I intended it as a joke. While walking into Churchill Downs on Derby Day last year, my conversation with friends touched on the list of celebrities who were in attendance — Jennifer Love Hewitt, Dennis Hopper and Usher, to name a few — and I quipped that the only celeb I cared to see was Tommy Lee, the famous (and at times infamous) drummer from the ’80s band Motley Crue. I deemed him worthy because he was the one with the most kitsch factor and, to tell the truth, because I still had fond memories of a New Jersey adolescence spent wearing too much eyeliner and listening to “Looks That Kill.” Ah, those were formative years. I hadn’t yet heard of the think-it-and-it-shall-be-done bestseller The Secret, but I uttered the magic words and sent my intention out into the universe, decreeing that somehow I would have my picture taken with Tommy Lee.
And then it happened. I paid a visit to a fri/files/storyimages/with box seats just below the Turf Club’s balcony. As I stood chatting, I looked up and there was Tommy Lee at his Turf Club table. It was fate, kismet, a planet-aligning moment. At first, the fear of looking like some sort of celebrity hound paralyzed me. I debated with my fri/files/storyimages/for a good 20 minutes about the pros and cons of actually approaching the ex-hubby of Pamela Anderson until she gave up and went for another mint julep. It’s not easy facing your fate, but I took a deep breath and rose to stand in a long line of ladies — some old enough to be my mother — waiting for my turn with the outrageous rocker.
My fears subsided as I realized that a quite-gregarious Tommy Lee was very much enjoying the bevy of camera-toting star-seekers. (The Crue’s “Girls, Girls, Girls” started playing in my head.) As I climbed over a chair to get next to him, I offered up the disclaimer that I’d never celebrity-stalked before. He said, “That’s all right, honey,” as a lady in line behind me took the picture, and my brief brush with Tommy Lee was over. Then she handed my camera back and snapped, “I’m next!”
