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).

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.

I Touched Angelina Jolie - Tah Dow!

Whoa... it has certainly been a busy week for your friendly celebrity toucher. It probably helps that I attended the premiere of the film "Inglorious Basterds" in Hollywood. Now, this little picture stars Brad Pitt, meaning the holy grail of all touchable targets could be in attendance. No, not Brad, silly. ANGELINA JOLIE!

I arrived to the premiere looking dapper with the lovely Elizabeth on my arm, and made my way down the red carpet. There was Brad up on a platform with that annoying girl from Entertainment Tonight(name them, they are all annoying) interviewing him. Way too far away for a touching. I breezed by BJ Novak (The Office) and touched his back. No big thrill.

Once inside, I just about hit the floor. There, standing not 20 feet away, was my target, Angelina. She was looking skinny as hell in a black leather strapless dress I am sure I have seen before on RuPaul. Angie (I call her Angie) is taller than you would expect, but damn girl... eat a cheeseburger... and some curly fries! She is so flipping skinny. Her hair looked like it needed a good V05 Hot Oil Treatment too (Walgreen's honey, $4.95). She was talking to three people who looked like publicists because they were wearing expensive shoes and cheap outfits. This certainly wasn't enough protection to prevent a good, old fashion celebrity touching.

Two of the publicists moved away as I moved in. As I got close enough for a casual touch, the other dude (read: gay... PS. All male publicists are gay) totally blocked my attempt. Bastard! I almost punched him in his over-done Dolce & Gabana belt buckle (tickety tack tacky).

Thwarted, I kept moving past them, not losing my casual stride. Once safely in the opposite corner, I planned my trajectory again and worked my way back to Angelina.

*Celebrity Touching Tip (TM): Now, the key here is to act like you are looking for someone else in the lobby, kind of walking around aimlessly, eyes darting, stumbling into potted plants, completely ignoring Andy Dick (which is really easy to do). Don't ever let your target know that you have even seen or recognized them. Now, back to the chase:

I walked up, eased in close, the sweat glistening from my brow. I was just so close to touching a rare breed... a dodo bird of celebrity. As I approached her from behind, she pushed back her elbow ever so slightly - perfect! I reached up my hand as I glided by her looking for my imaginary friend, and gently touched Angelina on her left elbow. SUCCESS! (albeit exceptionally bony) I gave myself an internal high-five and moved on.

But, that wasn't all that night. There was a real cavalcade of celebrity touching. Russell Simmons (with his new bimbo on his shoulder); Methodman looking for ho's; Cameryn Manheim, who was hitting on my friend Elizabeth; Samm Levine (not really a celebrity, but he is the dork in almost any teen movie you have never seen) and Eli Roth, who is awesome in the movie.

I must admit... I did proactively walk up to Sarah Silverman and say to her "So, Sarah Silverman, do you actually have anything to say to Brad Pitt, or do you just touch him?" She didn't think I was funny and shunned me (proof again, that I should only be touching, not talking, to celebrities).

Of course, the one that got away was Brad Pitt himself. Too many people for me to get close enough. I made a stab for it as he was rushing to the exit with Angelina, but security blocked me.

Oh yeah... and Kanye West was there... but who gives a crap about Kanye West. His ego was so big it created an impenetrable touching shield around him.

Overall, a great night for celebrity touching. I rewarded myself with a SKYY Vodka White Russian... which is what Angie is drinking this picture from the premiere. Klassy 'til the end.

I Touched Ben Stiller - Having A Ball

 

Inevitably, even the most cautious celebrity toucher will find himself in a situation where there is no avoiding the intended target knowing they have been touched.  This is particularly relevant if the celebrity toucher has been duped by a woman of low moral character, like that cry-baby woman Glenn Beck.  In my case, the woman with questionable morals I spend the most time with is a blonde bombshell we affectionately call “Spice Rack,” and trust me, she didn’t get that moniker because of her skills with an E-Z Bake oven.

