Fame & night Bruce Willis & ruled the red carpet (from '14)

(1,022 words)

I guess the idea came to me at about the Bridgeport exit of I-79 South, about 40 miles south of the Pennsylvania/West Virginia border.

I’d been trying to think of a way to conclude my speech to 250 WVU 4-H students so the film clip would make it appear I’d just given the greatest speech ever, something I knew I was incapable of doing on merit.

This was the biggest crowd I’d ever addressed and they were college students, a very demanding demographic in terms of entertainment. And I’m not yet a great public speaker.

So how could I get them to react the way I wanted?

I asked them nicely.

I did my usual conclusion and received a warm ovation.  But in mid-applause I held up my hand to silence the crowd and said, “I now want to ask you a favor. I’m taping this for promotional purposes. I want to film the greatest ending ever. So I’m going to do the last 30 seconds all over again and this time I want you to go out of your minds. I want you to pretend that I’m Oprah and I just promised you each a brand new car. So here goes …”

Here’s the clip.

Check it out. It’s pandemonium. And then I really ham it up. I bow, blow kisses to the audience and then take off to high five half the crowd. The camera loses me for about 20 seconds which will allow me to enjoy telling the lie that I went for a jiffy little crowd surf.

I swear, Oprah herself would be envious.

So would Bruce Willis.

I thought of him after I saw the clip because it was with him I’d previously felt such a surge of mass adulation.

It was June 1998, back when I was still doing lots of stuff with National Enquirer. My editor called and asked if I could scoot down to Baltimore where Planet Hollywood was opening a short-lived restaurant on the gorgeous Inner Harbor.

“We snagged an invitation to the opening party and we want you to go and just see if Bruce Willis does any misbehaving.”

I did very little celebrity reporting for them, sticking mostly to oddball features. But every once in a while they’d need me to eyeball a celebrity and I was happy to oblige.

That’s what happened in Baltimore. Hollywood insiders often play ball with the Enquirer for cash or favors.

I’m guessing what happened was some low-level staffer who had access to the guest list called the Enquirer and said I’ll sneak one of your guys in for maybe $500 or maybe $1,000. The Enquirer never flinched on lavishing bucks that might lead to story tips.

Besides Willis, whose band was playing, guests included Tara Reid, Shannon Dougherty, one or two of the godforsaken non-Alec Baldwin brothers.

And me.

The party was really a bit of a bore. What I remember most was when Willis was performing with his crappy little vanity band, he kept motioning for the girls in the audience — there were about 5,000 people there — to reveal their breasts. He did it nearly every tune from the five-song set.

If any did, I missed ‘em.

I suspect most of them refused because he was married to Demi Moore at the time and we all understood how important marriage was to a couple like Bruce and Demi and none of us wanted to see this devout family man subjected to any carnal temptation.

But what I’ll never forget was it somehow became my first — and probably only — experience on the red carpet.

I took my party invitation to the make-shift HQ and was told my invite said I was to go in through the front door. That meant the red carpet.

I said, no, there’s some mistake. I’m not a celebrity. I’m not even a Baldwin cousin.

“No, this is a VIP invitation. You go down the red carpet.”

And so I did. It was such an odd sensation. I was all by myself. There were thousands of people flanking the walk, each of them wondering who the hell I was, and me walking and waving like I’d seen all the A-listers do at the Academy Awards.

I was feeling the love people bestow on celebrities. The men were admiring and the girls were all smiling and come-on friendly. 

I understood I could have probably with very little effort snagged one of the more wanton young lovelies and taken her into the party with me. I’d have given her what would be one of her life’s greatest thrills — maybe two or three hours before giving her one if its most momentous disappointments.

What was odd was how comfortable I became as my 500-foot stroll continued.

As they were celebrating me, an unknown stranger, I was becoming before their eyes the celebrity they thought I must be.

Who knows what kind of egomaniac I’d have become if that Baltimore red carpet was a mile long?

As I approached the doors of the restaurant that would unceremoniously close within 39 months, I noticed a swag table loaded with special edition Planet Hollywood shirts for me and the celebrity guests. The sight led me to an impulsive act.

I ran over and grabbed an armful of shirts, raced back to the ropes, and started throwing them into the adoring crowds.

They went crazy! They were getting free shit from someone who might or might not be a celebrity!

I did it two more times before one of the handlers grabbed me by the arm and led me inside. I’d probably given away 25 shirts.

