Dead Stars

by Bruce Wagner

  Perspirating stinkbreathed ulcer-prone scaredy-cat pub flaks delicately moved the celebs, demi-celebs & ¼celebs thru the open doors of the ballroom for cocktails and mingling . . . those same old-timey thirtyish lets that avoided the Fisk Karm knew better to mingle for free & besides, OCD handlers were in place to rush them to their designated tables for some well-earned alonetime. Meanwhile, bids were being placed for the silent auction (a banjo signed by Steve Martin & all the banjo greats; you could win a round of golf with Jack Black or Alec Baldwin ((both couldn’t make it tonight)); you could blind-bid on a box that said The Kardashian Experience, &tc.) then everyone was hustled to eat 1st so there would be no clinking & table-clearing once the show began.

  . . .

  Sitting at the other $100,000 table (the one Brando didn’t buy) were Michael and Catherine; Steve Martin (who’d flown in from NY where just hours after being voted president of PEN American Center); Joyce Carol Oates & husband No. 2 (who, in solidarity w/husband No. 1 has refused to read any of JCO’s work “because if I open that door I’ll have to walk thru it”); Tom & Rita Hanks; Sandra Bullock (sans black baby arm candy) with what the mags call Unidentified Friend; Nobel Prizewinner & former PEN American Center President Toni Morrison; Sol and Tiffany Koster. Tiff was President of the organization that puts on the Courage Ball, the very same who had the effrontery to perform a partial mastectomy on Telma’s appearance in tonight’s show.

  For a long while, there’d been a bubble of speculation about whether the Nobel Committee would come to their senses & just give it to her—to Joyce—but the bubble always burst. Each time it happened, sycophantic friends made the tiresome, toadying remark that JCO was the Nobel’s Susan Lucci, the same they said about Julian Barnes before he finally won the Booker. Common sense had forced Mrs. Oates to the unpleasant truth: Queen Toni’s investiture had knocked her out of the box for at least 30 years, because Oslo doesn’t do nationality-wins that close together, which means she’d be 85 when finally becoming eligible for consideration. The Committee was famously unpredictable but the line in front of her did seem rather long: there was Rushdie & Roth, not to mention the usual darkhorse bevy of unpronounceables writing in dead languages in civil war-torn stamp-sized countries too new or too old for anyone to have even heard of (anyone except for JCO).

  . . .

  They were giving Michael Douglas the Take Heart Award tonight for his fundraising efforts, whose most recent focus was on children. “Mine are coming of age,” he told Entertainment Tonight. “So it feels like a natural progression. Some of these kids are going to be the same doctors, researchers and scientists who’ll find that missing piece we’re still looking for in so many of these diseases we’re struggling to understand.”

  . . .

  At the Ooh Baby table: Biggie & Telma, Gwen & Phoebe, Aleisha & her parents, Biggie’s brother Brando, Wendy Mogel & budding author Bud Wiggins.

  Wendy was married to Michael Tolkin. Bud was her date tonight because her husband had to fly to New Zealand for the weekend, where a $125 million film was being shot from his script. There’d been a few skirmishes between director & , serious enough that they almost came to blows. Tolkin & the lead actor had a good relationship so the studio asked him to intervene. Wendy wryly said that he agreed to do “emotional triage.” Tolkin & one of his agents flew over, plus 2 studio semi-chieftains, plus 3 of the film’s producers, plus the actor’s & director’s agents. They were all staying at the same lodge, which Tolkin had christened “Olympic Village.”

  Wendy had written a number of bestsellers on healthy parenting. (Bud told her, “Where were you when my mother needed you!”) He knew Wendy all the way back to when she and Michael started dating. She was always kind to Bud, even when she knew he was down and out, something he never forgot. She looked Bud in the eye when he spoke, and generally treated him like a human being worthy of attention and respect.

  . . .

  Michael Douglas saw the documentary about Fran Lebowitz that Toni was in. He thought it was hilarious. He particularly loved the part where Fran talked about what it was like to accompany Toni & her retinue to Oslo for the Nobel ceremony. Ms. Morrison knew that Michael and Catherine hosted the Nobel Peace Prize Concert in 2003, for the Iranian woman.

