When I finished choking on my wine, I immediately sidled up to him, cursing myself for failing to change into flats. He is about five-feet tall, and in heels, I am nearly six-feet. He didn't seem bothered and we began to exchange the requisite political pleasantries: He's "really good friends" with Hillary Clinton, but then liked Barack Obama and ended up voting for him in the primary; oh, and the only thing he didn't like about Hillary's speech last night was her orange pantsuit, describing it as "not the most flattering choice." Which is fair!
Then, out of the blue, I blurted out: "Is the song 'Gasolina' really about chicks who do a lot of coke?"
I immediately regretted my question. Couldn't I have transitioned a little more subtly? He opened his mouth and I thought he was going to admonish me or walk away or call his publicist/guard dog to escort me, red-faced, out the door. Instead he told me, in his smooth, one-note, slightly garbled voice, that it wasn't wise, when you're throwing a party, to start drinking vodka too early in the evening, otherwise, "When three o'clock in the morning rolls around, you're standing on top of a building with your shirt off screaming 'I'm a Golden God,' and you come back downstairs and there are Eastern European mafia people doing cocaine off your coffee table." He added for emphasis, "One's judgment is seriously impaired by drinking straight vodka very early."
Find out who it is here.
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