Celebrity Touching Flash Back - Boy George

Throughout my years and years of celebrity touching, I have gone to some pretty great extremes to place my delicate, well-moisturized skin up against the calloused and blistered epidurous of a person of fame. One such incident happened a few years ago in New York. I would like to fancy you with that tale in my new series "Celebrity Touching Flash Back."

The year was a year I cant' remember, because I was really drunk most of that year. I do remember, I had really good hair though that year. I am not exactly sure if the drinking contributed to that or not. Anyway, the year was whenever. The location was Bungalow 8 in New York. Bungalow 8 used to be the hot spot for celebs in the Big Apple. It is where Lindsey Lohan simultaneously started and killed her career, pretty much. It was a favorite of Paris Hilton because the signs on the bathroom didn't have tough words on them like "Men" or "Ladies." They had pictures of people: on the men's room, a crude picture of a man; on the women's restroom, a crude drawing of a woman with a rather long neck and a short skirt. Paris recognized this image as a reflection into her soul, so that's why she liked Bungalow 8.

But I degress, this isn't about Paris (more on that skank ho later). This is about Boy George. You see, after a night of many celebrity touches, I exited the club with several of my New York cohorts, including Brooke and Spice Rack, carefully recounting all the folks I had laid my hands on that night... literally. As we reached the crisp fall air of the city that never sleeps, success enveloping me like a Stevie Nicks shawl, Spice Rack shattered my euphoria when she said "So, did you touch Boy George?" "I am sorry, what did you just say???" "I said, did you touch Boy George?"

What the hell! How did I go an entire night in a club and not touch an icon like Boy George? How on earth did he escape my notice and my touch? He meant so much to me. I had never been beaten up more times in high school than when I listened to "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?"... which apparently many people did, including Miss Deering, the Home Ec teacher.

I leaned against the exterior of Bungalow 8 emotionally spent, crying digital tears (Hint: Crying digital tears is always better than real ones because they don't make your face look bloated and overly shiny like Renee Zellweger's... see below). I couldn't go back in the club because there was a huge line to get back in. I was crestfallen.

Then, out of no where.... much to my joy... who to my wondering eyes, should appear???... A man with a cart full of churros, which were delicious.

Then, out of the corner of my good eye (it is the right one by the way, the other was injured in a fight with a drag queen who sat on my finger and broke it... more on that later)... out of the corner of my eye, I see the top of a bald head going the wrong way through the line of people trying to get in the club... it was him! It was Boy George! But he was on the wrong side of the velvet rope... I couldn't touch him!

Now, normally, I won't break any kind of a sweat to touch a celebrity unless it involves fondling Liza Minelli in a steam room. But, I wasn't about to let this one get away. Not the man who brought us Karma Chameleon... so I took off down the sidewalk after Boy George, who had a rather sizeable lead. About half way down the block, I realized I was running after Boy George. Unfortunately, so did he... so he picked up the pace, looking over his shoulder at the madman with really great hair chasing after him. Thankfully, he had put on a few pounds since he got off the heroin and started hanging out with Rosie O'Donnell, so I closed the gap quickly.

Of course, that's when I realized that Boy George probably thinks I am coming to attack him. Quick strategy work was needed at this point, which isn't easy when you are running in Prada slip ins, but I managed to devise a plan. As I came neck-and-neck with him, like a thoroughbred about to overtake a Clydesdale at the Kentucky Derby, my plan came into effect: I acted like I was running past him... gently grazed his arm... turned back and yelled at my friends, "Cmon! We're going to be late!" And kept running right past him, down the block into the misty darkness.

Celebrity touch secured. No charges filed with the authorities. And that is how I touched Boy George.

I Touched George Hamilton - We Don't Wear Leather in 90 Degree Weather

Still in New York and boy has this been celebrity touching central lately. I feel like Heidi Fleiss at a Charlie Sheen convention. Tuesday night I went to the premiere of the romantic comedy "My One and Only" starring Kevin Bacon and Renee Zellweger. Now, one would think that I was there to touch them, but that simply wasn't the case. I did want to confirm that Renee is actually a fat albino Chinese woman, which is indeed the case (you have seen that face she makes in photos, right? Tell me she doesn't look like a fat albino Chinese woman!).

