by Jancee Dunn
“Very festive,” I said.
A man appeared at my elbow. “Remember me?” he asked.
I squinted at him. The place was lit with candles, so I couldn’t see that well.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” I said.
“It’s Tom,” he said. “I had dinner with you and Casey a few months ago.”
“Oh,” I said. “Right.” I dimly remembered him mentioning that he had gone to college with Nathan.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked. I held up my Carmen Miranda special. “Ah,” he said.
A group of Rolling Stone staffers rolled toward me and descended, chattering and laughing. Tom drifted away.
“Who was that guy?” asked my friend Susan. “He was cute.”
“You think so?” I said. “He’s really shy.” I sipped my drink. “To the point where it’s kind of a strain to talk to him.”
“What’s wrong with shy?”
I shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.”
The group was making noisy plans to go see a band after the party. Chavez was playing at a club downtown. Did I want to come?
“I’ll think about it,” I said. Hello, couch. Mama will be home soon.
Just as the group moved on, Tom reappeared. “I heard you talking about Chavez,” he said. “Do you mean the indie band Chavez, or the farmworkers’ advocate Cesar Chavez?” I stared at him. “Maybe you meant the Venezuelan caudillo Hugo Chavez? Or was it the Mexican heavyweight boxer Julio Cesar Chavez?” He smiled. “I’m just trying to impress you,” he said. He did a little bowing motion with his head, or maybe it was an actual bow.
“Sadly, we were talking about the band,” I said. “But I’m not going. I’m actually heading out shortly.”
“Well, at least have one more drink with me,” he said. He sounded breezy, but as a closet shy person, I knew by the way he kept rocking back and forth on his heels that it was an act. It was touching, somehow.
“Okay,” I said.
“So why are you going home?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing exciting,” I said. “I want to watch a Civil War documentary. I’m a sucker for that stuff. If there’s a lingering close-up of a daguerreotype and the sound of a lone fiddle, I’m there.”
He pretended to do a spit take. He was much goofier tonight. Maybe he was bombed. “You’re throwing over Chavez for the War Between the States? I thought you were a Rock Chick.”
“No, no,” I said. “I’m a complete sham. I also taped a documentary about the Great Plague, so it’s going to be quite the action-packed evening.” I fought a crazy urge to invite him along.
“I’ve been accused of being a young fogy myself,” he said. “Let’s just say that my favorite young author is Tom Wolfe.” He laughed. “And my last crush on a hot young actress was Veronica Lake.”
“I just watched Sullivan’s Travels the other night,” I broke in.
He nodded vigorously. “I saw that, too. Part of ‘Preston Sturges Week,’ right? Do you know that the last part of her life was really strange?”
“She was bartending in some place in Midtown, and she appeared in some trashy B movie. I can’t remember the name.”
“Flesh Feast,” he said. His smile faded a little and he cast a despairing glance around the room. The music throbbed. “I hate straining your voice to make conversation you barely remember the next day,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow at him.
“Not that I won’t remember this one,” he said quickly.
We chatted for a few minutes as I finished my drink.
“Well, I’m going,” I announced.
“Why don’t I get you a cab?”
I hesitated.
“It’s raining out, you know,” he said. “I brought an umbrella.”
“Okay,” I said. He hustled off to get his coat.
As we stepped outside, a twentyish guy who was lingering by the door darted in front of Tom. He was dressed for a night out: hair gelled into whorls, cell phone in hand, shiny black pants, and, although it was well after midnight, orange-tinted sunglasses.
“Hey, buddy,” the guy said urgently. “Do these glasses match the shirt?” He opened his jacket to display a white shirt with purple stripes.
Tom stared at him, perplexed. “Sorry?”
“Do the glasses match the shirt?”
Tom studied the guy carefully. “Sure, I mean, they don’t…they don’t not match.” He flapped his hand helplessly.
“Thanks, man.”
As the rain hit us, Tom quickly opened his umbrella. It occurred to me that I had never gone out with a single person who thought to bring an umbrella anywhere. I flashed on all of the times I was caught in the rain after stumbling out of parties.
“Here we go,” he said, holding the umbrella over my head. He put his arm around me. “I’m not making a move, I just don’t want you to get wet. Although I would like your phone number.”
I sighed. “Why don’t I take yours?”
“All right, then,” he said, fishing out his wallet and producing a card.
“Thanks,” I said, taking it. “Listen, I should get a cab.”
He smiled. “Let’s walk a little farther. Just indulge me. You should probably know that I came here tonight hoping you might be here.”
