Brushes with Fame
Friday, December 16th, 2005
Have you had a brush with fame? Has a celebrity of one sort or another unexpectedly entered your sphere like an alien, landing? Maybe you met Sharon Stone in line to meet the Dalai Lama, ran into Jon Stewart at the dressing room of the Gap, or somehow have Mick Jagger’s urine in your freezer. These things happen. Tell us about it in 250 words or less.
At a party on the deck of my flat, I was talking with a Japanese woman who mentioned she was in a band. “Really? Which band?” I asked. “Buffalo Daughter,” she said.
Freaking out that I was talking to Sugar, I impolitely pointed at her and stuttered, “You’re, You’re, You’re the lead guitarist, right?!”. It was then that I smothered her with praise, telling her how much I admired that they didn’t work off the cutes-y, kitsch angle of the typical female Japanese band allowed an audience in the US, but instead focused on rockin’ out.
Having just met a rock star, I wanted to savor this further and asked if I could show her around the next day. She thanked me but declined, telling me she was heading to New York to visit her friends Miho and Sean. “You mean Miho Hatori of Cibo Matto and Sean LENNON!” I exclaimed. She smiled, “Yes.”
I had to make her remember me. But all my lame ass could devise was, “Uhm, have you ever had a Krispy Kreme?” To which she responded, “No.” So I heated one up and asked her what she thought. “It’s really sweet,” she said.
You might call this a Brush by Fame, or a Fame Whiff (as in completely missing the target)–in the late 90s, I had just moved to New York and started working at Jane magazine. Jane Pratt used to have a quasi-famous birthday party bash (she may still for all I know) and, being a lowly copyeditor, I didn’t have the casual access to the gliterati that most of my colleagues did–I’ll admit it: I wanted celebrity friends.
Pratt’s big party was my big chance. I decided I would dress in an eccentric, attention-getting fashion–in this case a traditional Chinese chocolate brown silk suit from Shanghai Tang that my Dad had recently bought me (he bought himself a grey one). The party was held at some small Middle Eastern club/restaurant with colorful canopies; Cameron Diaz and Michael Stipe and Tom Ford and a sprinkling of other celebs were there. But it was just like high school: All the popular kids hanging out together.
Stipe ignored me when I cruised him. Cameron barely turned around when I brushed her with my long silk sleeve at the bar. I did manage to dance *near* Tom Ford, who I thought was cute but didn’t actually recognize. I ended up leaving by midnight: I was shvitzing like crazy underneath all that heavy silk.
The next day one of the fashion editors mentioned that Tom Ford had been at the party and I suddenly realized who I had been dancing near. “Oh…that’s who that was,” I said, “I think he was cruising me.” The editrix replied, “Oh, yeah, he was asking about you.” For a split second I believed her. Then she laughed. And I laughed too. And went back to my desk.
—David Thorpe
Paul Sorvino wants to sculpt me. I’ve always found older men in Hollywood sexy. Alan Alda is by far one of the dreamiest stallions in LaLaLand. I fell hard for him when I started watching re-runs of M*A*S*H in 1999. I was 22.
So it’s no surprise that my other long-time crush is man who has been around the Hollywood scene since, like, forever-ago (anything before 1990, feels, like, forever-ago). Paul Sorvino is a tough guy with a heart of gold—at least that’s how I think of him. Oh, and he wears velour tracksuits. Hot! I know this because I saw him, in the flesh, on New York City’s Upper East Side, and I nearly died.
My friend and I were waiting for a bus to take us to Port Authority when I first saw him. Paul, dressed in his matching velour ensemble, was standing on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette (very Italian, natch) when I first spotted him. My heart was aflutter!
Me: “Natalie, OH-MY-GOD, it’s Paul Sorvino!”
Nat: “Who?”
Me: “Paul Sorvino, hello! He’s in all of the mobster movies, and Romeo and Juliet! You know the one with Leonardo DiCaprio.”
Nat: “Which one is he?”
Me: “He’s looking at us, oh my god, he’s looking at us.”
When Paul’s posse finally arrived—actually a woman and another friend—I could tell they were talking about the two girls starring at him for the last 10 minutes. I was completely mortified. Then, before I could run for the nearest deli, Paul, with pals in tow, walked over and introduced himself.
Most of the conversation is a blur (I feel confident, however, that I made a complete stuttering ass out of myself), except for when he said that I was pretty and would like to sculpt me.
Me?
Yes, me. But, alas, the timing was all wrong because Paul had to jet off to Italy for a film. After a few more minutes of talk, he left me there standing on the corner of East 70-something, dreaming of what could have been had he not: a) been married, b) had a movie to film. Damn!
