My dad called me last night:
Dad: “Hi, honey, I’m at George Soros’ house, and we’re looking at your My Space profile.”
Me: "Uh …. okaaaaaay."
Dad: “Do you have your middle finger up in that picture?” (Laughs)
[Sounds of world’s most famous billionaire typing in the background. Suddenly I am really glad that I changed my tagline; it used to read “More Pussy, Less Bush”.]
In my life to date, my encounters with celebrities have only been completely humiliating. I met Malcom McDowell with the word “STACKED” written across the tops of my boobs (don’t ask). Dave Pirner, of Soul Asylum, went to my prom, but promptly fled when my date requested “Runaway Train”. I tripped over Larry Flynt’s wheelchair at a Texas Observer function. My friend and I, as children, once threw marbles at Joe Cocker. He was not pleased.
Oh, and I shouldn’t forget the time that I was given the task of escorting Bebe Neuwirth into a film screening at the American Museum of Natural History, and all I could think of saying was that I was terrified that the giant whale would fall and crush me. To her credit, she nodded politely.
And now George Soros knows that I list my hero as “Darryl Hannah in Steel Magnolias”. Sigh.