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 is 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 neck… 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 while witnessing 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. Obviously, things were getting bad.
Every turn we took revealed some ridiculous cupcake bakery or pet clothing supplier, but no watering holes. Thirst had made me as cranky as John Galliano at a Long Island Loehmann’s (the clothing store, of course). It had gotten so bad that I actually considered bursting into a nearby playground where I would surely find Jennifer Garner or Liv Tyler playing with one of their children named after a 1940’s soap product, shaking someone until they told me where I could find a drink in this godforsaken neighborhood.
On death’s door, that is when a flame-haired angel sent straight from Celebrity Touching™ heaven descended on us. Julianne Moore had just turned the corner and was now walking towards an unusually sober 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 Seurat (look it up, Academy of Art University drop out) would have spontaneously combusted into flames 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 Julianne had magically materialized, practically collapsing from alcohol dehydration, I spotted The White Horse Tavern. Julianne, the brazen, copper-crowned darling of Hollywood, had led me to salvation. I would live to touch another day. God bless you Julianne. God bless.