Yet his kind gesture has always stayed with me. And when I’m feeling insecure or unappreciated, I remind my boyfriend that a certain sexy star wants to sculpt me. —Kathy Ritchie
We were enjoying my friend’s dad’s skybox tickets for the Wizards vs. Celtics game this weekend. Neither team seemed to want to win, and nobody in the stadium seemed to care much about the contest. Everybody was glued to the TV to see the result of the Redskins game.
And then, the door opened. Where there is usually a silhouette and a backlight, there was total darkness. A shadow crouched and emerged from the doorframe; it was something much larger than the door. A smile illuminated the room like a new gibbous. It was a familiar face from the Transylvanian region of Romania.
Gheorghe Muresan!!!
I jumped out of my chair. Whenever Gheorghe used to appear on TV during the mid 90’s, I was transfixed. A man like this makes reality into a fantasy world. He makes mortals experience the life of Lilliputians. And he has always had a sense of humor about it all (think: ESPN commercials, Snickers, agreeing to appear with Billy Crystal in a bad movie).
I told him I’ve been scouring eBay for the past 6 years for one of his jerseys. I asked him to tell the Wizards management to start selling Muresan retro Bullets jerseys. He smiled and laughed and gave me high-five. —Mark Pike
Spudd Webb, if you’re reading this, let’s hang out sometime soon.
When I was 18, I had this fortunate encounter with the Zappa family. Before I knew it, I was hanging out with Diva, who was the youngest and the same age as me. We would hang out everyday—because we got along so well—and it wasn’t uncommon for people to stop her in the middle of a purchase and ask her if she was related the late Frank Zappa.
As many of you know, if you are out and about in LA/Beverly Hills, Studio City/etc enough, you “run into” or see various celebrities around town.
I still won’t forget the time Diva were in a large antique mall in Studio City. We were browsing around, and Diva came rushing over and whispered “Guess who’s behind me!” I went to look, only she stopped me, urging me not to look right away.
I had no clue, so she finally told me: Fiona Apple.
This was back when Fiona was still in the media with her first album. When I finally did get a look at her, I found that I wouldn’t have recognized her anyhow, as she didn’t have her usual makeup on.
The interesting thing to me wasn’t that I saw Fiona Apple, but rather seeing Diva excited to see a celebrity—in my eyes, Diva herself was a celebrity. She and her siblings were featured in magazines, had famous friends, acknowledged by people of the public—things other people would be in awe about.
It put things into perspective for me at a fairly young age. That basically, we’re all human—people have different lives, and different realities, but now when I meet a famous or important individual, I’m just happy to meet another person.
So I’m standing at the counter saying goodbye to my friends Mary and Primo. It is the last day of the season and I’m making my final purchase at their little general store which won’t reopen until spring. I look at the man next to me and it only takes me a half second to realize it is Jim Belushi. I can feel my heart race, my head pound, and beads of sweat start gathering like dark purple clouds before a summer storm. This is ridiculous. I don’t even know Jim Belushi. I can’t even name one movie he’s been in. But I know he is famous and this is always enough for me.
At first I do not acknowledge him. I see that he is with a very pretty young woman. I don’t know where to put my eyes so I stare at their groceries. They have bread ,mustard, relish and two boxes of Tampax. I don’t know why I said it, I don’t know where it came from and I still don’t really know what I meant by it–but out of my mouth came , “Planning on doing a lot of bleeding this weekend”? Luckily for me he’s a generous sort and a comic as well. He quipped back something about alternative usage but I couldn’t exactly hear because my sweat and embarrassment had clogged my neuro -transmitters.
I left mortified . Why couldn’t I have said nice weather we’re having like a normal person. I thought about it a good deal. What is this fame thing about anyway? I know a lot of it has to do with growing up when television was first born. The stars were larger than life and I lived with the dream that Imogene Coca would die and I would be Sid Caesar’s partner and then my life would begin. I prayed that Elaine May and Mike Nichols would discover me at a drugstore fountain and ask me to be part of their team. And once in 1969 at an auction I bid for and won a tennis game with Alan Arkin. I didn’t even play tennis. All I remember is that I bought a new white outfit and tried desperately to lose ten pounds before the match. I had imagined that I would make him laugh so hard with my taut body and infectious wit that he would just stop everything right there on the court and say “we have to go on the road together”. Did I think Jim Belushi would ask me to go on the road with him? I shudder to think I cared.
