I’d make a lousy starfucker. Over the years, I’ve encountered a variety of celebs from the A, B, and C-lists, and most of the time my chain of thought has gone something like, “Did Jonno say he wanted a bourbon and soda or a boubon and water hey isn’t that Sylvia Miles doing coke off Leslie Uggams’ right breast oh look someone dropped a nickel.” Either that, or I’ve been so preoccupied/drunk that I’ve missed seeing stars altogether–like when Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett walked hand-in-hand right by me on Royal Street and my then-boyfriend Martin jabbed me so hard with his elbow that I nearly lost a rib (great for corsetry, bad for me).
Last night, as I came face-to-face with Jude Law and Sean Penn–who’d come to see our hothothot burlesque show–the same thing happened: “Where the hell did I put those extra wristbands did Dawn give me her comp list wow Jude Law is much taller and thinner than I would have imagined oh look someone dropped a quarter.”
For years, I’ve harbored a secret hope that Liz Smith would suddenly appear at my door and carry me off to be her protege. It’s just as well she hasn’t though, because I clearly don’t have the stuff.
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