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!