Spice and I were nursing a post-apocalyptic hangover (really, why did we think Irish Crème and Slimfast Shakes were such a good idea?) at our favorite celebrity watching morning venue, Hugo’s, in Los Angeles.  Hugo’s is THE morning-after spot to catch shameful celebs trying to pull it together after a night of champagne cocktails, ego-stroking and ass-kissing (which we all know can be very tiring).   By the way, Vince Vaughn, if you are reading this, perhaps you could remember to put on underwear the next time you wear grubby grey cotton sweatpants to breakfast?

I have to admit, I wasn’t quite on my game this Sunday morning, the day of the Lord, sitting at our table nursing my coffee and several packets of Mixed Berry jelly. So when The Rack told me to stick out my hand, I had no idea what she was up to.  I put my hand towards her ample bosom, which she likes to rest on dinner tables.  She said “No, put it out to the side.”  Having no idea why I was being told to do this, I stuck out my hand – just in time to punch Ben Stiller in the balls as he walked by.

Now, you can imagine that this startled Mr. Stiller a bit.  I imagine this also startled Mr. Stiller’s testicles, which probably needed coffee just as much as he did that morning, or maybe a teabag or two.  I was personally taken aback by the fact that Mr. Stiller hadn’t learned all that much while filming his hit movie “Dodgeball” or at least his balls hadn’t learned to dodge things on their own.

Unfortunately, there was no way this could be considered a professional stealth celebrity touch.  I am pretty sure Ben knew he had just been hit in the nuts, and pretty hard too, like any comic book fan who saw the movie “Daredevil.”  I apologized and he walked gingerly on.  Spice Rack gave herself a digital high-five for having manipulating me so perfectly, not unlike how Roxette manipulates my emotions every single time I hear “Listen to Your Heart.”

But never fear faithful reader, even though Ben now walks with a distinct limp and will never have children again, I am resolved that I will eventually get him as a true celebrity touch, or bust my balls trying.  Well, maybe not my balls…

I Touched Julianne Moore – A Wink and a Nod

 

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.

Celebrity Quick Touch - Brandy

 

Celebrity Touch Target:  Brandy

Why:    Because she is a multi-platinum R&B artist and Demolition Derby Champ

Where:  W Hotel Hollywood

How:  Like a praying mantis on a Hippity Hop, doe-eyed Brandy was dancing on the back of a VIP booth at a Rolling Stone party when I spotted her.   If there would have been a “Booth-Top Booty Drop Challenge” on Dancing with the Stars, she surely would have won, because she was killing it!  One dramatic, yet assuredly elegant, fall into the booth by yours truly (a move invented by Spice Rack) landed the perfect touch of Brandy’s leg, and “The…Touch…Is…Mine.”

I Touched Colin Farrell - I Need A Bath

 

There are times when even the most dedicated celebrity toucher can find themselves either too mentally exhausted (having just watched four season’s of Sabrina the Teenage Witch on DVD) or too physically exhausted (having just gone garage sale-ing with Angela Landsbury ) to actually react when a prime touching subject is near.  And, yes, dear reader, that has even happened to me.

 

The location was the Toronto Film Festival.  The would-be celebrity target was Hollywood’s equivalent to Bounty Paper Towels – the quicker picker upper, Colin Farrell.  Here’s the deal with Colin Farrell:  In person, you can take one look at him and know he is about as clean as a McDonald’s bathroom in New Orleans.  But he is a celebrity and even with his musty man parts, he is worthy of a touch when encountered.  The problem was: I was dead beat.

 

I ran into Colin as I was near comatose, getting on an elevator in the wee hours of the morning.  He was getting off said elevator, a cloud of Irish man scent mingling with the latest Walgreen’s female fragrance (perhaps Avril Lavine’s Body Mist) following closely behind.  He was just inches away.  No body guard.  No barriers.  And that is when it happened:  I let him walk right by.  The elevator doors closed, and that was it.

 

At this point, my trusted travel companion Elizabeth reached up with her good hand (the one that wasn’t injured in a BlueFly.com Accessory Wall scuffle on Project Runway) and slapped me across my good cheek (the one that wasn’t punched by Abigail Breslin in the incident forever known as “The Pound Puppy Massacre of 2003”).  Elizabeth was appalled that I had let such a prime celebrity touch escape my grasp. I explained that I was too tired to touch the man-whore that is Colin Farrell.  She slapped me again and said “Being tired is no excuse.  If great people would have stopped trying just because they were tired, do you think Diane Von Furstenburg would have invented the Wrap-Around Dress?  I think not!)

