Throughout my years and years of celebrity touching, I have gone to some pretty great extremes to place my delicate, well-moisturized skin up against the calloused and blistered epidurous of a person of fame. One such incident happened a few years ago in New York. I would like to fancy you with that tale in my new series “Celebrity Touching Flash Back.”
The year was a year I cant’ remember, because I was really drunk most of that year. I do remember, I had really good hair though that year. I am not exactly sure if the drinking contributed to that or not. Anyway, the year was whenever. The location was Bungalow 8 in New York. Bungalow 8 used to be the hot spot for celebs in the Big Apple. It is where Lindsey Lohan simultaneously started and killed her career, pretty much. It was a favorite of Paris Hilton because the signs on the bathroom didn’t have tough words on them like “Men” or “Ladies.” They had pictures of people: on the men’s room, a crude picture of a man; on the women’s restroom, a crude drawing of a woman with a rather long neck and a short skirt. Paris recognized this image as a reflection into her soul, so that’s why she liked Bungalow 8.
But I degress, this isn’t about Paris (more on that skank ho later). This is about Boy George. You see, after a night of many celebrity touches, I exited the club with several of my New York cohorts, including Brooke and Spice Rack, carefully recounting all the folks I had laid my hands on that night… literally. As we reached the crisp fall air of the city that never sleeps, success enveloping me like a Stevie Nicks shawl, Spice Rack shattered my euphoria when she said “So, did you touch Boy George?” “I am sorry, what did you just say???” “I said, did you touch Boy George?”
What the hell! How did I go an entire night in a club and not touch an icon like Boy George? How on earth did he escape my notice and my touch? He meant so much to me. I had never been beaten up more times in high school than when I listened to “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?”… which apparently many people did, including Miss Deering, the Home Ec teacher.
I leaned against the exterior of Bungalow 8 emotionally spent, crying digital tears (Hint: Crying digital tears is always better than real ones because they don’t make your face look bloated and overly shiny like Renee Zellweger’s… see below). I couldn’t go back in the club because there was a huge line to get back in. I was crestfallen.
Then, out of no where…. much to my joy… who to my wondering eyes, should appear???… A man with a cart full of churros, which were delicious.
Then, out of the corner of my good eye (it is the right one by the way, the other was injured in a fight with a drag queen who sat on my finger and broke it… more on that later)… out of the corner of my eye, I see the top of a bald head going the wrong way through the line of people trying to get in the club… it was him! It was Boy George! But he was on the wrong side of the velvet rope… I couldn’t touch him!
Now, normally, I won’t break any kind of a sweat to touch a celebrity unless it involves fondling Liza Minelli in a steam room. But, I wasn’t about to let this one get away. Not the man who brought us Karma Chameleon… so I took off down the sidewalk after Boy George, who had a rather sizeable lead. About half way down the block, I realized I was running after Boy George. Unfortunately, so did he… so he picked up the pace, looking over his shoulder at the madman with really great hair chasing after him. Thankfully, he had put on a few pounds since he got off the heroin and started hanging out with Rosie O’Donnell, so I closed the gap quickly.
Of course, that’s when I realized that Boy George probably thinks I am coming to attack him. Quick strategy work was needed at this point, which isn’t easy when you are running in Prada slip ins, but I managed to devise a plan. As I came neck-and-neck with him, like a thoroughbred about to overtake a Clydesdale at the Kentucky Derby, my plan came into effect: I acted like I was running past him… gently grazed his arm… turned back and yelled at my friends, “Cmon! We’re going to be late!” And kept running right past him, down the block into the misty darkness.
Celebrity touch secured. No charges filed with the authorities. And that is how I touched Boy George.