Talk Soup

"I loved you on Talk Soup but what have you done since then?" That was my opening line to Greg Kinnear. News kitten had pointed him out an hour earlier and I had suppressed my celebrity-stalking impulses for a good 60 minutes. His friend, who told me he "Founded E! Entertainment", and I had been trading quips about the slut factor in the club. Correction: I deemed it slut factor, he called it odds in his favor.

Greg laughed at my observation and we started talking about me. He acted impressed but he's an actor, hello? The next day, as I ruminated about the night I was bombarded with flashbacks of random, inappropriate things I said. To Matt Armstrong, whose brother I accosted in an Austin restaurant by parking myself in his booth and declaring, "Lance?! Fancy meeting you here."; I shared the story of that horrific encounter. "You gotta understand, he gets that all the time. This summer he hung out with Jake Gyllenhal and Matthew Mcconaughey." Umm, why is he namedropping? He's Lance Armstrong's brother. I nodded pretending to relate and then invited him to be my date at the gala. He declined and gave me his business card. Not sure what I'm supposed to do with it given he's clearly a blonde bombshell chaser. Apparently, I had no misigivings about asking any of the B or A list celebrities I encountered. I asked Greg Kinnear and he, too, politely changed the topic of conversation to my work in Africa. "Yeah, those kids are starving and stuff," I said before reaching for my camera phone. Just then, some skanky ho appeared out of nowhere and took my phone. "No pictures!" she exclaimed. Greg took my phone from her, put his arm around me and snapped a picture of both of us. God help anyone who had to use those pics in a line-up but it's Academy-award nominated Greg Kinnear and me, smiling like two newfound friends. Good times.


I returned to New York to find that HPG had totally cooled his heels where I was concerned. He didn't even get out of his freakin' desk to walk over and wish me a happy birthday. Jackass. Still, too pathetic to allow subtle rejection to go lightly, I demanded to know why he hadn't bought me a card. "I'm a guy," he replied banally. This guy couldn't even be bothered to come up with a cute excuse. You're not that good-looking, I thought to myself. Yes, you are. Focker. I'm dateless to the gala but have a fabulous dress! Will look fabulous and probably spend the night sitting next to some rich socialite who thinks paying $500 a plate at an overpriced dinner absolves her of the guilt she may otherwise be apt to feel when she blows her nose with an Hermes handkerchief. Focker.