 

With that inspiration, I pushed the elevator button to head back down to the lobby.  Naturally, Colin was there when I arrived, surrounded by tramps of all sizes and shapes.  This posed a problem.  Because we were in Toronto, he wasn’t surrounded by the typical anorexic Hollywood star-f*ckers, which usually provide ample space to reach in between their exposed rib cages to get a quick celeb touch.  There was no entry point to easily reach Colin without being detected, unless I tried the often-unreliable “Andy Dick Drunken Stumble and Grope.” 

 

No, I decided that the only point of entry was from behind… behind the pillar he was leaning against.  The idea was that I would blindly reach around the pillar and gently graze whatever body part I came across.  This is always a danger, as it sometimes results in touching a groupie, or touching the buttocks region of the intended target, which is off-limits in celebrity touching for obvious reasons.  So, as I reached around the pillar, nervous about what I might accidently caress, I couldn’t have been more pleased to find my hand brushing ever-so gingerly against Colin’s lower back.  I knew it was him because whatever clothing I was touching felt surprisingly similar to the inside of an empty bucket of extra crispy Kentucky Fried Chicken.

 

As I walked away, squirting a healthy dose of Purel into my left hand, I vowed never again to let mere exhaustion get in the way of a good celebrity touch.

Celebrity Quick Touch - Lars Ulrich

 

Celebrity Touch Target: Lars Ulrich

 

Why: Because I thought the outspoken drummer for heavy metal rock band Metallica was actually nonagenarian Betty White

 

Where:  United Airlines flight from JFK to SFO

 

How:  It is a known fact that rock stars age about as well as a Jim Carrey RomCom.  So when you see a rock legend in person, you are as likely to mistake them for a sad, week-old Edible Arrangement, as you are a Grammy-award winning artist.  That is exactly why my faithful travel companion Elizabeth had to point out, on a recent flight from New York, that the shriveled thing sitting in First Class wasn’t a coworker’s half-hearted attempt to gain favors through skewered fruits and vegetables, but the perpetually angry little drummer for heavy metal band Metallica.  Complete with a buckwheat-filled neck pillow (Enter Sandman indeed!), Lars Ulrich and his wispy Crypt Keeper coiffure was unfortunately many, many rows away from my well-manicured Celebrity Touching fingers.  The closest thing to a celebrity near me was the caterwauling Russian infant across the row looking to replace Ann Wilson as the lead singer of Heart (not possible).  How was I going to touch Lars if I was way back here? Would I be denied this prime Celebrity Touch™?  As luck would have it, when we landed, the gods (and by gods, I mean Stevie Nicks, Pat Benatar and Debbie Harry) were with me, because Lars got up from his seat and just stood there… as if he was actually waiting for me… or maybe he thought I was Steven Tyler given the multitude of vibrant hemp scarves I was donning due to something called a “Polar Vortex.”  I shimmied up the aisle like Axl Rose in genital-restricting John Varvatos leather trousers and grazed Lars’ grandma clapper as I walked past.  Surprisingly, he didn’t disintegrate like so many Ark of the Covenant-gazing Nazis. Celebrity Touch secured!    

 

I Touched Jennifer Hudson – Skinny is as Skinny Does

 

I have always been a proponent of the time-honored fashion mandate:  We don’t wear leather in 90-degree weather and we don’t dress frilly when it is kind of chilly. Of course, as a celebrity you can be tempted to not always follow this golden rule, because if Marc Jacobs says the hottest trend for winter is an off-the-shoulder Glad sandwich bag, well then you wear an off-the-shoulder Glad sandwich bag… no matter what the temperature.  Thankfully, there are some stars who know that classic style doesn’t come with a ziplock.  One of those is Oscar-winner Jennifer Hudson.

I encountered Jennifer in the very chic lobby of the Andaz Hotel in New York City.  Or I should say, I encountered what’s left of her.  The girl has lost so much weight she looks like just one of the Olsen Twins (Mary-Kate, not Ashley).  But even as only half of her true self, Jennifer looked fierce, which isn’t easy to do when you are heading out the door into a torrent of freezing rain so nasty even Snooki would put on underwear (the tiny lace ones with the whiskey flask clip-on pouch).

