Starf*cker: a Meme-oir (38 page)

There are bargains to be had.

For a mere $5, I was able to get a signature from
The Jeffersons
and
227
star Marla Gibbs
and
watch her eat her fried-chicken lunch at the same time. I would have paid $5 just to watch her eat.

Carol Channing—so gracious in every way—treated us to the sight of her putting on all her makeup right at her table (for free) before leading everyone in a rousing (read: horrifyingly meandering; fans can’t sing, that’s why we’re fans) chorus of “Happy Birthday” for silent actress Carla Laemmle, who was turning 102. (She made it to 104.) “She looks better than
III dooo!”
Carol griped, kidding, but not entirely. Laemmle was the niece of movie mogul Carl Laemmle, so had appeared in the original
Phantom of the Opera
in 1925 as well as
Dracula
with Bela Lugosi. That bit of nepotism meant that a cast member of these movies was still living over 80 years after their general release. Who knew this extra, who was also a talented dancer, would wind up being one of the last dozen or so human beings on earth to have appeared in a silent movie? (Her autograph was just $5.)

Carol was a total pro that day. She even smiled along when fellow celebrity guest Louisa Moritz, then best known for playing a ditzy slut in various teen comedies like
The Last American Virgin
and more recently well known as the woman who claims Bill Cosby put his penis in her mouth in the green room at
The Tonight Show
, crammed herself into a photo op with the
Hello, Dolly!
icon. Never mind that Moritz’s areolas had made a run for it out of her bustier. Moritz charges $40 to sign topless shots and advertises herself as a lawyer via business cards she hands out. When I accidentally left her autograph on her table in my haste to escape. I never came back to retrieve it.

You also get free comedy sometimes. Rose Marie was being wheeled back to her table after a bathroom break when she suddenly blurted out, “He raped me!” of her mortified attendant. If you’re like me, you may have missed the hysterical rape-themed episode of
The Dick Van Dyke Show
.

People you’re sure will be nice, sure aren’t.

I figured Vicki Lawrence from
The Carol Burnett Show
and
Mama’s Family
would be a hoot, and things looked promising when she gamely took a fan’s cellphone and spoke to a sick friend for a minute or two. And yet when I actually met her, she had nothing to say, seemingly radiating regret for deciding to do the show in the first place, so not glad we had this time together.

Edie McClurg, everyone’s favorite fussy matron and a
Grease
veteran (she played a teenager in the movie, but seemed like a fussy matron even back then), took the vintage photo I’d brought and proceeded to have a long conversation about where and when it was taken with the man sitting next to her, only occasionally glancing up at me uncomfortably as if I were eaves-dropping.

Then there was Frankie Avalon, who crudely told a fan asking about his old co-star Annette Funicello, who had been battling MS for decades and who has since died, “She’s a vegetable now.”

I’ve heard horror stories of stars demanding too much money, like Lee Majors, who feels he’s worth $60 (you can get two Barbara Edens for that). Then there is the story of Richard Dreyfuss who a fan told me had, when presented with an
American Graffiti
poster already signed by the rest of the cast over the years, scrawled his name across the top, over several other signatures. When Dreyfuss’s handler offered a freebie replacement, Dreyfuss killed the deal, saying, “No. I will not sign again. You don’t seem to understand how this works—the more my signature is out there, the less it’s worth. I won’t give it away.” He’s no Johnny Whitaker.

For these stars, the ones who are professional assholes, I guess it all goes back to my friend Chip in Michigan, the one who, without knowing it, got me into all of this insanity to begin with, and our peculiar relationship. You know, the one I described as, “You like me? You’re a loser.”

But I don’t mind being a loser if it means embracing things I like, and I wish I could figure out what ever happened to Chip so I could spend as much time reminiscing with him as I have with people I’ve never met.

My eventual “meeting” of Richard Lamparski, whose
What Ever Became Of…?
books had turned me into a starfucker as much as anything else, turned out to be a mixed bag in real life. I tracked him down and he granted me a juicy, no-holds-barred, thoughtful, intelligent interview. He told me he detests autograph hounds, but loves movies. We bonded by phone and by mail we traded films back and forth—well, I sent him movies to keep, he sent me movies to return. When I sent him a great ’70s photograph of him that I’d acquired from a news agency, he kept it instead of signing it and promised to send me a nude instead. I guess he was joking around because I’m still waiting.

But sadly, the man who wrote a series of books that became my lifelong friends later got angry when he heard I’d uploaded to YouTube a fantastic documentary he’d narrated on public television 40 years ago. I’d asked his permission since he’d provided me with the copy, but he seemingly forgot that. In spite of the fact that neither man had any legal standing, he and a mutual acquaintance filed a formal complaint against me for uploading it instead of, you know, sending me a message on Facebook or texting me. It was unbelievably unnecessary, like calling the cops if you find a friend smoking pot.

If you present yourself as a fan, people will treat you like one.

I’m still in awe of what he accomplished, and of how his work affected me personally, but when you seek out the answer to what ever became of someone or something, whether you know them personally or just feel like you do, whether via an Internet search or a trip to an autograph show, be prepared for answers other than the ones you want to hear.

I was beginning to feel like the angel of death: Quite a few stars from the autograph shows with whom I’d recently pressed the flesh for the first time were taking dirt naps within a few months of our meetings—everyone from robust Ernest Borgnine (the last Hollywood star you’d ever have looked at when he was young and guessed might live nearly to 100) to wisecracking Jane Kean (the second “Trixie” from
The Honeymooners
) to tough-as-nails Jeanne Cooper to disoriented Jonathan Winters (okay, that one wasn’t a shocker) was turning up dead. It felt like a pattern, though I suppose the fact that all were in their eighties and nineties meant the pattern they were following was, well,
life
.