  “Shirin Ebadi,” said Michael. “Brave lady. We had a great time with her. She’s Muslim. Yusuf Islam sang Peace Train.”

  “Isn’t that Cat Stevens?” said Toni.

  “Right. I don’t think the audience knew though.”

  “Of course they did!” said Catherine.

  “A lot of em didn’t. But I never argue with my wife.”

  “The hell you don’t,” said the firebrand.

  “Because I know it’ll end in blood. And it won’t be hers.”

  She swatted him, as was her wont.

  “We had a wonderful party in Oslo,” said the laureate. “Lou & Laurie—Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson—and Bono.”

  “Bono is such a giver,” said Catherine.

  “He sang ‘One,’” said Toni.

  “That’s what I sang!” said Catherine.

  “Not that ‘One.’ The U2 ‘One,’” he said.

  “I know. I was just being silly.”

  “Fran should have emceed,” said the actor to Toni. “I take it back—that might have been dangerous! She should have sung a little ditty with Lou.”

  “Did you know that she’s a wonderful lyricist? Fran is one of the great unsungs—literally!”

  “That’s funny.”

  “That woman astonishes me with her gifts. In my mind, she’s right up there with Sondheim & Noël Coward. But inevitably, unmistakably . . . Fran.” Her delivery was throaty and expansive, as was her laugh.

  “Catherine sang ‘One’—from A Chorus Line—when we were over there hosting the Peace Concert. Remember how much fun you had, Cat?”

  “Marvin Hamlisch wrote me new lyrics, so it made sense when I sung it to Shirin. But he didn’t really have to change too much. ‘She walks into a room & you know she’s uncommonly rare, very unique’—well that is Shirin. Marvin didn’t have to touch that.”

  “. . . peripatetic, poetic & chic,” said Joyce, finishing the lyric.

  “You know it!” said Catherine.

  “I do,” she said. “I actually reviewed A Chorus Line for The Times Literary Supplement.”

  . . .

  Telma got up from the table and ran off, dragging Biggie along.

  Brando said to Bud, “Did you get an email from my little brother?”

  “He sent it to me right after we met.”

  “So what do you think? Did you read it?”

  “I did. It’s an amazing story. It’s dark.”

  “Tell me about it. Welcome to my nightmare!”

  Bud said, “It made me think of Antigone.”

  Of course it hadn’t; it was Biggie who referenced the play. Bud read the detailed synopsis in SparkNotes online.

  “What’s Antigone?” asked Brando.

  “A Greek play,” said Bud, with casual assurance. “About a king who refuses to bury the body of his son. Antigone’s the sister, who tries to get her brother a decent burial.”

  “Jesus,” said Brando.

  “Everyone in it dies, don’t they?” said Wendy, almost rhetorically. She was easygoing, comfortably chiming in without having to know a whole backstory. “Antigone’s brother dies, then Antigone dies . . . doesn’t she hang herself? I think even the king dies. And the king’s son, & the king’s wife—————”

  Bud thought it was classy that Wendy always downplayed the scope of her knowledge. She probably spoke Greek.

  “Do you think there’s a movie there?” said Brando. The question was directed at Wendy as much as it was toward Bud. “Or maybe I should ask, do you think there’s a script.”

  Before Bud could answer, Telma roared up to the table holding a tall, ostrich-looking man’s hand. Biggie was right behind her, panting. He plunked down beside his brother while Telma stood bet
ween Phoebe & Gwen.

  “Mom! Look who I found! It’s Dr. Bessowichte!”

  The awkward Bessowichte shifted on his shifty feet.

  He was nothing to her but Dr. Mengele now.

  Gwen froze him out.

  “Mom? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing sweetheart.”

  “But you’re being rude!”

  “The doctor and I aren’t speaking. We had a difference of opinion.”

  “About what?”

  Gwen hesitated a moment, then:

  “Obama.”

  . . .

  Telma on the run again, a sugarless people high.

  OMG she saw Khloé Kardashian. OMG!!! They hugged and hugged, hadn’t seen each other since the KKs took over Lucy’s El Adobe for Kourtney’s birthday. Ryan Seacrest paid Khloé and Telma $25,000 to sing “Smile,” & all the money went to the ped-OINK Research wing of St. Ambrose’s.

