Confessions of the Divine Miss K

Friday, March 31, 2006

If I Wasn't A Celebrity

You know who I would like to be? The sister of a celebrity. Like, for example, I could handle being Julie Pitt, who is none other than Brad’s younger sis (although being an auntie to Jolie’s spawn might be a bit frightening). But nevertheless, Julie gets many of the benefits that comes with rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous (i.e. trips to fabulous places, spas and restaurants, photo opps on red carpets, doing yoga with Jenn and kick-ass Xmas prezzies) but without any of the hassle of having to deal with the paparazzi or Lindsay Lohan. In fact, there was a time that I thought Jebus (my middle brother) would become famous. But since he’s practically 100 and still as aimless as I am, my hopes have since departed.

Thus, since it is unlikely that I will ever have a famous sibling, and even more so that I myself will ever become world-renowned (even in this day and age where one can become famous for doing absolutely nothing; although, to be fair, Paris did work awfully hard in that porn video), I guess I must be content with the my few instances where I crossed paths with a celebrity.

So which celebrities have I seen?

Well, the list is scarce and the ones on it are rather pathetic. But just like every one else in that Le Chateau on Robson Street, I was still pretty excited to see Jerry O’Connell in the flesh which just goes to show you that it doesn’t matter how lame or D-List the celebrity is, seeing someone who is even just a touch bit well-known is always intoxicating.

So to begin with, my first brush with fame took place at the tender age of five when I went and watched Buckshot perform on CFCN television station. It was a children’s show and he said hi to me and I just about died from the glamour of it all. But looking back now I realize that I was more excited about the prospect of being on TV, than actually seeing the old freak show in a cowboy hat.

Then I became famous myself when I moved to Crannie, this time by virtue of being up close and personal with Ronald McDonald. Such a great guy with fantastic hair (and have you seen his taste in shoes?) but totally not as tall as you’d think in real life.

The next time I met another bona fide celebrity was when Pint Size Jesus Freak and I accompanied my parents to Mexico and then got to spend an extra few days in Los Angeles where we ended up staying at the same hotel as the Vancouver Canucks who were in town to play the Kings. At the time, I had no idea who most of the team members were that I was getting autographs from, but I remember PSJF practically throwing herself into Pavel Bure’s arms and him acting as if posing for a photograph with two 13 year old girls was the equivalent to getting eaten alive by giant spiders.

And then an enormous amount of time passed before I had my next brush with fame. But thanks be to the heavens, the day I had dreamed about since I had first heard “The Power of Love” explode from my stereo at last arrived. In early September of my 3rd year at McGill, I somehow found out that Celine Dion would be receiving a star on Quebec’s Hall Fame outside of the Forum downtown Montreal (and by “somehow” I clearly mean that I received an email from the fan club of which I was a member). Dragging a reluctant Miss Tamara Lee with me, we camped outside just behind the members of the press to catch a glimpse of my most favourite chanteuse in the world! While we waited, the two of us even got interviewed, probably because reporters could hardly believe two such hot blondes could also be such pathetic losers.


This was Tamara Lee as we stood there waiting for Celine Dion: “God, I can’t believe I’m here. Why did I let you drag me here? I don’t even like her. This is so lame. I’m so embarrassed. Oh, God, why are we here. You’re a freak. You realize that, right? Stupid Celine Dion.”

This was Tamara Lee when a reporter shoved a microphone and video camera into her face: “OH MY GOD, I LOOOOOVE CELINE DION! She is my hero. A day does not go by that I don’t listen to and get inspired by her music. If I could do two things in my lifetime it would be to (a) cure cancer and secure world peace, and (b) meet Celine Dion. Oops, that’s three! My bad! But seriously, I wish her and I were sisters.”

Anyhow, forget that the ceremony was in French, or that we could only manage to catch small glimpse of her and Rene through the arms and legs of the boisterous French photographers, it was still a celebrity sighting, with my hero no less. Furthermore, the highlight of the event was afterwards when somehow it came to light that I had all of Celine’s CD’s, including her French albums. The reporters couldn’t pass up the opportunity to interview such a zealous fan and so I got to be on the radio, which wasn’t as cool as I had imagined (have you heard my voice? Now imagine that squawking coming through your car stereo), except that they played my excerpt on CBC all across Canada, including in Calgary where my second cousin Janice heard me proclaim my love for all things Celine and has continued to mention it at every single family Christmas party since.

Whew. So except for a few D-List Montreal celebrities, I didn’t see anyone else famous until Charkins and I were traveling across Europe. My Mom and Grams joined us for the last leg of the trip (excuse me as both Charkins and I take a moment to shudder at the collective memory of those two weeks), during which we spent a few days in Salzburg, Austria, a quaint town that is both Mozart’s birthplace and home to a kickin’ H&M which we sadly never got to visit (Good Lord, don’t even get Charkins started. She is prone to cry when she thinks about this atrocity. In fact, to get over the disappointment in not being able to visit the department store, we splurged on hot dogs and entertained ourselves by standing on the edge of our bed and free-falling back into the 7 trillion pillows and duvets that the hotel had provided for us).

