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.)