  Telma told Khloé she was singing “Over the Rainbow” tonight and was going on right after Beyoncé. Khloé said she already knew that, because it was in the program (it was too late to print the change re the Aleisha finale). OMG you’re CLOSING the SHOW! said Khloé, which made Telma feel funny/sick in her stomach. You’re my little STAR! I cannot BELIEVE that BEYONCÉ is your opening act!!! Telma said, Yeah I know, I’m at the very end, well not the VERY end but ALMOST (unable to bring herself to tell Khloé that in fact she, Telma, was the opening act for ALEISHA, she felt funny in her stomach again, sick & less-than & ashamed). Then Telma had an idea how she could totally steal the show from Aleisha if Khloé sang “Rainbow” with her like they did for Kourtney’s bday. Khloé! Khloé! Do you want to sing it with me do you WANT TO do you want to do a DUET with me?!?! Khloé laughed, Telma was so happy, she knew she’d found a perfect solution, a way out of the nightmare, Telma hung on Khloé saying how much everyone would love it but Khloé held firm, she said she hated her voice & that she’d “officially retired as a singer. Too painful!” But what if someone pays us $25,000?! Khloé laughed again. I’m totally serious, Biggie will! My friend Biggie & his brother will, they’ll probably give us a MILLION dollars if we sang———My little HUSTLER! said Khloé with great affection. No, she couldn’t, she really just wanted to sit & enjoy & not have the spotlight on her, it was such a relief not to even have the cameras there tonight (the absence of which had initially depressed Telma but then she was glad because all they would do was capture Aleisha’s performance and make a out of her), Lamar was in NYC & all she wanted to do tonight was be entertained by Telma & “your opening act, Beyoncé.”

  Then Telma remembered with a shock the letter she wrote to Khloé’s mom, she was going to send it to askkris @ Life&Style mag, but why, what a lame plan, what was wrong with her, why didn’t she just think of getting it to Khloé to give to Kris there were a hundred different ways she could have done that, but this was so easy because Telma had actually known for two weeks now that Khloé was probably coming to the Courage Ball—or why didn’t she even think of just leaving it in the Kardashian mailbox (which on 2nd thought probably wasn’t the easiest thing to do, with the security they probably had at the house) with a note that said something like “Pass it on! signed Telma El Adobe.” Luckily, Telma hadn’t yet mailed it anywhere so she ran back to the table & told Khloé she had a letter she wanted her to pass onto her mom, it was very personal, & Khloé said of course she would, Telma said she couldn’t give it to her tonight because it was back at the house & Khloé said not a problem, tomorrow she’d send a courier, not a messenger—the Kardashians know how to do EVERYTHING!!!!) to Telma’s house in Cheviot Hills. Khloé said, “But honey why send a letter when you can just talk to Mom directly?” Telma said OMG do you think she would have the time? & Khloé laughed and said “She’s my mom. I think I know her schedule better than you do! Mom’ll make the time, or I will kick her fat ass. She will always have time for you!”

  It was all too much to compute, Khloé was saying her mom always had time for her but Telma barely remembered even saying that much of a hello to Kris at Kourtney’s party, not that she supposed it really mattered, & besides, Telma was really starting to spin out on her crazed sugarfree people-high (she was actually a “vegan Nazi”—she stopped eating sugar when she learned she had kancer, the nutritionist told her to stay away from all karcinogenic or “kancer-friendly” items especially sugar, Telma was always telling everyone ((especially the parents of kancerkidz)) ((except not Aleisha’s mom)) that sugar was THE ABSOLUTE WORST for the human body & along with dairy which human beings were not meant to consume could literally FEED THE KANCER AND KILL you). She thanked Khloé & said she had to hurry and go find Michael Douglas before the show began & Khloé laughed, saying My little hustler again then turned to the unidentified friend sitting next to her to say, This girl’s gunna GO places. As Telma left she extracted/confirmed Khloé’s promise that once she got the letter, she would hand-courier it to Mama Bear. Khloé said she absolutely would but to please call if she wanted her to just pick her up & drive her to Kris’ house (OMG!!!!!!!!) adding with a wink how it was all very mysterious, this mysterious letter, & what a mysterious girl she was & how adorable—turning again to her unidentifed friend to say: Agent Telma—International Woman of Mystery!

