Starting with our daily dose of Jennifer Garner:
OK. Moving on. (Picture stolen from Tony Pierce’s website, the most Andy Kaufman-esque site I’ve come across, and I mean that in a good way.)
Given the fact that I apparently test well in the Tiger Beat demographic, perchance I should not be plastering pictures of Ms. Garner so dressed. Oh well. Guess this is me pulling a David Cassidy Rolling Stone cover job.
The idea of people talking about me behind my back irks me. Firstly, if they’re talking smack, I feel like a dupe. If they’re showering me with praise, hell, I wanna be there. Show your love here or here. It’s like Hanson said, “Where’s the love?” (Teen People ed. note: nice reference!)
The whole idea of any number of people discussing me, forwarding my posts as forwarded email, or any other number of the disseminations I have heretofore been unaware of is both gratifying and terrifying. What if I have stalkers? What if they’ll come as a lynch mob if I don’t post enough good material?
I called up my good friend Mariah Carey last night, distraught. I was on my fourth martini, and she was mainlining Jack Daniels.
“I saw Tommy Lee talk about it on ‘Behind the Music’, it sh-sounded like fun. I need to unwind, doll, Joe Millionaire's been over here all day cleaning my plumbing, if you know what I mean, S-s-schmoopie.” she slurred.
I plopped down on the couch, martini in one hand, Ben+Jerry’s “Phish Food” in the other, clad in my favorite smoking jacket and pink bunny slippers. “M.C.,” I said (she loves being called by her initials), “How did you deal with the fact that, at any given time, thousands and thousands of people could be talking about something you did? How did you cope with all of it? You know, besides the utter mental breakdown. And damnit, don't call me Schmoopie, you know I hate that.”
At this point, however, all I could hear on the other end was her assistant shrieking and calling for 911….something about “she’s not breathing”. Typical MC. I help her out of the Carson Daly ice cream fiasco, and in my hour of need, she’s getting her stomach pumped. I didn’t even get a chance to get the tube top I lent her back.
I then went to call Winona on my private line, but it turns out she stole the phone when she broke in a few months ago.
Four pints of Ben+Jerry’s later, I was watching Mandy Moore in “A Walk to Remember” and crying like a little girl. Then, a knock came on my door. Bleary eyed, hanky in hand, I went to the door.
A blonde guy was staring at the door.
“Hey, I’m Paul Walker.”
I was befuddled.
“Who?”
“You know, the James Spader-type guy from ‘She’s All That’ and “That Guy Who’s Not Vin Diesel” in ‘The Fast and the Furious’.”
“Oh yea,” I said. “What in the hell are you doing in my apartment?”
“Well, we’re making a sequel to the “Fast and the Furious” and the studio’s got me doing door-to-door pushes since Vin Diesel isn’t in the sequel.”
“Wait a sec, you were in ‘She’s All That’?” I queried, the alcoholic haze starting to lighten as raw rage pumped through my veins.
“Yea, but I’m here to talk about my new movie, ‘2 Fast 2 Furious’?”
“Oh, you did NOT just call the movie that. Do you think you're Prince or something? You have to be lying, you Aryan bastard.”
“Nope! It’s street! It’s urban! Just like me!”
And I kicked him in the groin and pushed him down the stairs. I went to bed finally feeling OK. Just as famous as I may ever get, I will never have to worry about being Paul Walker. (Seriously, a studio actually said, “It’s OK that we don’t have Vine Diesel, I bet this move made $140 million based on the drawing power of Paul Walker.” Jeez.)
MC called me this morning to apologize for the “episode” last night. We’re hitting Spago’s this weekend. The local court just a few minutes ago ordered Winona to return the “Winona Phone”. All in all, things are looking up.