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).

I Touched James Franco – The Evil Eye

 

Let me start this celebrity touch update by first saying I like James Franco.  I really do.  I think he is a great actor who consistently delivers a rare mix of intensity, humor and sexiness that I usually only equate to things like IHOP’s Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity breakfast menu item.  However, much like IHOP, what James also delivers in generous portions is a heaping helping of cuckoo crazy. 

 

I encountered James at the Toronto Film Festival this week. (see Colin Farrell touching incident from last year).  I do love the Toronto Film Festival because it provides so many good touching opportunities.  Easy pickings this year were Josh Brolin, Javier Bardem, Maria Bello and some horse-mouth girl named AnnaLynne Mc Cord (I understand she is on the new 90210, which explains what happened to Aaron Spelling – she ate him).

 

I ran into James Franco twice in Toronto.  I first saw him on my same hotel floor at the Park Hyatt, looking like a pimple on the ass of Dom Deluise following an apparent night of partying with Celine Dion and Alan Thicke (OK…admittedly, those are weak Canadian celebrity references, but you try to come up with list of Canadian stars… and no, Howie Mandel does not count as a celebrity.  He is an anomaly, like a good-looking person on roller blades.)   Needless to say, James was in no condition to be touched.

 

I ran into him again later at a charity fundraiser.  During a speech by the charity organizer, James took the stage behind him to be recognized as a supporter.  Bravo James!  Nice work helping the impoverished… but why are you now staring at me?  And, I mean staring.  Right at me.  Not at anyone else.  Just me.  And, with a really blank crazy stare.  Like that look you get from a cab driver when you say you want to use a credit card. 

                                                                                                                                       

It was like he was staring into my soul, piercing me with his intent, glassy gaze.  Like he wanted to smoke my face (see Pineapple Express).  I turned around to see if there was a six foot high water bong behind me or maybe Dave Mathews (oxymoron, I know), but there wasn’t.  And, he wouldn’t stop staring.  I don’t think he even blinked. This went on for a good five minutes until the presentation was over. 

 

At this point, I was actually a little scared to touch him.  Of course, it had to be done, but I really didn’t want to get that close to him.  This was Canada after all, and something horrible was bound to happen, as it always does on Canada. 

 

And this, my friends, is when being an all-state high hurdler comes in handy.   Spotting James across the room, I could just work out an angle of fast approach, touch, and quick exit… if, and only if, I could kind of hurdle the little group of poverty-stricken children that were there as the charity’s benefactors.  For a high-quality touch like this, I was willing to try. 

 

After 10 minutes of deep stretching (important!), I lined it up and I took off, managing to touch James’ elbow and miraculously only barely clipping the tattered turban of a tiny little bongo player.

 

As I walked out the door, flush with my success, heart pounding in my chest from having run about 10 yards, I looked back and there it was again:  James’ icy stare burning a hole through me and my impeccably tailored Theory skinny black suit.  Until our eyes meet again James Franco… until they meet again.