  The excitable little gal flitted from the table, like a bee moving on to another flower.

  . . .

  Dessert and coffee were being served.

  Bud had a few ideas for movies in his back pocket that he wanted to float past Brando. Hey why not, I’m a made man, already in the Ooh Baby stable. Real smooth and casual . . . just plant a seed. You never know.

  “What do you think about doing a kind of prequel to The Social Network, except it’s about the early days of Microsoft. When the cracks in the business—and the personal relationship between Gates & Paul Allen—are just starting to show. Gates was trying to get rid of Allen, even if he had to lie and cheat. And Allen has cancer! Bill Gates is Mark Zuckerberg.”

  “Then who’s Eduardo Saverin?”

  “Paul Allen.”

  “And who’s the Winklevoss twins?”

  “I don’t know if we need twins,” said Bud. “But if what you’re asking is did Gates fuck anyone else over there are lots of people out there. But we could have a pair of twins . . .” Bud didn’t want to talk about actual story anymore; he wanted to get to the mechanics of a potential deal. “I don’t think we need the rights to the Paul Allen book—it’s all public record. We would need to get permission from De Luca and Scott Rudin. I know them both, for years,” Bud lied, knowing such a detail was irrelevant. “We should obviously pitch Columbia, cause they already own it.”

  Brando thought a moment, then said, “You think that’s something Sorkin would want to write?”

  “Uhm, maybe.” Even though it seemed obvious to Bud that he was pitching himself to script it, he thought he should have been clearer. “This whole area’s actually totally in my wheelhouse. [A word the agents used 30 years ago, though Bud wasn’t sure if it was still en vogue] “I really think I could ace this. And I’ve got a great title: Hotmail. I don’t think we’d even need to get permission from Microsoft, because it’s ‘fair use.’ Isn’t that a cool title? Hotmail?”

  . . .

  Telma finally finds Michael and Catherine.

  Big hugs.

  Michael turns to Rita Wilson and says: “That’s my tea partner. My tea partner in crime.”

  He formally introduced Telma to Tom and Rita. “Aha!” said Tom, waving the program. “So you’re the one who’s closing the show! I gotta warn you, though, Telma, Beyoncé can be a tough act to follow.”

  “Talk to Beyoncé, Tom,” said Michael. “Have a few words.”

  “I’ll tell her to bring it down a few notches,” said Tom. “I’ll tell her to sit on it.”

  “I’ll bet you will,” said Michael. Catherine instantly swatted him.

  “I’m sorry, Cat,” said Tom re Michael’s penchant for double entendre. “Apparently,
it doesn’t take much to get this guy started.”

  “Don’t listen to these two clowns,” said Catherine to Telma. “You’re going to blow Beyoncé out of the water.”

  “Of course she is,” said Rita.

  “Don’t you worry about Telma,” said Michael. “She can hold her own. She’s a showstopper, this one. Aren’t you.”

  . . .

  Suzanne Somers storms over to Gwen—a woman on a mission. They’ve known each other for years but never really outside of the benefit machine. Tho watching Suzanne playfully grab hold of Gwen’s arm for all to see, you’d think they were sisters.

  “Come with me NOW.”

  Suzanne’s putting on a little show, the way celebrities do, holding Gwen’s hand as she weaves them through tables with an oomfy stride, everything sped up, just a smidgen larger than life, acceptable theater, low-watt, kicky spectacle. Gwen feels the eyes of the diners on them and it feels good; like having a small serving of how celebs must feel most of the time. In this case, everyone knows Suzanne, of course, but no one knows Gwen . . . she must be somebody, but who? Gwen loves the ambiguity.

  As they head for god knows which table, Suzanne says, “He’s amazing.”

  “Who?” says Gwen, a bit breathless, pleasantly distracted by each fresh set of spectator eyes.

  “He worked with Tina on her chanting album.”

  “Tina?”