Tuesday, March 22, 2011


The first chapter of what's sure to be a life-long comradery.
By Alex Nagorski
(My BFFL C Lovez and I)

So there I was: minding my own business, walking down Broadway, bopping to Ke$ha and slicing away at some Fruit Ninja on my phone. I was en route to meet up with a friend for drinks prior to a show some of our friends from college had written. The date was Saturday, March 5 – which in gay time can be referred to as five whole days before Femme Fatale leaked.

All of a sudden, I feel someone’s hand grab the part of my body that would be a bicep had I not given up on the Insanity workout DVDs after day three. “Excuse me,” someone boisterously says. I take out my earphones and turn around to see who it is. Naturally, it’s Courtney Love.

“Hi, I’m sorry but I’m so fucking lost. Do you have any idea where ABC Carpet and Home is?” she asks me. She’s wearing a short black dress with an oversized black trenchcoat and stilettos that have a heel larger than her album sales have ever been. “Sure,” I respond. “It’s only a couple blocks down and I’m heading that way anyway. Would you like me to walk you?”

“You’re a fucking doll,” Courtney replies to me as she links her arm around mine and I begin escorting her down the bustling city street. “They should never let rock stars out at night,” she snickers as she snorts back the snot dripping from her nose – a cute little tick she kept doing for the rest of the night. Flu or ... ?

I’m thinking I should somehow acknowledge who she is. “I don’t know if this is inappropriate for me to say, but I really enjoyed the Hole record you put out last year,” I tell her. “That’s totally appropriate for you to say! You’re like one of four people who listened to it. What’s not appropriate is if you were to tell me how much you love Nirvana,” she responds. Immediately I start hearing my best friend Gina’s conspiracy theories on why Courtney actually killed Kurt playing back in my head. I have no response. Cricket cricket.

We get to ABC Carpet and Home but the store is closed. Courtney starts knocking on the door as two security guards come to the door. “Store’s closed, ma’am,” they tell her. “I have an appointment on the third floor,” Courtney replies. The guards do their little walky talky magic (reminding me how happy I am that Nextels don’t exist anymore) and tell her she’s allowed inside. “What are you doing right now?” she asks me. “Come with me!” she says while grabbing my hand and pulling me into the store with her.

And that’s how I literally spent the next 45-minutes walking around the empty store with Courtney Love and picking out plates, vases, pillows, cups, lamps, etc. for her new house. We chatted about everything from the British art dealer she’s seeing (“because who isn’t an art dealer these days, right?”) to how she’s the one that brought Russell Brand over to America (“I like nursed him on my tit”) to how I have “surprisingly really good taste” in home furnishings (“Thanks?”).

At the end of our little shopping excursion, the staff of the store had us leave through the service exit because the gates in the main entrance were already secured into place. As we parted ways (me to my friends’ show and her to an art opening), we hugged and did the European two-cheek-peck goodbye. “Sorry, do you mind if I take a picture with you so that my friends believe me why I’m late?” I ask. She doesn’t argue that for a moment and continues to thank me for helping her.

Courtney Love is not at all what I expected her to be. She was actually a very easy-to-talk-to (albeit neurotic) person. I mean sure, it was diva-ish of her to insist on making the staff of the store stay after hours so she could shop, but a simple Google search of her name will reveal far worse offenses. She was talking to me like I was an old friend and I was half expecting her to offer that we have a sleepover so we would give each other makeovers, share a roll of cookie dough, and practice making out. And just for the record: I totally would have done it.

Originally published on Crazytown Blog

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