BRUSHES WITH FAME. After a week of being unseasonably unthankful, it dawned on me during a celebrity-encounter pissing contest with a couple of friends (“Oh yeah? Well, Ed McMahon almost ran me over on Sunset Boulevard in his Lincoln Town Car!”) that I have, in fact, met and had conversations with a number of my idols. And by “having a conversation with an idol” I am not referring to screaming the favorite album title at a rock star I just spotted in public. You know that drill. (Although it’s sure to turn the fully armed and dangerous mop top of the Nuge when you scream “Dude! Cat Scratch Fever!!!!” I’m really not so sure how much good it does when you yell “Hey! Road to Ensenada! at Lyle Lovett.)
When I say conversation, I’m really meaning more than a simple verbal exchange. More than a ping-pong: “Mint?” “Thanks.” That would describe the above fanatical behavior, except for the fact that the ping-ed rock star gets in the final unheard pong with a capital P, usually with “what a fuckin’ idiot.” No, I’m talking about more than that. Like ping-pong-ping-pong. Now that’s conversing. That’s an encounter to remember.
BLESSED RED. In 1985 I lived in Hollywood and worked for an entertainment attorney (pronounced “scheister”) at the 9200 building on Sunset Boulevard, right at the edge of Beverly Hills, right where you can start to buy maps to the stars homes. The client list of my boss was impressive. Debbie Reynolds, Motley Crue, Tia Carrere (before she was old enough to drink), but the real thrill was the office next door on that ninth floor. Gary *. The name means nothing to most of you, but I knew it was Lucille Ball’s husband and manager, because even though I was outwardly a struggling up-and-coming new wave/punk rock diva, on the inside I was and always would be a comic goddess in the making, and where else would I worship but the altar of Lucy. One blessed morning I dragged my butt into the elevator in the underground parking garage, as usual, all alone. The elevator stopped at the lobby and a rail thin statuesque redhead joined me. We stood staring at each other, as people in elevators rarely do, and I could hardly swallow my own spit. What the hell do you say at a moment like this? I only had eight floors left to decide. In those panicked seconds of destiny I came up with the following brilliant toadying dialogue:
Kim: Hi.
Lucy: Hi.
Kim: You’re wonderful.
Lucy: Thanks doll.
Ping-pong-ping-pong. Her voice was so low and smoky she sounded like a man. I did not genuflect, and she did not pat me on the head, but did give me the most beatific smile. It told me that I, too, was wonderful. She got out of the elevator and I just stood there holding the doors for a minute watching her and her big red hair walk into that office right next door to mine. Thanks doll. Waaaaaaaaaaaahh!
IGNORANCE IS BLISS. A few years later, well into my secret nightlife as a bar hopper, night owl and demi-rock-chick, I would frequent a downtown Los Angeles dive called Al’s Bar (I hear it’s no longer a dive, but at the time it generally stank of piss and stale beer, had a pool table and featured rotten bands five nights a week and decent bands on the weekends). It was small, dark, smoky, had a terrible sound system and steel girders criss-crossing the space, making it difficult to see and/or hear anything. All of this adds up to a hip place to be, in case any of you didn’t catch on. One Tuesday night I was out and about and ended up at Al’s all by my lonesome for a few beers. After a while I join in a game of pool with a couple that I have been smart-assing with at the bar. They are very funny, which I like in people, and they think I am very funny, which I like even more. We are drinking beers together, playing pretty bad pool, smoking each other’s cigarettes (we did that back then) and mostly really cracking each other up. The guy is kinda tall with broad shoulders and a buzz haircut, sorta cute and Euro. The girl is shortish and brash, biggish nose, wearing a baseball cap, looks kinda familiar, but only sort of. We are having a rip-roaring-snort-laughing time. I can’t even begin to ping-the-pongs for you.
After about an hour or so I need to pee (all that beer!) so I excuse myself and there I am in the stall peeing, giggling, whatever, la la la, and it hits me OH SHIT THAT’S BETTE MIDLER. So what do I do now? Go back and introduce myself? “Hi, I’m Kim, what’s your name?” Gah. Talk about blowing your high. It totally freaked me out! Not only is she funny – she’s musical! This gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “pee shy.” Luckily (?) for me when I go back out, my new buddy Bette and her husband * apologize and have to go. She gives me a big hug. Years later I saw her production company, All Girl Productions was hiring for a position that I was only barely qualified for. Dear Bette, Remember me? I’m the really funny bad billiards player who smoked all your ciggies at Al’s. We laughed, we cried, we crapped on the boy band! Will work for money! Love, Kim. Pong.
LOOOVE IT!!! Chicago’s New Tuner’s Theatre hosts a New Musicals Festival every year. Most (all) of you probably don’t know that I have written a bluegrass musical comedy. I know! The world has been waiting for another bluegrass musical comedy! In any case, my musical was, alas, not accepted as part of the festival for 2001, but was the “back-up” musical in case, what, another one got sick? Well, yes, in effect. I was very excited about the festival for another reason as well. The MC for the event was none other than JoAnn Worley, she of Laugh In warbling, flowing sleeve eye-rolling and of latter day cartoon voice overs. When a blonde plays dumb and the joke is smart, the blonde still looks dumb. When a brunette plays dumb and the joke is smart, it works so much better. Go ask JoAnn. As an impressionable young girl, the image of Elizabeth Taylor was seared into my brain as the be-all-end-all of beauty (I still can’t stop dying my hair black, even after Liz stopped). But there was something missing. JoAnn Worley was like Liz Taylor – but loud, colorful and FUN! (And it’s a good thing I figured this out, because no matter how hard I tried to emulate La Liz, I would lean closer to La Worle.) Think headband – Think JoAnn.
After one of the showings, during a break in festivities, the director of the festival introduced me to her. It went like this.
John: JoAnn, This is Kim Luke.
Kim: Ms. Worley, I’ve been referred to as the JoAnn Worley of rock ‘n roll.
JoAnn: Oh my god! I never knew there was one!
Kim: Well, there is! And I’m her!
JoAnn: Well, it’s an honor to meet you.
Kim: And it’s an honor to meet YOU!
Ping-pong-ping-pong! I was tempted to tell her she could be the Kim Luke of comedy, but I’m still hoping that, you know, that could be…me.
So this is a smattering of my brushes with fame. My favorites. And yes, Ed McMahon did almost run me over in his Lincoln Town Car.
