Maui sees it's fair share of celebrities, and after living here for 10 years I've seen a few. I don't ask for photos, I don't stare. In fact, I try not to even acknowledge that I know who they are, because I figure they are on vacation, not at work - they deserve some time to themselves. But then last night happened. And fuck it all, I gotta tell you what I saw last night.
Put on your helmets and your closed-toe shoes, I'm name dropping.
It all started not-so-innocently enough. I caught wind of a really big party in the works for New Years Eve. My friend manages a restaurant that was going to be ground-zero for some major celebrity action, and as she was describing what (and who) was on the program I got a little jealous. Here I am, unemployed, sitting at home in pajama pants and a sweatshirt covered in spit-up, and she's gonna get all dolled up and get paid to party. That used to be my gig, and man.....I miss it sometimes.
So I told her that next year, I wanted to be her assistant for the evening. I was only sort-of joking.
And then she threw me a curve ball and asked if I wanted to be there to help get everyone seated before dinner, and then stay for the show. "I won't be able to get Sam in....." she hesitated, not wanting to leave him out. "Will he min-"
"NO!' I might have shouted, but I tried to keep my voice calm. "No, no no, he won't mind! Someone has to stay with the kids!"
And that is how I ended up spending a fabulous star-studded New Years Eve trying to keep the crowd from over-handling the celebs.
Unfortunately, I couldn't go with them to the men's room - and that is where the crowd gathered. Sarah titled them "The Pooperazzi" - the people who follow stars to the bathroom and then wait outside for them to come back out, spraying them with flashbulbs, grabbing at their clothes, insisting on photos for their facebook, and generally making asses of themselves.
It was horrifying.
This is probably why Mike Myers came in through the kitchen and limited his fluid intake - so as to avoid the bathroom entirely. Good thinking, dude. Way to plan ahead.
Steven Tyler, on the other hand, went to the men's room at least twice. Poor guy.
I don't know if Clint Eastwood was similarly hassled, I wasn't keeping tabs on his bladder. But I am pretty sure he would freeze people alive WITH HIS ICE COLD STARE. He's still totally got it, man.
Weird Al was hanging with his wife and kid, a sweet little girl Lucy's age. I hope no one bothered them, they were so awesome.
Alice Cooper's daughter was mistaken for Katy Perry, so she got nailed big time coming out of the bathroom. Alice Cooper did not get mistaken for Katy Perry - but I think he came through the kitchen too.
The Doobie Brothers were all over the joint. It was hard to keep track of them.
Tom Arnold was MCing the event, and he and his wife were super sweet. He was getting enough hassle in the dining room that I figure getting groped outside the men's room probably wouldn't faze him. But having a dozen people call you buddy in the space of 10 minutes and then ask for a photo must be really obnoxious. Being friendly and approachable has it's downside.
Honestly, they were all friendly and approachable, each of them sweet as could be and nice to be around. Any attitude problems came from ticketholders, and some moments during the evening were reminiscent of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Over-indulged assholes making fools of themselves while everyone else just watched in horror.
Alice Cooper, the Doobie Brothers, and Weird Al tore it up - it was cool to watch the performers supporting each other's performances (and funny to watch Mike Meyers sitting through Weird Al's killer show-stopping "Canadian Idiot"). Unfortunately, I missed the grand finale of everyone onstage singing "Come Together" - a song title that never fails to make me laugh out loud - and I heard that Clint was going to sing Auld Lang Syne, and I never did see Mike Meyers or Steven Tyler perform. I was in my car by 11:15pm, racing home while fireworks exploded overhead, lighting the backroads as I made my way up the mountain. I pulled in the driveway at 11:55pm, ran up the stairs barefoot, threw my purse and shoes on the floor, gathered up Dude, and kissed my husband at the stroke of midnight.
2012, the bar is pretty high. I'm ready. And next year, I'm putting a porta-potty outside the restaurant's back door. The Pooperazzi will never get the best of me again.
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