Steyn was absolutely right to avoid these scarey people!
The guy on the left is the groom. He has had WAY more plastic surgery than most people, except for Jacko, who creeps me out. Liz looks positively frightening in that hat. YIKES!
Posted on 03/22/2002 3:13:07 PM PST by Pokey78
IT was just over a week ago that I turned up at the Academy Awards rehearsal and spotted Hollywood uber-agent Irv Nerv deep in conversation with Halle Berry and Catherine Zeta Jones.
"Irv!" I called.
"Security!" he called.
"No, no, Irv, it's me, Mark," I explained. "You're my agent, remember?"
"Oh, yeah, right," he said. "Security!"
"No, wait, I'm supposed to be here. I'm presenting the award for Best Supporting Actor."
Irv skimmed through his client list backwards. "Streisand, Stone, Steyn. Oh, yeah, here it is."
"Great," I said. "I've been practising leaden banter all week. I'm really looking forward to working with Gwyneth."
"But you're in the wrong town," said Irv. "You're meant to be in New York."
"Wrong town? I don't understand. I got your press release: 'Steyn to Present Best Man in a Supporting Role at L A Ceremony'."
"Give me that," said Irv, snatching the paper from my hands. "It says 'Steyn to Present Best Man in a Supporting Role at LIZA Ceremony'. There's a coffee stain over the I and the Z, but if you hold it up to the light it's perfectly clear."
The colour drained from my cheeks. "Liza ceremony? You mean."
"Yeah, you're introducing Michael Jackson at Liza Minnelli's wedding." At the very words, Catherine Zeta Jones, who'd been mentally undressing me with her bedroom eyes, recoiled in horror and fell backwards into the orchestra pit.
"This could be a big break for you, Mike," continued Irv. "We're all very excited. Everyone who used to be anyone will be there. Now, if you don't mind, Halle's got some issues with her thong designer I need to iron out."
"Not the Liza wedding," I begged. "Please, Irv, you can't do this to me. I'm nearly young enough to be almost promising."
"You're taking this the wrong way, Mitch," he said. "You're going to be one of 10 page boys supporting Jacko. It's just you, Mickey Rooney, Tony Orlando, Gerald Ford, Harry Evans, Lord St John of Fawsley, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich.
You all emerge from alternate sides of the altar singing one of Liza's favourite African spirituals, The Lion Sleeps Tonight, each carrying selected items of Lalique glassware from the wedding list, which you then present to Carol Channing, Mia Farrow, Gina Lollobrigida and the rest of the bridesmaids, while serenading them with Thank Heaven for Little Girls. We were lucky to get you into this," added Irv, "but Liberace had to drop out."
"But he's dead," I pointed out.
"Exactly. That's why he had to drop out. Hey, listen," said Irv, "you love Oscar winners? This wedding's full of 'em. Esther Williams. Best Aquatic Ballet, 1949. It is, in a very real sense, the ultimate Oscar party." He waved airily at Jennifer Connelly.
"One day, all the hot stars here today will be celebrity ushers at Liza's seventh wedding to Baz Luhrmann. You're just getting there 30 years early. Besides, it's great publicity, Marv. You'll be on the cover of OK! Right there with Liza and wossname, the groom; the best man, Jacko; matron of honour, Liz Taylor; and one of the Doobie Brothers."
"God, no, not the cover of OK!" I sobbed. "I'll die of shame."
"It's terrific exposure," said Irv. "You'll be on the extreme left of the photo, so your face will be obscured by the 'O' of OK! Sorry, it's the best I could do. But there will be a name tag on your tux. Unless, of course, it's hidden by the bar code."
"C'mon, Irv. I'll do anything. I'll do that Miramax gig playing Juliette Binoche's dull, impotent husband before she leaves him for Ewan McGregor. I'll do that gloomy Newfoundland thing where I'm the simple-minded lobsterman sexually abusing his deranged sister. I'll do panto in Clacton. But not the Liza wedding. I'm hot, I'm now. Just ask Renee."
But Renee Zellweger, who only moments earlier had been necking with me in the parking lot, had evidently been tipped off by Halle. She was quivering like a leaf in a hurricane, as Russell Crowe moved smoothly in to console her. "You're so over, mate, I'm not even gonna nut you," hissed Russell, "in case your loser DNA jumps the food chain."
"See?" I pleaded. "Even Whitney's pulled out. She didn't want to be photographed with all those has-beens and weirdos."
"But only after Liza faxed her the seating plan and she realised she'd be next to you." Irv snapped his fingers, and his intern appeared bearing assorted disgusting items on a velvet cushion. "You'll be presenting this to Jacko. It's the traditional something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.
"The something old is Michael's original nose; the something new is his latest nose, which you'll be screwing into position just before the vows; the something borrowed is William Shatner's toupee, which he's lending you for the occasion; and the something blue is another one of Michael's noses, but it got left out of the jar so it's gone a funny colour."
"I refuse," I said. "I'm cool, I'm happening, I'm cutting edge. I am not being a page boy at Liza Minnelli's wedding. I insist you find me something else."
"Well, it's either that or the groom," said Irv.
Steyn was absolutely right to avoid these scarey people!
The guy on the left is the groom. He has had WAY more plastic surgery than most people, except for Jacko, who creeps me out. Liz looks positively frightening in that hat. YIKES!
You remember them too? That makes it, uh, three of us! (Your link is s-o-o-o-o slow, I couldn't wait!)
Anyway, I wish I had been there. Why, all my heroes like Troy Mc Clure and Rainier "McBain" Wolfcastle were there. Oh well, I had other engagements that day. (Had an appointment with Freddy Boom Boom Canon!)
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