The recipients were ecstatic.

I’ll bet some of them said, “I don’t who the hell that guy is, but I’ll bet one day he’s going to be famous and then I can find out his name and always brag about the night he gave me a free t-shirt.”

I hope they still have that shirt.

Because I am famous. At least to 250 WVU students.

Oprah would be proud.

Related . . .

The coolest I’ve ever been

Remember Elvis, again

Long live National Enquirer!

Hollywood hoo-hah, “The Butler,” and me

My night with Julia Roberts

Fame & the night Bruce Willis & I owned the red carpet

(1,022 words)

I guess the idea came to me at about the Bridgeport exit of I-79 South, about 40 miles south of the Pennsylvania/West Virginia border.

I’d been trying to think of a way to conclude my speech to 250 WVU 4-H students so the film clip would make it appear I’d just given the greatest speech ever, something I knew I was incapable of doing on merit.

This was the biggest crowd I’d ever addressed and they were college students, a very demanding demographic in terms of entertainment. And I’m not yet a great public speaker.

So how did I get them to react the way I wanted?

I asked them nicely.

I did my usual conclusion and received a warm ovation.  But in mid-applause I held up my hand to silence the crowd and said, “I now want to ask you a favor. I’m taping this for promotional purposes. I want to film the greatest ending ever. So I’m going to do the last 30 seconds all over again and this time I want you to go out of your minds. I want you to pretend that I’m Oprah and I just promised you each a brand new car. So here goes …”

Here’s the clip.

Check it out. It’s pandemonium. And then I really ham it up. I bow, blow kisses to the audience and then take off to high five half the crowd. The camera loses me for about 20 seconds which will allow me to enjoy telling the lie that I went for a jiffy little crowd surf.

I swear, Oprah herself would be envious.

So would Bruce Willis.

I thought of him after I saw the clip because it was with him I’d previously felt such a surge of mass adulation.

It was June 1998, back when I was still doing lots of stuff with National Enquirer. My editor called and asked if I could scoot down to Baltimore where Planet Hollywood was opening a short-lived restaurant on the gorgeous Inner Harbor.

“We snagged an invitation to the opening party and we want you to go and just see if Bruce Willis does any misbehaving.”

I did very little celebrity reporting for them, sticking mostly to oddball features. But every once in a while they’d need me to eyeball a celebrity and I was happy to oblige.

That’s what happened in Baltimore. Hollywood insiders often play ball with the Enquirer for cash or favors.

I’m guessing what happened was some low-level staffer who had access to the guest list called the Enquirer and said I’ll sneak one of your guys in for maybe $500 or maybe $1,000. The Enquirer never flinched on lavishing bucks that might lead to story tips.

Besides Willis, whose band was playing, guests included Tara Reid, Shannon Dougherty, one or two of the godforsaken non-Alec Baldwin brothers.

And me.

The party was really a bit of a bore. What I remember most was when Willis was performing with his crappy little vanity band, he kept motioning for the girls in the audience — there were about 5,000 people there — to reveal their breasts. He did it nearly every tune from the five-song set.

If any did, I missed ‘em.

I suspect most of them refused because he was married to Demi Moore at the time and we all understood how important marriage was to a couple like Bruce and Demi and none of us wanted to see this devout family man subjected to any carnal temptation.

But what I’ll never forget was it somehow became my first — and probably only — experience on the red carpet.

I took my party invitation to the make-shift HQ and was told my invite said I was to go in through the front door. That meant the red carpet.

I said, no, there’s some mistake. I’m not a celebrity. I’m not even a Baldwin cousin.

“No, this is a VIP invitation. You go down the red carpet.”

And so I did. It was such an odd sensation. I was all by myself. There were thousands of people flanking the walk, each of them wondering who the hell I was, and me walking and waving like I’d seen all the A-listers do at the Academy Awards.

I was feeling the love people bestow on celebrities. The men were admiring and the girls were all smiling and come-on friendly. 

I understood I could have probably with very little effort snagged one of the more wanton young lovelies and taken her into the party with me. I’d have given her what would be one of her life’s greatest thrills — maybe two or three hours before giving her one if its most momentous disappointments.

What was odd was how comfortable I became as my 500-foot stroll continued.

As they were celebrating me, an unknown stranger, I was becoming before their eyes the celebrity they thought I must be.

Who knows what kind of egomaniac I’d have become if that Baltimore red carpet was a mile long?