I looked up at him. He really did have the kindliest expression. Why had I not noticed how blue his eyes were? And it was so cozy underneath the umbrella. I tried to recall why I had rejected him so quickly. Hazily, I remembered that he lacked all of the hipster totems that had usually attracted me. He wasn’t my “type.” But what, exactly, would that be? Noble failures? Substance abusers with muttonchop sideburns? I had told Casey that he was too quiet. Maybe I had thrown myself into being a New Yorker with a little too much force, joining the herds that trampled over the introverted to flock around the ones who screamed Look at me!
“You know what?” I said, smiling up at Tom. “I would love to walk.”
“Good,” he said. We started down the street, talking so intently that before I knew it, I was practically on my block. At some point as we walked—when, I could never precisely remember—I had slipped my arm through his.
I can’t explain it. He just seemed very familiar to me. I had the pang that Cher said she had when she met Sonny Bono and Rob Camiletti. She says that the time that she met those two guys, the rest of the room went dark.
I stopped on the sidewalk and faced him. For the first time in a long while, I found that I wasn’t plotting an escape, or assembling a careful armature of jokes and clever anecdotes. I was completely comfortable. Relaxed. I was—well, I was happy. “I just realized how little I actually know about you,” I said. It suddenly seemed important that I should. “I think you mentioned that you lived in Brooklyn, right? Where are you from, originally?” I thought of my joke to Neferlyn the psychic that everyone I met was from Long Island or New Jersey. “Let me guess,” I said. “You’re from Long Island.”
I see that you will meet a man from the Midwest who will give you his heart.
“I’m from Chicago, actually,” he said. “Why?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Key Club, Spirit Club, Yearbook Committee,
1984 Senior Superlative: Class Clown
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the road less traveled by
And that has made all the difference
—ROBERT FROST
Thanks to my incredible editor Jill Schwartzman, you are the BEST! Also thank you to Dan Conaway. Even though you transferred schools, you are 2 good 2 be 4gotten! A special thanks to my new buds Jonathan Burnham, Kathy Schneider, Tina Andreadis, Clare McMahon, Carl Lennertz, Tavia Kowalchuck, Stefanie Lindner, Kate Pereira, Sandy Hodgman, Beth Silfin, John Jusino, and everyone else at HarperCollins! You guys rule!
I am sooo grateful to David McCormick, the coolest agent ever, and to my friend Bob Love for hiring me (thanks for making my freshman year the best ever!). Also thanks to my former crew at Rolling Stone for
all the awesome times: Will Dana, Karen Johnston, Joe Levy, Mary MacDonald, Stu Zakim, and Rob Sheffield.
Special thanks to Jann Wenner. You rock!
A big hug to Julie Klam (Best friends forever!), Lisa Wagner Holley, Susan Kaplow, Tracy Olmsted (party at the Shore!), Rob Stella, and Patrick Williams, as well as Tina Exarhos, Judy McGrath, Karen Infantino, Marlene Rachelle, Sheree Lunn, and Lou Stellato at MTV. (Lou, how much candy have we eaten together over the years? Don’t answer! Ha ha!)
A lifelong thank-you to Mom and Dad. Love ya tons! Sorry about all the parties when you guys were away! And to Tom Vanderbilt, I love you “always and forever.”
And the most special thank-you to Dinah and Heather, the greatest sisters EVER, my first friends.
About the Author
JANCEE DUNN has been a writer for Rolling Stone since 1989. She has written hundreds of articles and twenty cover stories, including profiles of Brad Pitt, Cameron Diaz, Ben Affleck, and Madonna. She has written for many different publications, among them GQ, where she wrote a monthly sex advice column for five years; Vanity Fair; Harper’s Bazaar; O, The Oprah Magazine; Allure; and the New York Times. Her short story “Who’s My Little Man?” was published in the November 2003 issue of Jane magazine. From 2001 to 2002, she was an entertainment correspondent for Good Morning America. Before that she was a veejay for MTV2, MTV’s all-music station, from its inception in 1996 until 2001. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.
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Praise for But Enough About Me
“Disarmingly funny.”
—People
“I loved this book from start to finish. It’s…smart, poignant, and incredibly funny…. Jancee Dunn is a wonderful storyteller.”
—Curtis Sittenfeld, author of Prep
“A delightfully funny and warm memoir.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Relentlessly readable.”
—New York magazine
“Entertaining…. An inside look at being a celebrity journalist.”
—The New Yorker
“Rolling Stone writer Dunn sprinkles…juicy anecdotes from the trenches of celebrity journalism into her breezy memoir about a Jersey girl done good. Blessed with self-deprecating wit, Dunn is an irresistible narrator whose eccentric family, dear friends, and disastrous ex-boyfriends are as entertaining as the megastars she has built a career on profiling.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“A fresh look at our star constellations, from Madonna to Bono to Mel Gibson…. Dunn brings a fan’s enthusiasm to her showbiz profiles.”