Didn't touch Renee... didn't really want to. The person I was after was someone much more interesting. Talk, dark, darker, darkest and surprisingly still pretty darn handsome. Of course, I am talking about the king of the tanning bed, Mr. George Hamilton. The first thing you notice about George is that his skin is a very creamy leather, not like that leather you see on those fake Coach bags on Manhattan street corners. It is more like the Corinthian leather from the backseat of that 1977 Chrysler Cordoba where you lost your virginity. Remember?

I encountered George at the after party, which was packed, so I did the classic shoulder to shoulder touch. My left shoulder, his right shoulder as we walked past each other. Thankfully, it was a really quick brush-by. I would never want to linger too long next to George because my alabaster skin looks nearly translucent next to his. And, I wanted to go stare at Renee's crazy Chinese (maybe Korean?) face a little longer.

The Touch That Started It All - Tony Bennett

So, like many of you, I have had my brushes with celebrity. And also like you, I have tried to talk to celebrities, but always ended up sounding completely moronic because I simply don't have anything to say to a celebrity that a million other fans haven't already uttered. So, sure, I have been on stage with Charo; didn't say anything to make her want to invite me out for Mai Tai's later. I asked for Stephanie Powers' (Meet Mrs. Hart, she's gorgeous. She is one lady who knows how to take care of herself, because when they met, it was MURDER!) autograph; she didn't buy me a yellow Mercedes SEL with Hart2Hart license plates. I have even been on Wheel of Fortune, but that didn't mean Vanna was crying out my name during her afternoon trysts with Pat Sajak.

Nope. I don't have all that much to say to a celebrity, but there was one celebrity, I really wanted to have a moment with... and trust me I had nothing at all to say to him, because he is simply a legend. And this the one, who started it all.

I was standing in the security line at JFK (Business Class thank you very much). In front of me was a silver-haired, short dignified man in an impeccably tailored suit. Clinging to his arm was his buxom blonde daughter (???). While no one else recognized this individual, I sure did. The slender figure before me was none other than Tony Bennett, the legendary, Grammy Award -winning singer. Certainly, a kid like me from West Virginia had nothing to say to a man of his stature, but I wanted that special moment for my own satisfaction and to share with my friends.

So... I touched him. That's right. I stood behind him and put my index finger in the middle of his back. In fact, it was there for quite some time, and because he was so old he didn't even notice. I remember saying in my head "I'm touching Tony Bennett, I'm touching Tony Bennett." At least I think it was just in my head.

After what seemed like an eternity, I removed my finger and allowed Mr. Bennett and his niece (???) to go on their merry way. And that, my friends, is the first official celebrity touching I ever had. From there, I made a promise to myself: If I was ever near a celebrity, and I had the opportunity, I would touch them.... and say nothing. Following are my adventures in the pursuit of my passion.

I Touch Celebrities

It might sound rather odd or even perverse, but the simple fact is: I like to touch celebrities. You see, although I have met many celebrities through my careers as a marketing professional, television reporter and blossoming stand up comedian, the simple fact is, I don't really have that much to say to your average celebrity (not to mention your uber-celebrity... or even Paris Hilton, although I have touched her twice... and yet, I am still disease free!). I don't quite have the same life experiences, or social circles as a real celebrity (although David Geffen once invited me to a hot tub party). A typical conversation between a celebrity and an average bloke like me might sound something like:

"Gee Bono. I really loved your last album."

"Feeling lucky, Clint Eastwood?"

"I really respect your work, Melanie Griffith."

Lame, right? There is simply nothing I could say that would spark any interest from a celebrity, because they have heard it all before from a million other people (except that last line about Melanie Griffith). So, I don't want to talk to them, but I do want to have some kind of moment with them so I can brag to my friends... even if the celebrity doesn't even know that moment ever happened.

There is nothing worse than telling your friends you saw a big celebrity and you did nothing about it... who cares!?! Your friends can have the same experience seeing them on TV. The key is to have some kind of interaction, no matter how small, to give yourself something to remember.

So, this is why I started touching celebrities. Mind you, I would never touch them in an inappropriate manner... all it takes is a brush of an arm, a pinkie finger on the back, the slightest footsie... and they have been touched. It isn't always as easy as it sounds as you will find out, but the results are almost always interesting.

This is blog is about how I became a serial celebrity toucher and my tactile, yet tasteful exploits along the way. I hope you enjoy the touchy, feely ride.