Whew. What the hell was I talking about? Oh, right. Europe. So one day in Salzburg, the four of us were walking by a church and all of these paparazzi/photographers had gathered around outside and it was all decorated for what looked like to be an expensive wedding. Turn’s out, the son of the famous clothing designer Escada was getting married and it was a big deal in Austrian society. We stuck around to see the bride's dress and ended up seeing Elizabeth Hurley as well. And since I was right at the front of the pack, I even got to hear her voice and she looked right into my camera for the perfect pic. And yes, she is that gorgeous. And yes, her voice is that sexy. And yes, if I didn’t respect Adders and all of mankind so much, she would definitely be on my To-Do list except for the fact that she seems like a complete and utter bitch.

So after Europe came my career as a celebrity journalist to the stars of Crannie, which meant that I met absolutely no one of any worth. Oh, except that I did interview The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band (impressive, I know) and that one time my father introduced me to the premier of British Columbia as his wife ("Hi there! We're from Bountiful! This here is my daughter/wife. We like to economize"). By that time, I was also sleeping with a famous person, namely a certain Mr. Magro who was often featured in the pages of the respected Advertiser (c'mon now, it's not every girl who can say that she has regular sex with a man who's name and face was in print as much as his was).

Which now brings me to my latest celebrity sighting. For my current job, I was recently taken to Los Angeles for no other reason than to simply go to Los Angeles (you think I’m kidding, but I’m seriously not, ya’ll). While there I managed to cozy on up to not one, but TWO stars. Both of them suck, both of them are ugly, but both of them have more money than I can ever hope to acquire so that’s good enough for me.

Both sightings took place on Rodeo Drive. First, we saw Jon Lovitz who was so orange from tanning that it made my eyes blurry. Secondly, I saw world-renowned drug addict/singer A.J. from the Charissa-acclaimed Backstreet Boys at the Guess store, and with him I even exchanged words. I asked, “Is that dressing room free?” And he smiled and replied, “Yes, it is. Go for it.” Which clearly was a grotesque proposition that I quickly shut down by slamming said dressing room door in his face.

So there you have it. Those are the weak and few instances where I mingled with the rich and famous. I’m still waiting to catch a glimpse of Brad or even George. But I guess for now boy band members will have to do. Oh right, and that Mr. Magro.


  • At 1:42 PM, Blogger Charkins said…

    Praise the lord! Miss Courty posted a new blog! You make me laugh so hard. And who's to say pillow floppin' ain't as good as shopping at H&M? ME DAMN IT! WHY OH WHY MUST I SUFFER SO!!! Will I never see H&M again?! I'm glad you're back babe, I've missed you. But you forgot the most famous one of all, Micheal W Smith! I mean hello?! PSJF would be devistated! I think she might be more shocked over you forgetting about Micheal than all the sex you talk about. Poor Micheal, and to think you once thought you would marry him. Goodness though, Adders and Micheal do kind of look alike...

  • At 2:08 PM, Blogger Courts said…

    OH MY GOD, ya'll! I TOTALLY forgot about Michael W. Smith, which was an enormous celebrity sighting for me considering it was my 14th birthday present from my parents. Picture this: Pint Size Jesus Freak and I scout the hotel lobby in Saskatoon, on the look out for our prey, I mean, star. Suddenly he appears and we literally lunge at him, accompanied by the cacophony of our own shrieks and screams. Beatlemania had nothing on our hysteria. He grimly poses for pictures and signs a few CDs, all the while thinking to himself, "Goddamn the Christian music industry. What I wouldn't give for a drunk girl who wants me to sign her enormous tits." Anyhow, the moment culminates with him walking away, and PSJF, who cannot resist not having the last word with any man (well, at least she couldn't at that point in her life, back when she still had a full set of teeth), nonchantly yells out, "Yo, Smitty!" And he turns around, his face frozen in an expression of blatant and utter horror. With that PSJF snaps one last pic of him and we immortalize ourselves as professional stalkers.

  • At 5:14 PM, Anonymous Tamara Lee said…

    Lies. All lies. Slanderous, slanderous lies. I liked the part about Buckshot though. That was pretty funny. And I believe what you said about Elizabeth Hurley. That probably wasn't a lie. But Celine Dion's sister my ass... I was almost crushed by a psychotic southern tourist AND I was late for worship band rehearsal because you dragged me to that thing. That's right, I missed opening prayer and almost DIED so you could see your ballad-singing, skinny, french IDOL and hear her bleeding-heart acceptance speech OVER A LOUD SPEAKER. And this is the thanks I get. Well I'm sorry if you confused my enthusiasm with the reporter with anything but support. Excuse me for trying to make you look a little less crazy AND get us discovered. I was only thinking of you. YOU. This so totally falls under defamation of character. You'll be hearing from my attorney. And I'm doubling your rent.


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