—USA Today
“A hilarious, gushy, totally gratifying memoir…. You’ll thrill along with her as you read about the mood-lit love-den interview with Barry White that helped her recover from a broken heart, the visit to Dolly Parton’s kitchen that yielded a souvenir chunk of Velveeta, her drunken Lollapalooza wrestling match with Kim Deal. Even better, though, is Dunn’s own story, woven between tales of Stevie Nicks’s home decor and makeup tips from Boy George.”
—DailyCandy.com
“Both brainier and sweeter than any in the recent spate of media-insider memoirs…an unexpected treat…. While the author cannily delivers enough behind-the-velvet-rope anecdotes to satisfy…the book’s real strength lies in its moving account of how she, along with many of the stars she’s covered, struggled to retain integrity and humanity in a totally topsy-turvy world with limitless temptations…. The ultimate beach read for the person who likes pop culture served with a side of smarts.”
—Elle.com
“Pitch-perfect…. For the madcap Rolling Stone scribe, sharing Velveeta with Dolly Parton and being mistaken for Ben Affleck’s girlfriend were just a few fun stops on the way to the realization that everyone—herself included—has a story to tell.”
—Vogue
“Hilarious tales of a career spent chronicling life on the A-list.”
—Rolling Stone
“Juicy.”
—Us Weekly
“In fact, it is just Dunn’s guilelessness that makes her book so appealing…. But Enough About Me is remarkably rancor-free. Somehow, throughout her career, Dunn found something to like in even the most vapid, diva-esque, dolphin-loving stars, and never forgot how lucky she was to get paid to hang out with famous people.”
—Newsday
“Delightful.”
—Daily News
“Dunn went from big-hair suburban Jersey girl to celebrity chronicler for Rolling Stone, and doesn’t take it too seriously. How can you, when the paparazzi think you’re Ben Affleck’s girlfriend and Stevie Nicks invites you to a slumber party?”
—New York Post
“Extraordinarily witty…both a how-to for wannabes and a cautionary tale…freakin’ funny!”
—Associated Press
“Celebrity cravings can turn acute during summer…but Dunn’s raucous memoir can sate any such hunger…. A scrumptious raspberry trifle topped with whipped cream and Cointreau. Yum, yum.”
—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“A funny and savvy insider’s view with enough gossipy details to keep you dishing the dirt for days.”
—Hartford Courant
“A touching, laugh-out-loud memoir.”
—New Jersey Star-Ledger
“Dunn’s hilarious memoir, But Enough About Me, is at its best…when she opens up about learning to embrace her inner geek in a world of cool posturing.”
—Christian Science Monitor
“Enjoy all the trashy celebrity tidbits without the guilt of reading the tabloids. A writer for Rolling Stone since 1989, Dunn is marvelously self-deprecating in reliving her encounters with the likes of Dolly Parton and Mel Gibson.”
—Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“A delight to read…. By providing a zesty glimpse at her New Jersey childhood and young adulthood, Dunn offers a grounded counterpoint to the breezy tales of pop idol handling…. Amusing, clever, and affable, Dunn shares a satisfying memoir-turned-celebrity dish.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Sparkles with wry humor, touching honesty, and celebrity insight…. [Dunn’s] hilariously entertaining approach not only provides an incisive glimpse into the eclectic nature of Dunn’s subjects—who range from Madonna to Barry White—but also smoothly complements the material on her personal life.”
—Library Journal (starred)
“Funny, frothy, and fabulous…. Dunn is a master of character development.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Delightful reading from a humorous, down-to-earth writer.”
—Booklist
“But enough about me…let’s talk about Jancee Dunn. Jancee has “dunn” (pun intended) a spectacular job on this book. I am so proud to be a part of it. I was entertained and intrigued by all of the stories, as I’m sure all readers will be.”
—Dolly Parton
“Jancee Dunn’s memoir is hilarious—if you so much as glance at the first page, you won’t be able to keep from reading the whole thing. Dunn spent fifteen years reporting for Rolling Stone and learned that engaging celebrities is like squeezing a rubber duck at a baby in a photo studio. Dunn gave up everything to please those creatures inured to flattery and sincerity, and almost lost herself on the way. After reading But Enough About Me, you won’t be able to forget Jancee Dunn.”
—Matthew Klam, author of Sam the Cat
Copyright
BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME. Copyright © 2007 by Jancee Dunn. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or
hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition May 2007 ISBN 9780061739811
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