As I approached the doors of the restaurant that would unceremoniously close within 39 months, I noticed a swag table loaded with special edition Planet Hollywood shirts for me and the celebrity guests. The sight led me to an impulsive act.

I ran over and grabbed an armful of shirts, raced back to the ropes, and started throwing them into the adoring crowds.

They went crazy! They were getting free shit from someone who might or might not be a celebrity!

I did it two more times before one of the handlers grabbed me by the arm and led me inside. I’d probably given away 25 shirts.

The recipients were ecstatic.

I’ll bet some of them said, “I don’t who the hell that guy is, but I’ll bet one day he’s going to be famous and then I can find out his name and always brag about the night he gave me a free t-shirt.”

I hope they still have that shirt.

Because I am famous. At least to 250 WVU students.

Oprah would be proud.

Related . . .

The coolest I’ve ever been

Remember Elvis, again

Long live National Enquirer!

Hollywood hoo-hah, “The Butler,” and me

My night with Julia Roberts

Enough with thanks, let's get back to bitching!

I’ve spent the last four days immersed in the bosom of my family and expressing heartfelt gratitude for all that makes life so rich.

Man, am I thankful that’s finally over.

I truly am thankful for all life’s gifts.

But I’d be untrue to myself if I spent more than 48 hours expressing earnest thanks. The soul-supple yin of gratitude needs its bitter yang or it’ll die from diabetic shock.

I read the newly single Demi Moore tweeted what a pity it is that we have just one day out of 365 to be thankful. Why not, she wondered, be thankful 365 days a year?

Well, because I live a world where I’m reminded Demi Moore has access to a Twitter account for starters.

If they made a sunscreen to ward off life’s annoyances it would have to be about SPF 995.

So here’s a little list of stuff I’ve needed to get off my chest when saying so out loud would have struck a disharmonious note.

Better make sure the coffee’s warm. This could take a while.

• NFL officiating: What they need to do is get rid of the instant replay and all but two of the officials, one for each side of the ball. Then ask the players to play under the honor system. If a player feels he was too aggressive, he should raise his hand and assess himself a 15-yard penalty.

• The Euro: Either rise or fall, but stop all the waffling. If you’re going to collapse and drag the world into an apocalyptic depression, let’s just get on with it.

• Our dog: His frequent yips still make me feel someone’s just attached the 400-watt defibrillator paddles to my chest and is about to yell, “Clear!” Snickers is 18-months old and still peeing on the carpet. I’d say, “Look, if that dog pees on the carpet one more time, it’s either me or him,” but I know I’d be annoyed watching the dog and the girls enjoy Christmas morning with me on the cold side of the frosty window.

• I’m annoyed honesty in prayer is frowned upon. Everyone freezes at the Thanksgiving dinner table when I ask, “All right, who wants to say the prayer?” Of course, no one does and it’s left to me. So I mumble some Sunday School sort of prayer about being thankful for the food, the family, the need to help the lonely and less fortunate, blah, blah, blah, when I’d like to at least mention, “And thank you, Lord, for the men and women who make this Tennessee sipping whiskey that’ll help me get through another two hours of sitting here at this table with my father-in-law.”

• The march of time annoys me. I don’t know whether it’s the pending holiday involving important people making naughty/nice lists, but my darling daughters are loving Daddy these days. They out of no where will pop up onto my lap for cuddling and tickle time. Can’t they stay 11 and 5 until at least the year 2017?

• The “Some Girls” re-release. The 1978 Stones classic is one of my favorites. Play it all the time. Now, they’ve re-released it with premium pricing and 10 extra songs. I heard one of the vault songs, “No Spare Parts” and was blown away. I have to have it. But do I need to spend $14.99 on songs I already have? And it annoys me when I have to stoop to cherry-picking selected cuts.

• Dull things annoy me. It’s wood chopping season and my trusty Stihl MS 270 needs new choppers. It’s tedious sawing wood with a machine inefficient for the task. Still, I’d rather spend two hours in the woods with a dull chainsaw than 10 minutes alone with a dull bartender.

• My Twitter account: The thing, I think, sparkles with wit. Yet, bone-headed moron Ashton Kutcher’s account has 8,551,759 followers and mine has a measly 106. What does a guy have to do to get that kind of following? Oh? Really? Okay. I’ll pass.

