Liza, Is That You?

Photo: Bruce Glikas, Getty

This is a cautionary tale of celebrity worship, desperation, and a mealy-mouthed, missed opportunity.

Over the years, whether as a former PR practitioner, audience member, or stalker, I have met or at least been in the vicinity of many famous people. Most of these encounters took place in New York, some in LA, and a couple transpired in my hometown of Cleveland. The most notorious occurred in Monte Carlo.

Among my brushes with the famous, Maya Angelou called me “garçon” when I was tasked with chaperoning her around a booksellers convention.

As a flack, I promoted photo shoots with supermodels Naomi Campbell, Cindy Crawford, and Elle McPherson. 

As a diner, I sweltered at Le Cirque when Aretha Franklin made the management turn up the heat in mid-July to protect her instrument. 

Another time, I witnessed Cher holding court across from my table at the Russian Tea Room.

Joe once guarded the men’s room for Demi Moore to relieve herself at the Mercer Hotel in New York because -- when you gotta go, you gotta go.

I even had one of the original Supremes, Mary Wells, vamp Stop! In the Name of Love! three feet away from me when she was shopping around her autobiography.

All that, and Danny Kaye made me and my family dinner in the late ‘70s. 

One would think I was well primed for an encounter with a megastar.

But none of this prior celebrity adjacency had prepared me for a vertiginous 2005 brush with the ultimate prize. That is when I crossed paths with the one and only mother of all gay icons. I’m talking about Liza with a “z.”

Hotel de Paris
Monte Carlo

Joe and I were on a Mediterranean cruise that stopped in Monte Carlo. We had splurged on a sumptuous dinner at the Hôtel de Paris and, upon exiting its restaurant into the gilded main lobby, came across a petite, impeccably dressed, animated woman. She was a dead-ringer for Liza Minnelli. That is because she was Liza Minnelli.

Frazzled, overwrought, and at a loss for words, and immediately recognizing this as an urgent, potentially life-changing opportunity, I searched my normally fertile vocabulary for the perfect words that would create an instant and indelible bond with Liza. 

I am not sure what I was hoping to accomplish. Maybe I believed she would invite us to the bar piano and sing me and Joe songs from Cabaret. Or she would confide in us about her many failed marriages. Any time spent with Liza would gain me entry into the diva worship hall of fame. 

To my everlasting disgrace, I fumbled. The feeble words that came out of my mouth formed a tentative, uncertain question: “Liza, is that you?”

Losing ground and desperate, realizing that was not enough to forge a bond, I hastened to add, “I’m your biggest fan.” I’m sure she’d never heard that before.

She stared at me dumbfounded, irritated, and nonplussed. 

My question -- “Liza, is that you?” -- could be interpreted in one of two ways. I hoped she would perceive me as a dear, long-lost friend with whose path she was now colliding at the Hôtel de Paris. As so often happens among the in-crowd in Monte Carlo. 

But the truth is, I was probing to determine whether this was in fact her or a drag impersonator. I had encountered so many Liza impersonators and drag performers over the years that I’d hesitated to believe this was the real McCoy. 

It says something about my status quo that, when faced with greatness, my mind gravitates to drag queen rather than to living legend. Obviously, this was the real Liza in the lobby of the Hôtel de Paris. I don’t think they let impersonators loiter there.

My words fell on indifferent ears. She was getting ready to move on. Becoming more desperate, and realizing this was really her, I sank to rock bottom and asked if she’d just take a photo with me. I had descended from a long-lost pal to a drooling celebrity worshipper in no time. 

She sized me up. She sniffed. I did not pass muster. “I don’t think so” was her curt reply. Those were the only words she had for me as she stomped off to the bar. And that was that. 

Joe and I spotted Liza on the hotel’s balcony the next day. I zoomed in with my camera. She was in a bathrobe -- no glam this time. So close and yet so far. 

Over the years, my family has taunted me with the phrase, “Liza, is that you?” It is synonymous with blowing it big-time. It was the fumble I will never live down.

A photo of Liza taken while stalking her 
the day after she blew me off.