Sex and Fame

 I hugged the guy who wrote Puff The Magic Dragon. 

But that was it. It was just a hug. He was a little creepy and gropey about it, but whatever.  I didn’t mind because he’s kinda old and famous. That makes me kind of slutty, I guess.

Famous people get away with so much crap. Sure, they're under the microscope for stupid little things, too. But mostly I think they get a lot of slack cut for them because they've extended their 15 minutes

tic tic tic, Paris.

However, people who only attained only modest levels of celebrity for a short period of time are usually under appreciated and are super thin and pretty.

 A long time ago, I asked two of my heterosexual female friends how much they’d have to be paid to have sex with Cindy Crawford. One friend said $10,000. The other said there was no amount of money that would induce her to go to the other side, even for one night. She’s squeamish about boobs.


 Hell, I’d do it for free if I could tell everyone about it afterward. Best cocktail party story ever. 

I think that friend would now change her mind. One night of awkwardness with Cindy Crawford and her mortgage could be paid off.  There are worse things one could do. And people.


I admit that, growing up, I really wanted to be super famous. But I wasn't confident enough to think I could be famous in my own right. I wanted "by association" fame. I wanted to be Steven Tyler’s girlfriend. 

hotly androgynous rock god.

A long time ago. Before he was gross. 

weirdly gummy and super excited about everything not  rock god.

And even before he got cool after being gross the first time he was gross. I don’t think you could pay me enough to be a wrangler for his unbridled enthusiasm for everything everywhere. Chill, Steve. It’s ok to age.

Even when I did get my 15 minutes, I am well aware of the fact that I was still only famous by my proximity to the really famous one. It was ok. I still got free stuff now and then.


But you know, it never got me any sex.


We were in Providence, playing at some club that was a converted K-Mart or something like that, and after the show, I told our tour manager that I'd had enough of all the cute girls trying to get back stage (there weren't that many, and they weren't the slutty kind, sadly, for the guys in the band). I told him to go and bring back some hot college guys, because dammit that was our demographic and hell if I wasn't going to make the most of my rapidly passing 15 minutes. I had something to prove.


So the guy, the ONE guy he allows back stage is this kid, maybe 18, acne ravaged and kind of sore looking.

 Tour manager says, Ellen, this is "Dave" (read: nameless potential shag), "Dave" this is Ellen. He smiled and said. "So.... what's it like working with Brad?"


I said, "why don't you ask him", and introduced him to Brad right away, saddling my boss with what could have been a regrettable night of non-passion. 


And no, I wouldn't have had sex with him even if he had been interested. Not even for $10,000. No cocktail party is worth that kind of shame.