For the rest of the day I asked everyone I saw how they act in front of famous people. And almost everyone said “it depends on who”. My postmistress said when she met Paul Newman she lost her voice. My friend Priscilla said she disassociates , she backs off. She said she’s not sure if its because she ’s jealous and refuses to give them their due or if she’s respecting their well deserved privacy. My husband whose always been more grounded about things like this said “sure there’s an adrenaline rush –an energy alert kind of thing”.—But no one I know goes as far as I do with remarks that beg to be rewritten.
So next time I saunter up to a counter and a superstar appears I know exactly what I’m going to do; I’m going to take a deep breath, look them straight in the eye and say something meaningful like—-”Cold enough for ya’??”
—Nancy Slonim Aronie
I was stuck in a driveway off Sunset Boulevard, my right-turn light blinking timidly. A naturally cautious driver, I scooted out one inch at a time, watching as car after car flew past. Just when I felt the bleakest, when Los Angeles felt the most cruel, a brand-new bright red sports car came to a full stop, its driver waving me ahead of him and into the lane with a gallant sweep of his hand. It was John Lithgow. Now this might not seem so extraordinary, but consider this: That same week, another skittish driver of my acquaintance was wedged into a rather impossible parking space. After inching forward and back for several agonizing minutes, a solicitous stranger walked up behind her vehicle and began directing her. It was Jon Voight. From these two seemingly unrelated incidents, I first came to know of the mysterious Celebrity Parking Brigade, kind Hollywood do-gooders who repay the loyalty of their fans with help navigating one of America’s most treacherous cities.
When I was 12 years old, I had a wicked crush on the late Michael Landon. When I was 26, and working for CBS in NY, I happened to be alone in an elevator with him; I was so stoked; I had to tell him how I once adored him. He replied, “But now you’re older and wiser.” I said, “No, just older.” When we got to the lobby, he turned to me and said, “Well, goodbye, young lady, I hope your taste improves.” Wow, what a great guy!
The weekend Elvis made his first record in Memphis I was sharing the Memphis hospitality from a cell in their not very pleasant jail. Let out Monday morning without charge, it was all a big mistake, but I would have traded places with him.
Robin Williams looked down my dress.
In the mid-’80s and early ’90s, I worked as a journeyman vocalist doing gigs from musical theater, to cabaret, corporate and family parties, and nightclubs. One of the wildest was being in the chorus at “Rick & Ruby’s Senior Prom,” an improvisational parody of high school in the ’50s.
Another player and I were assigned to go out and buy condoms to distribute to prom-goers as party favors. The show was at the Great American Music Hall, in San Francisco’s Tenderloin district, home of sleazy adult video stores. It was my first and only visit to a store like that.
After the prom, the players gathered for a cast photo. I was placed front row center, and Robin Williams was to my right. I was wearing a low-cut push-up prom dress with a full skirt, and Robin was riffing on his appreciation of it.
Then the photographer got down to business. He asked the first row to crouch so the people behind us could be seen in the photo. I leaned forward, hands on thighs. My dress pushed away from my chest and my cleavage, such as it is, became artificially enhanced by the posture. Robin unabashedly enjoyed the view and the photographer had to remind him to look at the camera.
I haven’t had any contact with him since, and I don’t think he’d recognize me if we saw each other again. Not unless I was wearing a low-cut prom dress. —Suzanne Gold
I was in a bar in New York about six years ago with several other friends who had all traveled with me from San Francisco. We were sending off a buddy of ours who had decided to join the Peace Corps and as a result were terribly drunk as we had been bar hopping for several hours all over town.
One of the gang spotted Jeneane Garofalo in the corner quietly chatting with a friend. My intention, though drunken and sad, was merely to say hello and tell her that I liked her work etc.etc.
After several warnings from friends I strolled across the bar and stood next to Jeneane and her friend waiting to be noticed.
A long day passed. It was obvious that I was trying to say hello (and drunk) but she did not look over.
She knew that I ws there but she and her friend did their best to play the “my god why can’t I go out and be normal without some slob coming over to bother me” game, a game which I am sure she is a frequent participant.
After what seemed many seasons she began to grow impatient. I did not interrupt their conversation but merely waited patiently to be noticed for my obvious charm.
But even a drunk fool like myself can feel shame and it had finally set in as she gave up and turned her head in my direction.
“Thank you” was all I said and I turned around and returned to al my drunken, laughing friends.
I was in Thailand when I got a frantic email from my friend, a photographer I had met on a press junket a few years ago, about signing a release form. She said she didn’t think I had ever signed it for photos she took of me floating in the Dead Sea off the coast of Jordan. Since she was in such a panic about it, I signed. Asked her, What’s this for? Never heard back, didn’t follow up. I was on vacation, after all.