• My inability to start a movement. I have the perfect solution to the really crabby mood the nation’s in right now: Everyone take the afternoon off and let’s all go see the new Muppet movie! Saw it yesterday with the family. It’s wonderful! And just why are there so many songs about rainbows?

• Black Friday violence on principle annoys the hell out of me, but I’d rather see bargain shoppers getting pepper sprayed than sidewalk-occupying philosophy majors.

• Facebook’s certainly annoying. I read recently Mark Zuckerberg was barnstorming the country to hire 700 new Facebook employees. If he was really smart, he’d fire 700 employees. The more Facebook improves the worse it gets. Nothing can change that trajectory.

• I annoy myself. Because, God help me, I still care what happens with those kids, Demi and Ashton. The sentimental old romantic in me hopes Demi reunites with Bruce but, this being Hollywood, I won’t be disappointed if Bruce and Ashton wind up together -- at least until Rumer’s old enough to date Ashton without it all looking so unseemly.

Ashton Kutcher & The Twitter Revolution

After months of soul-searching, I’ve decided I’ll not Twitter until my country is imperiled by enemies within and in dire need of revolution.

I’ll not utilize the popular service until some tyrant bent on imposing his or her extreme views on the country I treasure emerges.

Because I believe Twitter is becoming something sacred. I don’t wish to desecrate it with my 140-character posts about my trips to the grocery store and the suspense over whether I chose paper or plastic. (I chose neither. I always bring my own canvas).

The pace of American and internationally historic events over the past eight months has been breathtaking.

Here in America, we’ve elected our first black president, seen our economy tumble and Uncle Sam go into the car business. And don’t get me started on the travails of “Jon & Kate Plus 8.”

But nothing to me is so staggering as the nascent revolution in Iran. I never thought in my lifetime I’d see indigenous uprisings on the streets of Tehran over something so all-American as angry complaints about the fairness of elections.

I think the depth and breadth of these uprisings has caught even the experts by surprise. This isn’t just restless students and idealogues. It’s doctors, welders, and even renegade clerics.

And, God bless ‘em, it’s been lots and lots of women. To me, that’s huge. Real change in the Middle East will never happen until the women are unshackled and stripped of their burqas -- and I mean that symbolically for starters.

We know this, in part, because things like Twitter are usurping the role of the media that’s been muzzled or booted out of the country.

To me, Twitter has always seemed like the ultimate in media vanity -- and that’s coming from a guy with the audacity to blog about things like his mismatched sox.

And who is the face of Twitter in America? Fittingly for something so frivolous, it is the talentless lunkhead Ashton Kutcher.

Scroll the career credits of everyone residing in the whack- job Kutcher-Bruce Willis-Demi Moore compound and I can think of just one starring vehicle of theirs out of hundreds that I’d ever watch again (It’s Willis’s “The Sixth Sense” and maybe the only reason I like it is because Willis spends the entire movie with a bullet hole in him).

Yet the trio has enough of a vapid fan base that producers continue to pay them millions to “entertain.” And, clearly, it’s working for Kutcher.

In a high profile race, Kutcher recently beat CNN to become the first Twitter poster to reach one million subscribers. Who these people are that want to hear Kutcher’s wisdoms in 140 characters or fewer, I cannot fathom. But I’ll bet 98 percent of them failed to muster the intellectual stamina necessary to read the second paragraph of the reviews that said “Land of the Lost” was an historic stinker.

Kutcher’s tweets, I’m told, relate the minutia of his fabulous Hollywood life down to the near minute. I don’t know which would be more boring: reading his tweets or being Demi Moore forced by her own poor decisions to spend most of her day watching him type them.

That’s the pretty boy face of Twitter in America.

Contrast that with the woman who is destined to become the face of what’s already being called the Twitter Revolution.

She is Neda Agha-Soltan.

The brutal and deadly efforts to suppress the news about her are being overwhelmed by a technology that until last week I deemed too silly to consider.

No more.

The use of Twitter in a revolution is a majestic sort of democracy that will resonate through history. What’s happening in Iran is humbling to observe. The blood they’re spilling will be used to ink the blueprints of, I’m convinced, a democratic revolution that will sweep the Middle East.

My prayers, hopes and support are with those heroic Twitterers risking death in the streets of Tehran as they drive this stunning revolution. I pray they’ll succeed. I believe they will.

And I give you my word that’ll not do anything so revolting as Twitter until my country really, really needs me.