If there is one thing I pride myself on more than my long
glamorous eye lashes, it is my ability to find a good stiff cocktail when I
really need one. You know, like after enduring any episode of The Voice that features Christina
Aguilera (one of my most dramatic past Celebrity
Touch™ victims). But there are times
that my inherent booze GPS fails me, leaving me as parched as Courtney
Love’s lady area after a night of unfiltered Marlboros, Red Baron Pizzas
and collagen injections. I faced such an
occurrence recently in New York’s West Village and the only thing that pulled
me through was the freckle-faced oasis that was Academy-Award nominee Julianne Moore.
The day started innocently enough, thumbing through ironic
over-priced, poorly-made day-glow hipster clothing at Scoop in
the Meat Packing District. I was being
helped by a salesperson who was all man… until you got to his face… from there up
he was all “I’m Comin’
Out” Diana Ross, with purple cheeks and eye brows that looked like John Waters had
misplaced his mustache – twice!
As you can surely understand, shopping for
age-inappropriate clothing and minimum wage gender identity crisis (trust me,
this was a crisis), leaves one very thirsty.
So, I set off south to find a place of worship, and by place of worship,
I mean a bar.
Now, you must first understand, dear reader, that my odds
of finding such a synagogue of Singapore Slings should have been heightened
because I was with my trusted drinking companion Clint, who has the nose of a
bloodhound (or Amanda Bynes)
when it comes to uncovering anything distilled, brewed or fermented.
After several blocks, however, we found we were no closer
to finding a speakeasy than we were to finding out what the hell Jennifer Lopez
sees in her new Muppet-faced boyfriend Casper
Smart. Things were getting bad. Every turn revealed some ridiculous cupcake
bakery or pet clothing supplier, but no watering holes. Thirst had made me as cranky as Katy Perry in a JCPenney. It had gotten so bad that I actually considered
bursting into a nearby playground where I would surely find Jennifer Garner
playing with one of her children named after 1940’s soap products and shaking
her until she told me where I could find a drink in this godforsaken
neighborhood.
On death’s door, that is when a cooper-haired angel sent
straight from Celebrity Touching™ heaven descended on us. Julianne Moore had just turned the corner and
was now walking towards Clint and me, in sensible flats, age-appropriate jeans,
and a v-neck t-shirt that said “hi, I’m a v-neck t-shirt.” She really is quite a fetching lady,
freckled to such a degree that Serat (look it up) would have spontaneously
combusted upon meeting her.
As she approached, I found just enough energy in my
weakened state to muster a smile, showing her all 32 pearlies. I was delighted when she smiled back at me
and nodded, obvious taken aback by my impressive eye lashes. With wave after wave of thirst crashing over
me (ironic right???), it took every ounce of will and determination I had to
raise my left hand and graze her speckled left hand as she walked past. Celebrity Touch™ secured!
And as I stumbled forward around the corner from whence
Juliann had magically materialized, practically collapsing from alcohol
dehydration, I spotted The White Horse Tavern.
Julianne, the brazen darling of Hollywood, had led me to salvation. I would live to touch another day. God bless you Juliann. God bless.
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