Another inevitable process was unfurling as well, namely the death of my career. Not all of it, just most of it. Like that terrible joke Dennis Miller told on
Saturday Night Live
in 1985 about how the last section of Orson Welles had finally died, ever since I first began attending celebrity shows five years ago, I suspected the magazine I was running was running on empty and would soon disappear. It didn’t right away, but as you know, my opportunity there was definitely on life support. The plug was eventually pulled.

I am nothing if not the cheeriest re-arranger of deck chairs on any
Titanic
, so instead of saving my money and looking for an equally wonderful next job experience, I would always take another of my many trips to L.A. for an autograph show and more. One time, the “and more” was a pair of celeb encounters that, had they been porn, would have been a DP: Betty White and Phyllis Diller.

The only reason I was going to have access was thanks to the generosity—a rare trait among starfuckers, because you usually want the plunder all to yourself—of my autograph-show pal Brian, a tall, strapping, muscular she-devil who was known for announcing himself to old actresses ensconced at their tables with a hearty, “Hello, girls, the fags are here!” Gotta love him.

In another state, Brian had attended to a Betty White signing gone wrong, then corresponded with her assistant, who promised to get him into the audience for a taping of
Hot in Cleveland
, a highly successful cherry on top of her (knock wood) endless TV career. He got tickets for himself and us, as well as a pass to get a photo on the set with Betty for himself. Who were we to pass up free tickets?

Two other starfuckers, Don and Rich (which sounds like a country duo) went with us. Don sees himself as the gay Mayor of Nashville, or the Mayor of Gay Nashville. With his cherubic smile and southern charm, he can talk the pants off of you, and will probably try. I’d first met him at another autograph show, when he approached me and announced he was good friends with ‘30s child star Jane Withers. This kind of thing replaces, “Hi, how are you?” at starfucker events and is perfectly appropriate. Through him, I, too, became a pal of Jane’s, and you better believe I mention that every chance I get.

Rich is the little guy who Brian beats up affectionately. During celebrity photo ops, Rich will be sidling up to someone he has worshiped since childhood, only to have Brian call out, “Rich, you look short!” or “That’s right, Rich, do
that
—just in case he wasn’t sure you were gay.” Rich works for the USPS and is a fan of big packages. His truest obsession is horror movies, which is wonderfully off-brand because he’s about as scary as a fit of laughter on Christmas morning. They’re all great fun—all these actresses are lucky to have them as fans.

The taping itself was nothing special, but Brian did enjoy torturing the gay boys seated behind us by mentioning that he was going to be allowed to get a photo with Betty, which is what every gay man wants right after a large penis and right before abs that can be seen through a wool sweater. Those poor boys had to Betty White-knuckle it through the taping, hoping against hope that they could rush down to the stage themselves. But starfucker pros like the ones in our group knew it would never happen. In fact, no one but Brian was ever going to get that photo op, until Brian’s generosity was bumped up into selflessness when he spotted his contact during a break and went over to whisper a request that his three companions be added to the photo.

The show ended and Betty White and the show’s other actresses—Valerie Bertinelli, Wendie Malick, and Jane Leeves—came out to wave to fans. The chosen few with passes were escorted directly onto the stage, positioned amidst the women, and photographed by a still photographer who knew exactly what he was doing.

Brian and his male angels approached the women, Brian nabbing the coveted spot next to Betty (I think he might have ax-murdered us had any of us claimed the spot). I was happy to cuddle with Malick, who is a true original in her own right and whose ability to look 40 at 60 is something that should be bottled and given away free in any decent single-payer health care system. She’d also played Madonna’s first, lesbian manager in the Fox anti-classic
Madonna: Innocence Lost
.

It was fun, but it was still just an appetizer considering Betty White’s relative availability among nonagenarian celebrities.

Phyllis Diller was always my kind of gal because I related to the loathing-optional approach she took to her body. She was not scared of plastic surgery, she was not afraid of making light of herself, and she was not—surprisingly—above letting fans waltz through her home and buy her art right off of her walls.

This was another Brian joint. He had told us, after long corresponding with Phyllis’s keeper and a failed attempt on another occasion when Miss Diller had not been herself (or anyone else) so couldn’t receive him, that we would be welcome to come with him to her home in order to shop for paintings (she was an amateur artist) and chit-chat with the legendary comic, one of whom even Joan Rivers—then 80 and not long for this world either—could honestly say, “I’ve loved you since I was a kid!”

I consider myself pretty alpha, but when Brian is around, we’re all powerless bottoms. He directed our excursion with a firm hand, pointing us to the House of Diller, where we were greeted by Miss Diller’s assistant. The rules were easy: Don’t take any pictures of the premises (ignored) and please buy something.

First, we were shown Phyllis’s amazing Bob Hope Sitting Room, complete with a bust of the late comic. It looked like a room children wouldn’t be allowed into, and by “children” I mean anyone under 70. The rest of her crib was, unlike her famous wardrobe, homey and tasteful. What was most remarkable about it was that there were probably a hundred original Phyllis Diller paintings nailed up on nearly every surface…complete with price tags. The largest canvasses were actually the best, but ran several thousand bucks (one was a cool 10 grand, but my 10 grand was at the cleaners).