What was Jillian doing at 10:30 last night?
A.) Reading to the blind
B.) Throwing one of my regular weekday cocktail parties
C.) Stalking Lynda Carter in an alley under the el tracks
This story starts a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away...
Way back when I was freshman in college, I lived in a dorm at Loyola. Loyola is run by alarmist Catholic wackadoos, so the freshman dorms were designed as impenetrable fortresses to protect the virtue of the wee little freshman babies freshly imported from affluent suburbs from any evildoers lurking the streets of Roger's Park. And by 'evildoers', they meant black people (hey don't get pissed at me, they's the haters).
My dorm had several levels of security, the most consistent being the security desk by the dorm entrance. Of course, I didn't for a moment consider the possibility of actually following the dorm rules and regs, so I devised a plan to get in good with the security staff. Turned out, that wasn't too hard as most of the security was damn crazy and we all know how much crazy people enjoy me.
Dave calls me "The Patron Saint of Crackheads" [That's pretty little David in the picture]
One my first day at the dorms on my mission of good will, I met one regular security staffer. Dude (forgive me for not remembering his name, I drink) was late 30's, black, and pretty darn unhinged. I said hello and he immediately SHOUTS at me "HEY! YOU KNOW WHO YOU LOOK LIKE?! LYNDA CARTER!!" I was at the tender age of 17, so naturally I didn't know anything about anything - much less who the hell Lynda Carter was. He goes on: "YOU KNOW! WONDERWOMAN!" I thought this was a pretty rad assessment, so I thanked Dude and introduced myself.
The introduction was obviously a wasted effort since, for the remainder of the year I lived in that dorm, he would scream "WONDERWOMAN!" or "LYNDA CARTER!" at the top of his lungs every time he would see me. This seems charming and harmless, but it proved awkward to explain the situation to the surprised and puzzled crowd every time this nutball would pull this crap. At some point I mentioned this story to my friend Steve, which brings us to the events of last night...
LAST NIGHT
Steve calls me up as I'm chilling on the couch, enjoying a glass of spirited italian white and taking in some Family Guy. I had had a long day of meetings with vegan raw food afficionados (yes, really) and preparing marketing solutions, but I just couldn't pass up the opportunity when Steve asked if I'd like to join him to see Lynda Carter do her cabaret act at a theater in Lincoln Park. He also mentioned that he thought of me because of the crazy story I had recounted to him so long ago.
I rushed to sass myself up for the event, opting for a simple black dress in a crisp microfiber. I added an extra wide turquoise belt with patent accents as a fashionable homage to the superhero we were planning to see. [I tried to get Steve to wear his famous padded Superman costume, but he pussied out. PUNK!]. Steve arrived and we headed out. The game was afoot!
I know I say this often, but I really am an asshole. Witness: We arrived at the theater, acquired some cocktails, and handed our tickets to the first usher. She was pleasant and chatty, making small talk with the patrons as they were entering. So I asked her if Lynda Carter planned to take her shirt off.
The performance was lovely, even if the material was a bit stale. At 27 years, I've heard everyone the world over do the jazz standards she was working. '50 Ways to Leave Your Lover' was an unexpected and engaging addition to the program and her take on 'Cry Me a River' was pitch perfect. Her signature tune is 'Always' but it was pretty flat. Who gives a fuck though? Wonderwoman could have been up there flinging feces at the crowd and speaking ill of our mothers, and everyone would have loved it. She's a fucking superhero, bitches, she can do whatever she wants.
The show wraps up, and Steve and I make our exit. The car was parked behind the building in the alley and Steve lamented that he had a 8x10 glossy of Wonderwoman and wouldn't it be cool if she would sign it? Steve also claims that he just so happens to have this picture and it was a gift from some unnamed person. I say: what a load of hooey! Steve, you totally got that off ebay and you sleep with it under your pillow every night, don't lie. Remember: I can smell your fear.
Conveniently, as we were sitting in Steve's vehicle (the vehicle is named 'Ironman', it's stenciled across the hood), the keyboard player from the band wandered past. We quickly formed a plan. I hailed the keyboard player from the car window and complimented his performance. He saw me and smiled, then saw Steve and nearly climbed into the car with us (just a little bit gay, ya think). We acted like we gave a shit about where he usually plays and then hit him up for the big money: where is Wonderwoman and how can we get her to sign Steve's picture. He gave us some bull about how she has guests in town and won't be signing anything tonight. Steve must have been making lewd gestures to the guy behind my back, because then he pointed out the stage door and said we could catch her coming out.
So what was I doing at 10:30 last night? Stalking Lynda Carter in an alley under the el tracks. We hung out for ten minutes or so, brainstorming ways to overpower her chaffeur and sneak into her car, effectively ambushing her and risking the wrath of her golden lasso. Finally she came out with her entourage and immediately got into her car. A few rabid fans manged to pass their merchandise for her to sign into the car via her manager, but Steve was left disappointed in a cloud of exhaust as her car pulled away. Oh Lynda, don't make me do it. Fuck, I can't help myself.
An Open Letter to Lynda Carter
Dear Lyndaboo,
We've been tight for quite some time but, as your good friend, I have to say a few things that you need to hear. We're not back in the early 80's anymore, when I used to stunt double for you and act as your personal decoy. I mentioned to a few people that I was catching your act last night, and the response was overwhelmingly "Who?" You keep that in mind, honey: Wonderwoman was done long ago. And television actors were never allowed to pull the diva crap.
I won't waste time by bashing your ratty looking extensions, but I will say it's obvious you've gotten a little too big for your britches. Considering the sausage casing you were wearing as a skirt last night, you'll soon be too big for all of your apparel. My friend and I were hanging out by the stage door after the show, just wanting to say hey. You came out, TOTALLY ACTED LIKE YOU DIDN'T KNOW ME AT ALL, condescended to sign a few autographs, and took off. Now let's be real clear here: there wasn't some giant crowd out there, all squealing for your attention. It was 6 people, tops. Yes, that's right, 6 motherfucking people and you couldn't find the time to sign my buddy's picture.
All I can say is that I hope you were rushing off to either a proper tailor (it defeats the purpose if you can actually see the control top granny panties through your clothes) or a vocal lesson. Everyone thought it was sweet that you sang "Always" for your husband, but you butchered that shit. Your tone-deaf renditions of Smiths tunes is the reason I ended our illegal gay marriage in the first place, so you better knock it off with the serenades if you want to hold on to this relationship. Watch it with the attitude, sister; arrogant and washed-up are not a good combination. And for chrissakes, put on some moisturizer.
He'll never love you like I love you,
Jillian
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