I regained my composure just in time to gently brush past rapper-turned-Whitney-Houston-on-a-bad-day Ice-T’s right shoulder, careful not to catch his slightly effeminate afro ponytail on my Jack Spade Messenger Bag.  Celebrity touch secured.  And valuable lesson learned:  distraction is a powerful weapon, but in the wrong hands, it can prove deadly (I have no idea what that means, but I needed a clever closer.)

 

 

I Touched Christina Aguilera – The Apple Falls Far From The Tree

 

Poor Christina Aguilera can’t seem to catch a break lately.  First she accidentally marries her Uncle Sal, the accountant, which only leads to divorce (and a child who will surely have no chin).  Then she releases an album and movie that made even homosexuals bored.  Can you imagine???  And, to round out this rather horrible stage in her career, she flubbed the “Star Spangled Banner” at the Super Bowl (which was still way more tolerable than that horrifying halftime performance by the Ewoks).  All this activity reminded me of the time I touched Christina Aguilera.

The location was a post-Grammy Awards party at the Chateau Marmont in Hollywood.   Really quite the scene for Celebrity Touching™, this event featured a cavalcade of celebutards who were easy pickings for even the most amateur Celebrity Toucher:  Matthew Perry, Leona Lewis, Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, Lindsay Lohan, Ryan Phillipe and many more.  One of my favorite touches of the evening was Mischa Barton.  Now, while touching her was actually just OK, it was much more entertaining watching her try to convince the bouncer in the VIP area why she was an actual VIP, all the while wearing a silly flowered headband. (Note:  Real celebrities don’t wear flower-encrusted headbands or glitter tube tops, Mischa!).

I was with my friend Julie the Mischief Maker as we glided past Mischa and her floral headwreck into the VIP section.  It was rather crowded, which was a boon for Shakespearean actor Kenneth Branagh, who was grabbing young starlets’ buttocks, completely unnoticed (much like his career lately.)  For some inexplicable reason, the King was also in the VIP area.  And, when I say King, I naturally mean the Burger King, who was apparently a sponsor of this event, because nothing says high class glamour like a Whopper and a side of “Why the F*ck is there a giant Burger King mascot in the VIP area at the Chateau Marmont?!?”

The King was apparently hawking a new menu item – Apple Fries.  While I am sure congealed fried apple slices are tempting, his efforts went pretty much unnoticed by all, including a visibly impaired Christina Aguilera, teetering in the corner with Uncle Sal.  Spotting an opportunity for a high-quality celebrity touch, Jules and I moved in for the kill.  And, dear reader, that is when things went horribly wrong, thanks to… you guessed it… Kanye West, who had just emerged from the bathroom.  You see in the commotion caused by King Douche Kanye West’s entrance, the massive-headed Burger King was bumped.  Which would have been fine had he not been carrying a full tray of Apple Fries, which cascaded like so many bad reviews down on Christina Aguilera’s head.

Christina was understandably befuddled, waving her arms in the air like a used car lot inflatable.   The King panicked.  Kanye ignored it.  And, Christina… well, she pretty much lost her mind acting like a homeless person in a Bloomingdales.  In all the confusion that followed, Jules and I made our move, catching Christina on the back as he stormed out.  And that, my friends, is how I touched Christina Aguilera (and learned to love Apple Fries).