Who's The Boss?

The moment I found out The Boss was doing a meet and greet in Union Square I jumped all over that free ticket, because who doesn't want a photo with Diana Ross, right?  Well bless my little gay heart it wasn't her, but Bruce Springsteen, whose constipated growl I'm not a fan of, which is why I sold it (for a substantial profit, thank you eBay!) to this sweet lady who flew herself in from Detroit and got a room in NYC for two nights just to meet me Bruce and get a signed copy of his memoir.  Since my name was printed on the ticket and ID was required, I met her at the store to purchase the book and give her the wristband required for entry, and that's where things went horribly wrong.

For Barnes & Noble.

Because although it was one person-one ticket, we both walked in together, they scanned my ticket without asking for ID, gave us BOTH wristbands, and directed us to the register where we BOTH purchased the book.  Fast forward four hours and I'm shaking The Boss's hand, thanking him for his stance on Trump, posing for this photo and walking out with a limited edition signed memoir (going up on eBay shortly) and a half month's rent in profit.

I'm the boss!

Scared Shitless

My friend Ashleigh has been giving me shit about taking a picture of the Halloween house since I first moved to LA back in 2006.  I'm not talking about the Halloween house that Six Flags (or your local church) puts on every year to scare the shit out of little kids and horny, drunken teenagers, but the real house where Jamie Lee Curtis babysat in John Carpenter's 1978 classic Halloween, which I lived around the corner from for a year but never bothered checking out because scary movies scare me, but finally went and took a picture of the last time I was in LA just to shut her up.  Speaking of Jamie Lee (and shit), here's a photo I FINALLY got with the notoriously difficult scream queen (and star of Scream Queens, season two debuting 9 PM tonight) at a children's book signing (yes, I endured a room full of children for this) right after a guy threw a tantrum about not getting his Halloween memorabilia signed and an older lady thanked Jamie Lee for convincing her to eat yogurt so she could poop regularly.

Paris Is Burning

But it's nothing a dose of Vagisil won't cure.  World famous DJ Paris Hilton took a break from her life's work of being vapid on every continent to hawk her latest perfume on the Today Show this morning, and it's a good thing I got used to the smell of stale spray tanner, jizz breathe and the desperate need for attention while living in LA or this picture wouldn't have been possible.

Those Are The Days Of Our Lives

I was never much of a Days of Our Lives fan, because let's face it, watching someone come back from the dead for the hundredth time or get possessed by a demon is way more unbelievable than a pregnant nun being killed by a giant letter C in a windstorm or a woman being presumed dead when she's actually being held captive in Utah by a mountain man and her long lost evil sister like the storylines on Santa Barbara, my favorite daytime soap opera growing up, but even I know about supercouple Bo and Hope Brady, thanks to neverending coverage in Soap Opera Digest.  So here's Peter Reckell, who played Bo Brady (and Johnny Rourke, opposite Nicollette Sheridan as Paige Matheson in one of Knot's Landing's worst storylines).

Not My Lover

Billie Jean is not my lover.  She's just a woman who claims that I'm not the one because I've got a penis and she's into chicks.  She introduced herself to me ("Hi.  Billie Jean." as she shook my hand) as if I didn't know she was a former World No. 1 tennis player with 39 grand slam titles, the founder of the Women's Tennis Association, a member of the International Tennis Hall of Fame, Time magazine's Person of the Year, a Presidential Medal of Freedom winner and the winner of the legendary Battle of the Sexes tennis match against Bobby Riggs in 1973.  I mean, really?  Humble much?