Glitterati in the Mist

Glitterati in the Mist

 

This story is the stuff of legend among my peers. They’ve heard it many times and I hate to repeat it but also feel it belongs in the annals of history as one of my more humiliating moments.

A friend of mine, who is clearly better connect than I am,  was able to get us into the Elton John post-Oscar party one year. Turns out there is also a party within a party for the select few who are closest to him. We actually had to be on TWO lists held by snotty people with clipboards.

I had not really been out of the house much over the two years or so before this event as I had been held hostage by small twin boys and had experienced something akin to Stockholm syndrome. So, my social skills were lacking unless you needed your diaper changed or some barf cleaned up. These skills had been perfected back in college and came in handy now that I had these two terrorists in my life.

When we arrived we had to walk the paparazzi plank past no less than 50 cameras with the longest lenses I’ve ever seen. Even with all the primping, exfoliating and waxing (twice) I did, not a flashbulb went off. In fact, the disappointment on their faces was just awkward. I’d be paying with ingrown hairs for weeks, you bastards.

We had to be very careful when roaming amongst these special colorful animals. We had to assume the somewhat bored vestige of our fellow partygoers. One spark of giddy recognition and we’d be left to wander the unfriendly night of West Hollywood. You must philosophically squat amongst them, mimicking their actions like Dian Fossey in an evening gown.

Once inside, I was introduced to Sir Elton and was very graciously hugged and kissed… on the mouth. This took me aback, as you may expect. I chalked it up to being gay and European. I find both do things with more panache.

Being surrounded by so many famous people is too much for the normal person to bear, let alone me. I was profoundly uncomfortable and did what any self-respecting human would do – I got good and liquored up. My blood alcohol level and 4-inch heels were a lethal combination. Keep in mind that most of these people are either on their way to rehab or have just gotten out so the sight of me swaying in the wind on my stilts may have made them a bit skittish.

Like all really great ideas when one is tanked, I decided I needed to let Sir know exactly how much I loved him when I was in Junior High and what Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy meant to me. I had been sitting on a low chair just a few feet from him and as I went to get up my dress got caught under one of my heels. This sent me tumbling directly toward Sir and, to break my fall I grabbed for the nearest thing, which happened to be his orange-colored head. A beefy hand caught me a mere centimeter before I would have tumbled fully into Sir’s lap. Sir squealed and gave me a look of such horror you’d think I was bathed in blood. He was promptly herded back to his pack by his wranglers.

Suddenly there was a buzz in the crowd. The herd began to get skittish again. I noticed a very small man in a very bright red suit. An alpha had just arrived. I can’t type his name, it was formerly one thing but now is a symbol that my computer keyboard cannot duplicate…though an elaborate calligraphy set might. He took up residence in a corner in classic defensive position so he could see his enemies approach.

Luckily, his entrance had taken any attention away from me and the intervention I’m sure they were all planning. So much for blending in and studying these creatures in their habitat. I found my colleagues and regrouped.

Now that my cover had been blown, we left and went back to the real world where I had an appropriately undignified end to the evening as I spent it on the soothingly cool tile floor of my friend’s bathroom.

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