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My Dinner With Bill Clinton
Jul. 1st, 2004 08:23 amRight off the bat you understand why he’s had all those women troubles: he chews gum obsessively (behavior the late Dr. Freud would label oral compulsive,) he’s extremely personable and very attractive. My height – about 5’11". Trim, tanned, thick white hair. Youthful, unlined face. Has he had work done? If so, it was very good work. I have no idea whether he prefers Trident Sugarless or Juicy Fruit.
Anyway my dinner with Bill Clinton was the piece de resistance to a couple of weeks that were waaaay too action-packed and hectic. I say "my dinner" but of course, it was also a thousand other people’s dinner with this caveat – they paid for it, I did not. Friends in high places are always good for a free meal.
Well. Not exactly free. I was drafted to do celebrity wrangling, a skill I acquired during my time in the trenches as an entertainment reporter. A kind of residual for all those pieces that started out "You could tell by the way Drew Barrymore applied her gloss counterclockwise across her lush, pillowsome lips that Succubus is a movie that’s close to her heart," drawn from spending exactly ten seconds in a hotel room with the actress in the midst of an ever increasingly hysterical press junket.
The Anecdote Embargo had snagged Bill sans his customary $150,000 speakers fee because XXXX is married to XXXX. Clinton’s people confirmed the gig three weeks beforehand. It’s tough to pull of an event of this magnitude in three weeks. There were two tiers of attendees, ordinary people who’d cashed in their laundry quarters and very rich people who ponied up $10,000 apiece for five full seconds of Best Friendship with the ex-prez. Here’s what $10,000 will buy you: A long, lingering look. A smile. A clasp of actual former executive flesh. An 8 by 10 glossy photograph of you and Bill laughing together at some private joke, to display proudly in the public venue of your choice.
Of course it was a mob scene up to the moment when he actually arrived at the Fairmont, two hours late. I worked the Pavilion Room. I’d busted a zipper so I waddled around channeling my own inner Crazy Jane with several safety pins holding my black silk suit trousers to my panties, reassuring the rich who grew either increasingly frantic or petulant according to their Meyer Briggs profile. The frantic ones asked, "Will I miss him if I slip out to pee?" The petulant ones ordered another round of vodka martinis. Among the petulant was the actress XXX who is an amazingly beautiful woman even if she is the poster child for SBP (Serious Bitch Potential.) Early on in my entertainment reporter career, I had occasion to interview Julia Roberts. Julia Roberts in person looks exactly like a ferret. Twitchy, bony face. Kind of bug-eyed. I have no idea why the camera loves her so much. In contrast, XXX is one of those dazzling beauties whom the camera kind of blands out.
XXX was sulking ostentatiously on the sidelines with the new boytoy – a kind of chinless, Italianate fop. Other people I recognized included XXX – up close he’s a homelier version of Chris Isaak – XXX in the kind of ill-fitting brown suit they warn you never to wear to job interviews, and XXX who is a particular heroine of mine, and thus was the only celebrity I felt moved to go up to and gush over.
To be continued if I can ever find the time…
Anyway my dinner with Bill Clinton was the piece de resistance to a couple of weeks that were waaaay too action-packed and hectic. I say "my dinner" but of course, it was also a thousand other people’s dinner with this caveat – they paid for it, I did not. Friends in high places are always good for a free meal.
Well. Not exactly free. I was drafted to do celebrity wrangling, a skill I acquired during my time in the trenches as an entertainment reporter. A kind of residual for all those pieces that started out "You could tell by the way Drew Barrymore applied her gloss counterclockwise across her lush, pillowsome lips that Succubus is a movie that’s close to her heart," drawn from spending exactly ten seconds in a hotel room with the actress in the midst of an ever increasingly hysterical press junket.
The Anecdote Embargo had snagged Bill sans his customary $150,000 speakers fee because XXXX is married to XXXX. Clinton’s people confirmed the gig three weeks beforehand. It’s tough to pull of an event of this magnitude in three weeks. There were two tiers of attendees, ordinary people who’d cashed in their laundry quarters and very rich people who ponied up $10,000 apiece for five full seconds of Best Friendship with the ex-prez. Here’s what $10,000 will buy you: A long, lingering look. A smile. A clasp of actual former executive flesh. An 8 by 10 glossy photograph of you and Bill laughing together at some private joke, to display proudly in the public venue of your choice.
Of course it was a mob scene up to the moment when he actually arrived at the Fairmont, two hours late. I worked the Pavilion Room. I’d busted a zipper so I waddled around channeling my own inner Crazy Jane with several safety pins holding my black silk suit trousers to my panties, reassuring the rich who grew either increasingly frantic or petulant according to their Meyer Briggs profile. The frantic ones asked, "Will I miss him if I slip out to pee?" The petulant ones ordered another round of vodka martinis. Among the petulant was the actress XXX who is an amazingly beautiful woman even if she is the poster child for SBP (Serious Bitch Potential.) Early on in my entertainment reporter career, I had occasion to interview Julia Roberts. Julia Roberts in person looks exactly like a ferret. Twitchy, bony face. Kind of bug-eyed. I have no idea why the camera loves her so much. In contrast, XXX is one of those dazzling beauties whom the camera kind of blands out.
XXX was sulking ostentatiously on the sidelines with the new boytoy – a kind of chinless, Italianate fop. Other people I recognized included XXX – up close he’s a homelier version of Chris Isaak – XXX in the kind of ill-fitting brown suit they warn you never to wear to job interviews, and XXX who is a particular heroine of mine, and thus was the only celebrity I felt moved to go up to and gush over.
To be continued if I can ever find the time…