Two months later, I’m flipping through Entertainment Weekly, which had just redesigned its look, thinking, I can’t find anything in this magazine anymore, where’s the Hot List?, when I turn the page and nearly choke. Then laugh.
There I am! IN A VISA AD. I’m in a hat and shades and a bikini (you can’t see much, though, because of the water). I immediately call/text three people—all ex-coworkers who still work at Time Inc. and will have picked up EW like everyone else I work with does on Fridays—and am mildly flipping out, alone in my apartment. When I show my sister later, she says, “Yeah, that sort of looks like you.” I say, “That is me, sister!”
The ad is also very funny to me because I think I’m supposed to represent the good life, but: 1) I’m wearing a freebie hat; 2) the shades are fake Oakleys that actually read “Oakey”; and 3) the bikini is old and I got it from Old Navy. As the weeks pass, I find that I’m in nearly every Time, Inc. magazine (Real Simple, In Style, Cooking Light) but I’m so incognito I haven’t had calls or emails from long-ago friends. I figure there are worse things the photo could’ve been used for. Like: the before picture of a makeover. And I have thought of a good way to shut people up who are appalled that I’m not getting paid (I signed a release form! That’s how it works!): “Cost of appearing in a national ad in a bikini: priceless.”
The Magic Castle, atop a hillside overlooking Hollywood is a mecca for professional and amateur magicians, and those guests – it’s members only – who are fascinated by the slight of hand – the how to they do it? This is especially true in the small rooms where it’s harder to disguise the trick so I consider these practitioners even more skilled than David Copperfield with his pyrotechnics and backstage crew who make him look good. Here at the Magic Castle, everything is right out in front.
And that is where I spoke to Cary Grant. He was standing on line right in front of me – he wasn’t playing the “I am a celebrity card” – get me a front row seat. He stood politely chatting in a low, but unmistakable voice to his wife, a beautiful dark haired woman whom I recognized as his fourth wife, Dyan Cannon’s replacement. He looked debonair, impeccably dressed, and I was close enough to catch a whiff of some expensive French after- shave cologne – nothing like Calvin Klein’s Obsession, something much more exotic and elegant. I watched him for a few minutes and then made my move, “Mr. Grant, I didn’t know that you liked magic.” He looked at me and with a subtle grin answered, “Well, that’s what I am known for, isn’t it?” Changing from Archibald Alexander Leach, into a bona fide film star is real Hollywood magic – far more impressive than any card trick or disappearing act with top hats and scarves, boxes or smoke. —Loren Stephens
I lived in Duluth, MN for a while in the late 90’s and used to go to this one bar on an area near the bridge that separated the city and the “island” on Lake Superiour, can’t remember any names now but I was in there and I saw Jack Nicholson!! He was there with his agent and some studio guys scouting for a movie (the one with Diane Keaton - can’t remember the name again). I bought him a drink - Jack and Coke of course, told him he was my favorite actor and he said thanks shook my hand and we went on about our business. Cool.
JESSICA BIEL (TALKING ANAL WITH…)
A couple of years ago, after an improv class at the Upright Citizens Brigade, some of my fellow improvisors and I went to a nearby watering hole for grub and imbibements. One of my friends was talking about how his wife’s friend Jessica was in town auditioning for some Broadway play and she would be stopping by. When she came in to meet us, imagine my surprise when it was none other than Jessica BIEL. Being a closeted fan of “7th Heaven,” I couldn’t help but be totally star-struck when she sat at our table right across from me. Now, this was a couple of years ago, right before she “exploded” as a veritable IT girl for the post-teen set, so she caused no scene in this Chelsea bar, but I couldn’t believe she was right in front of me, just as beautiful and built as she is in photos. So then, we start chatting: about her audition, about how she thinks I would make a great Maureen in “Rent,” about brazilian bikini waxes, and “tossing the salad.” I talking about anal play with Jessica Biel! I don’t remember how the night ended, but it was a great time and I am proud to report that Jessica Biel is a super sweet, quality individual.
Riding the Rails with Betty
A few years before they hit the bigtime singing the theme to The L Word and getting their own off-Broadway show, the ladies of Betty were musicians playing clubs and touring. I’d been to a few shows and enjoyed their music a lot. One winter night during the holiday season, I was in a nearly empty train car with my family on our way to Brooklyn, when I saw them. I looked over a couple of times just to make sure since I’d only seen them onstage and not up close. But it was really them and I walked up, offering cookies. They accepted, we chatted and I showered them with compliments before asking them if they would like to donate something to my law school’s auction that I was always shilling for. They said they would, but didn’t. But I’d still share cookies with them if I saw them again on the train.
