Even though he's a millionaire rock star, it totally sucks to be Sir Paul McCartney. I know, I saw him last night at the EMI Grammy party on the Paramount lot, and rather than enjoying the usual trappings of rock stardom – hot girls sitting on your lap, mountains of cocaine, vegan gourmet canapes – poor Sir Paul had to deal with literally dozens of old A&R men with sad Monkees haircuts jostling around him, desperate for their moment with Sir Beatle. Rather than stand in line with the losers, I went straight for the kill, and made eye contact with Sir Paul.
I smiled, I waved.
He smiled, he waved.
I smiled, I waved again, accentuating the pout a little more this time, working the cleavage.
He smiled, he waved back.
Then it got boring, so I walked away. Clearly the relationship wasnt going anywhere. Still – I reckon I was the hottest action he got all night.
I also made friends with Rodney Bingenheimer which was fun. He was standing talking to someone and I really wanted to say hello but thought to myself “I dont want to be that annoying girl who interrupts a celebrity's conversation with a dear friend just to make some inane gushing comment”. Then I thought “you know what? fuck it”.
I gently tapped him on the arm and apologized for interrupting, before telling him how much I admire him and all he has done to promote good music in Los Angeles. “Thank you for being you,” I told him, and I totally meant it. Sincerity is a rare commodity in this town, and I guess he enjoyed it because he gave me his biz card and told me to tell everyone back in my home town of London that you can listen to him on the web now, at www.kroq.com. I guess they are podcasting his show or something – about bloody time. The man is a hero, a legend, a prince. I was very happy to have met him.
Posted by Caroline Ryder
Advertising disclosure: We may receive compensation for some of the links in our stories. Thank you for supporting LA Weekly and our advertisers.