Star Effed By... Sheryl Crow

Sometimes you eff stars. Sometimes stars eff you.

In this ongoing feature, I will relay unsavory encounters I've had with stars and other sundry celestial beings. Many of these left me scarred and depressed. I thought you'd find them amusing.

For the inaugural entry (heh, I said "entry") we will be reviewing my encounter with Sheryl Crow. I call it:

"SHERYL HATES PEOPLE WITH DOWNS SYNDROME"

Before I begin, it's only fair to let Sheryl have a chance to defend herself. She issued the following public statement:

"Hit it!
This ain't no disco
It ain't no country club either
This is LA!"

Hmmm, well she does have a point there. Still, you should hear my side of the story.

The year was 1994. I was a doe-eyed innocent - my dreams, as yet, un-shattered. I scored a weekend gig working as a "Talent Escort" for a star-studded benefit concert. No, not that kind of escort. I didn't have to spread, lick or take "it" for anybody.

My job was to be the liason between the show organizers and the A-list performers. And oh my, what an A-list it was: Salt 'n' Pepa, Ru Paul, Lil' Richard, LL Cool J, Carrot Top! Only the best and the brightest.

Ok, it wasn't all bad. We also had Elton John, Tom Hanks, Bonnie Raitt, Warren Beatty, George Michael, Don Henley and more.

Oh yeah... and Sheryl Effing Crow.

All of us escorts were each assigned to a specific celebrity. Mine was Garth Brooks. Now I've got nothing bad to say about Garth - a nicer man does not exist. My job was to stand outside his dressing room and be at his beck and call, but since Garth is so low maintenance, I never had to do anything. So I ended up just standing there, bored out of my mind for TEN hours. The only source of entertainment came from watching the dressing room across the way, as it belonged to none other than Eagles great Don Henley.

Standing across from Don's door, I bore witness as countless hussies came a knockin' - tarted up, smelling yummy, and seeking some QT with the DH. But of the multitude of little birdies that pecked on his door, there was only one that gained admittance to the Eagle's Nest: a Crow.

Now, I don't know what what they did in there all day, but I did hear SNIFFING. Lots and lots of sniffing. Maybe they were crying. Maybe they both had colds. Or maybe there was a lot of dust in that dressing room...like, some sort of white dust that could be collected onto a mirror and separated into little neat lines with a credit card.

Every time the door would open, I glanced in. I was bored to tears and a chance to see what was going on between two celebrities was all too enticing. But every time I looked in, my eyes were met with the steely glare of Sheryl Crow. Her smile would melt as she saw me, and she'd give me this look that seemed to ask, "What are you looking at assface?"

CUT TO: After the show. Garth had finished performing - beautifully I might add - and given me a bear hug in front of all the other jealous escorts, before disappearing into a limousine headed for the airport. A few minutes later, the Talent Coordinator chimed in over my walkie, "Fabe, we need you as a floater. Are you available? Over."

"Yes. Where do you want me? Over."

"We can't find Sheryl Crow's escort. Go let her know that her limo is five minutes away. Over."

"Roger that," I snapped efficiently. The Garth Brooks experience left me feeling high and mighty. I now fancied myself a kind of soldier to the stars as I marched on over to Sheryl's dressing room.

I knocked. There was no reply. I knocked again. Still no reply. I waited about thirty seconds - just in case she was pinching a loaf or something. Discretion is my middle name. I pondered the origins of the name on the shiny placard before me: "Sheryl Crow." Doesn't sound Jewish.

Then I knocked again, only this time really loud. I immediately heard an angry female voice issue the following reply:

"Come IN already, what the FUCK?!"

I opened the door to find Sheryl and fifteen of her closest friends SNIFFING and grinning at me like hyenas. "Didn't you hear me? I said 'come in' like ten fucking times! What are you, reTARded?" The hyenas laughed maniacally. Remember Jabba the Hut's little muppet sidekick in 'Return of the Jedi'? They sounded like him, only times fifteen.

"Uh...I just wanted to, uh..."

She cut me off, started imitating me as though I had Downs Syndrome, "Duh...I juth..dum...uhh, I juth..."

My face flushed red. Am I being punked by Sheryl Crow? She then did that fake sign language thing with her hands and over enunciated, "What...do...you...WANT?"

I blurted out, "Your limo's five minutes away."

She looked at me as though I had just farted. "So, is that it?"

I nodded. She turned away disgusted, waved a dismissive hand. "Fine. Run along now."

I wanted to say something. I couldn't let her get away with that. I was usually great at witty retorts - they always came easily. But not this time. My mind was still reeling at the fact that Sheryl Crow had just wiped her ass with me. All I could do was slam the door shut. And as I did, peals of uproarious LAUGHTER erupted from inside her dressing room. The hyenas were tearing me to pieces. Mortified, I scurried over to Salt 'n' Pepa's dressing room to console myself, thinking it was empty.

But it wasn't. There I was, suddenly face to face with Pepa, gathering her make-up. Before I could excuse myself, she looked up at me, flicked her long red braids and asked in a genuinely concerned fashion, "You doin alright, baby?" Ahhh Pepa. You always know what to say, mama.

Just then, the Talent Coordinator chimed in over the walkie: "Fabe. Please tell Sheryl Crow her limo has now arrived."

I hesitated a moment before replying, "Sorry I... I can't. Get someone else to do it. Uh...over."

Pepa smiled and as she walked past me she uttered the kindest words I've ever heard:

"That's right... FUCK Sheryl Crow."