The big issue for Jennifer, of course, is that much like a polar bear fighting global warming, she has lost a lot of her fat reserves.  Meaning, she needs to wrap up when she goes outside.  And, let me tell you this, dear reader, I don’t know who invented the cape coat, but it is nothing short of amazing and Jennifer was rocking it (rocking being a good thing, not rocking like Miley Cyrus hugging herself in a dark corner) .  Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow as deep as Tori Spelling’s awful cleavage could keep Jennifer from looking hot.

Jennifer was heading for the door when I spotted her, so I was going to use the same Celebrity Touch™ tactic I executed with singer Adele:  open the door for her like any good, stalkerish gentleman would, and touch her on the back as I ushered her out into the forbidding cold. 

OK, let me say this… the doorman at the Andaz Hotel can go screw himself for appearing out of nowhere to open the door for me and Jennifer, thus crushing my Celebrity Touch™ strategy.  Damn you and your excellent customer service!

Thankfully, my meds had yet to kick in, so my head was clear enough to quickly alter my strategy.  As I was about to exit the doorway, I paused, executing the yet-untested “Oh my goodness, it’s brisk outside today” touch tactic (And the Oscar for best overly dramatic, slight-effeminate reaction to New York weather goes to…).  My sudden stop forced Jennifer, who was behind me, to change her course.  And, even in her wafer-thin new body, she had to brush past me as she slinked out the doorway.  Celebrity Touch™ secured!  At that point, thanks to her cape coat and waifish silhouette, she was immediately caught up in a sudden gust of wind, took flight and was blown to Hackensack.   

Celebrity Quick Touch - Robin Roberts

 

Celebrity Touch Target:  Robin Roberts

Why:  Because the Good Morning America host just made Chris Brown lose his sh*t and his shirt

Where:  United Airlines Flight 642 from JFK to SFO

How:  Robin Roberts is a striking woman, but no more so lately after interviewing someone who is famous for striking a woman.  I spotted Robin boarding my flight at JFK, practically glowing from all the attention she has been getting recently following her interview with and subsequent freak out by R&B singer and Ike Turner-wannabe Chris Brown.  As she boarded the plane, Robin definitely had a certain “Take that Diane Sawyer!” air about her.  While making my way back to coach (Why has the Lord forsaken me so!), I spotted Robin in First Class, struggling with her bag.  Instead of helping her, like the gentleman I am not, I slinked behind her, grazing the back she was straining trying to insert her Samsonite into the overhead.  Celebrity Touch™ secured! 

 

 

I Touched LeAnn Rimes and Eddie Cibrian - Canoodling with Extra Gravy

 

It is a rare day when my celebrity location assistant powers (or the CLAP, as I call it) miss a star in my midst, particularly two of them at the same time.  And even more particularly, two celebrities as scandal-ridden as Cracker Barrel sweetheart LeAnn Rimes and beefcake tomato Eddie Cibrian.  You may know her better as the country music vixen who also specializes in Hollywood interior decorating, or as we call it where I grew up – Home Wrecking.  Yep – ladies grab your husbands, because when this buttermilk biscuit is looking for some gravy, she don’t care if it is already on your plate or not.  Just ask Third Watch-star Eddie Cibrian’s ex wife.

The reason the CLAP wasn’t operating at full capacity during this celebrity touch moment is that I was trying to operate on three hours of sleep on a 6 am flight back home from New Orleans.  This is normally not a problem but the amount of white trash fumes I had inhaled on Bourbon Street the night before had made me practically comatose.  A text from my ever-alert travel companion Elizabeth who was seated back in coach where she belonged (there was only one upgrade available… don’t judge!), called my attention to the fact that Leann and Eddie were seated right in front of me.

I will spare you the blow-by-blow color commentary around all the canoodling that was going on one row in front of me, because the real issue was, in my delicate state, how was I going to touch them and not have them notice?  I think we can all remember that time, in a drunken stupor, I tried to gently glide past Nell Carter, tripped and ended up lodged in her cleavage for three days.

