June 1999 posedown by Joe Procopio |
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It hardly seems like two years have gone by since I took a miserable trip to
a client site in Herndon, VA and penned what would be my first entry into
Smug, all the while pretending to mentor hopeless corporate flunkies at $125
an hour. Alas, since that first clumsy attempt at coy wit and rampant
journalistic abuse, I've grown twenty-four months older, three inches taller
(I can't explain that - but I'm not complaining), and, using a series of
indices and moving averages, I've determined that I have become precisely
83% more famous.
I have visited twenty-three major metropolitan cities, including Los
Angeles, Paris, and London. I have been thrown out of nightclubs in exactly
five. I've met fifty A-list celebrities and one-hundred and three B-list
celebrities, giving me a points total of 203 and placing me just a shade
below Matt Lauer but decisively above Craig Kilborn for twelfth place. I've
clinched the final playoff spot.
I've attended two-hundred and sixteen movie premieres including seven at
Mann's Chinese and thirty-nine at Bob's Adult Palace (the "A" in "Adult" is
long, by the way, at Bob's own insistence). I've eaten at Spago fifteen
times, and wouldn't you know it turns out I went to high school with the
head chef. I filled a seat at the Oscars, slept through the Grammys, and was
deemed "too drunk and disorderly" to gain entrance into the Golden Globes.
That last episode led to being dumped by my first supermodel (actually, this
sounds way too melodramatic - scratch "dumped" and replace with "brushed off
and left to find my own ride home" - I never had her phone number, she
called me "Joel").
It's time I let this one slip. Bill Gates and I started the Free
Disneyworld Vacation e-mail, just for a kick. Sorry. Now stop it.
I've rebuilt thirty-eight careers, buffed up sixty-four images,
micro-managed six all-out comebacks, and did more damage than good twice
(sorry Vanilla, my bad). Hanson was my idea. So was Britny Spears (although
I got screwed out of that one - always, ALWAYS, have a lawyer present
people - it just makes sense). I'm partly to blame for "Don't Sweat the
Small Stuff" but I had nothing to do with Teletubbies. "Out of the box?"
That's mine. "Global village?" No way. Come on.
All in all, I've gotten scads of people, from all walks of life, out of
literally hundreds of completely horrible situations. So I find myself
easing into June on the cusp of a major career milestone. Although I've got
to admit not ONE member of the Smug staff has mentioned any sort of surprise
party. They're either really good at keeping a secret or completely
ambivalent. And when you consider my shameless hinting and histrionic
sighing, the latter seems embarrassingly more likely. Anyhow, when taking
hindsight and bittersweet reflection into account, I find myself pondering
two questions. What did it all amount to? And what's next?
Previously mentioned quantifiable traits notwithstanding, I don't think
being an expert on fame has made me a better person. Nor has it made me a
bastard. And while I can be seen visibly fuming when a slice of lemon
arrives in my imported mineral water at Elaine's, I still say please and
thank you when ordering said mineral water sans lemon.
The subsequent rise in social and economic status has also made very little
impact. I have come to terms with the fact that I was born a snob, but I
have yet to purchase a yacht, or a Porsche, or even a Tae-Bo instructor. I
remain a carnivore, I choose Miller Lite, and I travel well outside the
circles of Scientology.
I have yet to bitch to the press about my yearning to return to a private
life. I intend to keep it that way.
Some of the people I have met have been real nice. Salt of the earth. I once
accidentally spilled an entire bottle of Finlandia on the suede couch in the
guest bedroom of Courtney Thorne-Smith's beach house. She didn't mention it
the entire weekend. Kevin Spacey not only picked up the tab one night when
my Visa exploded, but he even signed the receipt "Kaiser Soze" and let me
keep it. However, these are the exceptions to the rule and my original
theory still holds; most celebrities are evil, fearful people.
What's next? Despite a solid month spent unwrapping this riddle, I must
admit I never hit upon any manner of epiphany. I've grown comfortable, even
successful, in my chosen field, yet I'm still a dozen or so years away from
the minimum mid-life crisis age. There is a nagging sensation
starting to develop, a feeling that's half-anxiety/half-dread, one that
tells me I should probably be capitalizing on what I've accomplished to date
and make a run for some sort of elite (or maybe eliter) niche. Maybe
buddy up to the real recluses. I hear Al Pacino is kind of a
challenge, and I still haven't scored an invite to an infamous Dave Foley
gala. Maybe I should get into acting. Or some kind of modeling. On the other
hand, it's not as if I feel that I've failed for not doing these
things. They'll come with time.
Right?
Speaking of Gates, he let me try a top-secret beta of something called
Microsoft Life, which, after I entered an exhaustive profile of such
intimate facts as total number of sex partners and preferred brand of
laundry detergent, concluded that I will be roughly 12.7% more successful
next year.
You can't argue with Microsoft.
For now, I think I'm right on target. Helping people, the famous and the
unwashed alike, and writing about it for Smug is what suits me. The pay
rocks, the fringe benefits are outstanding (Todd Levin's Homemade Brownie
Storytime, for one), and the work, however puzzling and morally
desensitizing, is also vastly rewarding. So thanks, Leslie, for giving me
the fame beat at Smug as a place to journalize what was merely an odd and
incredibly lucrative hobby. And thank you. Yes, you. Thank you for reading
the articles and thank you for sending me all the emails, cards, letters,
snacks, and presents. Especially the presents. That alone tells me I'm
making a difference.
in the junk drawer:
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