My Name Is Earl at the Chelsea Hotel
I was coming into the hotel the other day, when who should I run into checking in at the front desk but that Earl guy from “My Name is Earl.” I nodded to him, and then I stood there waiting for the elevator, but I noticed that that Earl guy kept staring at me. What, is he waiting for me to acknowledge him, I wondered, to ask, “Hey, aren’t you that Earl guy?” Maybe even ask for his autograph or something? Well, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. The elevator came, and, with Earl still staring at me, I got on and went up. It wasn’t until I got to about the third floor that I realized, hey, I know why he was staring at me: it’s because I’m carrying this five-foot-tall painting that I just found in the trash. I’m sure he was thinking, wow, there’s one of those crazy Chelsea artists I’ve been hearing so much about; the bohemian weirdness is starting already.
When I got to the eight floor I told a bohemina girl about my recent star sighting, but she seemed more interested in the painting. —Ed Hamilton
As a huge ML fan myself, was he handsome in real life? Also, was he short, as I have read he was about 5′9″ ? Enjoyed reading your story.
David-
How did you get a job at Jane magazine?
Thanks,
Nina
“his wife’s friend Jessica”
Is she married?
I was sitting in a piano bar a week ago, listening to standards being sung by old gay men and women, when I suddenly realized I was sitting having drinks with Gedde Watanabe, of Long Duck Dong fame…now, here’s the thing…I’ve known Gedde for years, have had drinks with him before…But it just suddenly occured to me that I was actually sitting, chit chatting and singing along with one of my favorite people from the 80s…If my classates in high school had know that this was the path my life would take, I would have been much more popular.
Fame Fame What’s My Name
By Mikel K
Mick Jagger never pissed in my refrigerator, but I took a shower with Arnold Schwarzenegger in 1981 on Venice Beach. I almost
shot a handgun with Sylvester Stallone, in Hollywood, the same year, but a bad drinking problem got me dismissed from that scene.
Angela Bowie cooked me breakfast, once. I got in a fist fight with the lead singer of A Flock of Seagulls. Boy George, basically, told me to fuck off, when I asked him about his heroin problem. I threw a drink in the face of the tour manager of the band, Suicidal Tendencies, in my capacity as a music writer at the time.
I talked to Joey Ramone, in person, and on the phone. I talked to Lloyd Cole on the phone. I talked to Tiny Tim, in person, for two and a half hours. Emilio Estevez shot me a dirty look when I asked him a simple, polite question. Siouxsie, of the Banshees, shot me a dirty look, when I asked her how to spell her name so I could turn over to her a book of my poems.
I almost met David Carradine. He was leaving the bar in Malibu, as I was entering it. Fergie, of the Black Eyed Peas, supposedly, tried to bum a cigarette off of me, before one of her shows. I smoked pot with Marianne Faithfull’s band, until Marianne found me, and had me thrown off the bus. I’ve handed poems of mine to a sweaty Henry Rollins, after an incredible Black Flag show. He was polite, despite my imposition. I met Lars of Rancid. What a gentleman. Who says punk rockers are rude? Perry Farrell could have had me fired from a job, but instead he was a gentleman, offering me a smile, instead of my walking papers, when I imposed on his privacy one Lollapalooza day.
I ran into Ruben Studdard in a fast food court in the CNN Center in Atlanta. I was eating, he was just passing through. He signed a napkin that I framed and gave to my 11 year old daughter, who loves the man.
I think I’ve got more, but I also think that my 250 words must be up.
The most famous people I’ve ever met are my family. You have never heard of them, but they are fabulous to me!!
http://www.myspace.com/mikelkpoet for more up to the date news…
and a 1300 plus version of these my fifteen minutes will never be up tale.
Did Mike like the idea when u told him how you adore him? Did he smile??
Being alone with him in the elavator didnt inspire you to hug him or kiss him, did it? lol
pls answer this!!!!!!
thanx
I’ve had several brushes with fame in my life. Sat at a table and got bombed with Robin Williams; met the Castelli’s (of Art World fame); was was an assistant to Ralph Gibson, Photographer; Met Andy Warholl; was cut from a scene in a Woody Allen movie as an extra, was a drummer in a band that had an “almost one hit wonder-#40 on the Billboard charts, dated a couple of movie & TV celebrities and more; almost got invited to the Playboy Mansion ; but if you want further details of brushes with fame you’ll have to read my book, Guy Talk, Girl Talk by Sal Marino . It’s available at http://www.salmarinoauthor.com