As fate would have it, Leann helped me out when she put her hand on the back of her seat (I am guessing to stretch her left breast?  Do girls do this???).  More out of the urge to pass out than anything else, I leaned forward and touched her hand with my hair.  Thus, the before-thought-impossible “Hair to Hand” celebrity touch was invented.  Eddie was much easier.  He kept leaning over to… I am guessing here… stretch her right breast???  As he did this for the hundredth time, I grazed his elbow between the seats with my pinky finger.  A rare celebrity-couple touch completed!

In the end, I think we all learned an important lesson here:  Don’t eat biscuits at Cracker Barrel or someone will surely touch your gravy.

Donatella Versace - A Major Feat

There is really only one mandatory requirement when it comes to touching celebrities, and that is you must be close enough to them to actually touch them. That seems obvious enough. The problem with this is it often requires acts of extreme bravery because once you are close enough to a celebrity to actually touch them, you are also close enough to see what they really look like. And honey child, let me tell you, that ain’t always pretty. Case in point: Donatella Versace.

I happened to find myself in Milan, Italy recently. Now, don’t get all “Under a Tuscan Sun” on me. Milan is the Pittsburgh of Italy, if Pittsburgh had better hair and aperitifs. Yes, I know it is the fashion capital of the world. But guess what? Throw a bunch of models in fancy clothes in the middle of Detroit and what do you get? A bunch of dead models.

So while in Milan, I attended an expensive event with cheap appetizers that was filled with Italian celebrities, who basically looked like your average Milanese factory workers but with slim fit tuxedos and feathered blow outs. There was only one major touch worthy celebrity in the bunch, and that was fashion designer Donatella Versace.


First of all, let’s be very clear about one thing: Donatella up close looks like the female guitar player from the Muppets, Janice. That’s of course, if the Muppets were made of old leather, rather than foam. The paparazzi (I am in Italy now, where that word actually means something) went nuts when Donatella arrived and promptly retreated to the elevated VIP section, along with a smattering of Italian soap opera stars, or as we call them in America: “prostitutes.”


This presented a big celebrity touching challenge. I wasn’t in the VIP section (strange, right?). I was down on the dance floor (naturally). How could I touch her way up there in her ivory VIP tower? I needed a miracle, and it came in the form of high fashion, as it always should.


Now I am generally opposed to open-toe shoes because everyone knows that’s how you get your toes cut off in mall escalators. But in this instance, I fully appreciated them, because Donatella was now at the rail of the VIP area overlooking the dance floor and her calloused orange toes were exposed and ripe for touching.


I know it is disgusting to touch other people’s feet unless you are in a bus station bathroom, but this was my chance. I glided across the floor to whatever horrible Kylie Minogue remix was playing, reached up as if to do the gay “This is my favorite song ever” cheer, then grazed her second toe (it stuck out further than her big toe) with my hand. And, that, is how you touch a fashion icon -- as far away from her face as humanly possible.

Celebrity Quick Touch - Steven Cojocaru

 

Celebrity Touch Target: Steven Cojocaru

Why: Because I am having a celebrity touching dry spell lately and this C-list television fashion critic just happened to be standing there

Where: Los Angeles International Airport

How: They say that clothes make the man, but in the case of fashion victim… oops I mean critic… Steven Cojocaru, I would argue that hair makes the man… look like a woman. I noticed Meg Ryan standing in the United Airlines Premier Executive line (that would mean she was BEHIND me) boarding a flight to San Francisco. Then, as the fluorescent light caught just the right angle, I noticed that Meg Ryan was actually fashion gadfly Steven Cojocaru. Same stringy, bleached hair, vagina and puffy lips (redundant, sorry), but just a little more feminine than Meg. Now, granted, Cojo, as he likes to be called by housewives at the Kohl’s makeup counter, isn’t truly a celebrity, but I have been celebrity touch-free lately, so we will allow it. In order to touch Flojo, I decided to suddenly decelerate, letting those people who were just going to get pulled out of line anyway for not boarding at the right time, breeze past me. This put my modest caboose on a collision course with the flame-buoyant Today Show correspondent. Thankfully, his hair bags must have deployed because he only gently grazed me, saving me years of therapy if something else would have bumped into my rump. Celebrity-ish Touch secured!