From Amazon
Move over Richard Blackwell--it's official: fashion guru Steven Cojocaru, the self-styled "cheese soufflé" of journalists and world-class name-dropper, has arrived. People magazine's West Coast style editor and the Today show's resident fashion correspondent has scored what few fashion pundits do: a dishy yet reflective autobiography, one that traces his Jewish Romanian roots in 1970s Montreal to rubbing elbows with Hollywood royalty. Cojocaru, who grew up on a steady diet of Charlie's Angels, Dynasty, and Cher (his "visual tsunami"), always felt he was destined for celebrity. Early on he recalls the important life lesson he gleaned at age 10: "Money talks, and I could be bought. And second lesson: Hair is everything." While he admits he rarely returns to Montreal, it's evident Cojocaru still loves the city of his youth, lavishing a full third of the book on his hometown, from booking one-hit wonder Laura Branigan for a local telethon, to covering star-studded parties for Flare magazine (which Cojocaru dubs the "InStyle of the North"). It was Cojocaru's disasterous gig as director of communications for Montreal's famed Just for Laughs Comedy Festival, though, that changed his life. JFL co-founder Andy Nulman told Cojocaru, "You shouldn't be promoting other people. You should be on television." The rest, as they say, is history. But history has rarely been this refreshing. Sure, Cojocaru serves up the dish and strips down the style of Hollywood’s biggest stars. But it's his outrageous wit, breezy writing style, and self-deprecating humour that really shine. Besides, Red Carpet Diaries is a must-read for anyone who needs to know how Donatella Versace mistook Cojocaru's flammable knee-length mink coat for an ashtray. --Richard Burnett
From Publishers Weekly
"Television saved me from my brown-but-wish-it-was-fuchsia world," writes Cojocaru in his campy, kitschy homage to fashion and celebrity. The West Coast style editor for People, Cojocaru is a devotee of wearable wonders. His tastes are as outrageous as his wit, which he unleashes continually (e.g., Cher is a "visual tsunami"). The self-proclaimed "Halston of high school" was raised in Montreal in the 1970s by Jewish Romanian parents who were, overall, loving and supportive. He wasn't like other boys-his obsessions with his all-blue bedroom and Cheryl Ladd's hair were pronounced-but they accepted him as he was: shallow, semifreaky and unquestionably fun. Cojocaru's saving grace is his humor. He knows fashion is ephemeral, stars are fickle and reality checks are key. The boy who would be fashion king began his career writing style blurbs for People. His big break came when he landed on the E! network. So successful was his stint that he entered the promised land: the one-hour Oscar Fashion Review with Joan Rivers. Cojocaru, also Today's fashion correspondent, follows the Golden Globes, Cannes and the Oscars like a devoted pilgrim. En route, he drops gossip, A-list names and jabs at everything from industry payola to Meg Ryan's lips. From the inside scoop on Hollywood to enough zingers to placate the most starstruck reader, his book is dressed to thrill. Photos.
Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Review
“With a prose style as irrepressible as his kooky TV persona, People style editor and Today regular Cojocaru charms, even when serving up the cattiest Tinseltown tidbits. . . . Meow.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“TELEVISION’S RED-CARPET ODDBALL TELLS ALL IN A DISHY NEW FASHION BOOK.”
—The New York Post
“Cojocaru’s sharp wit and outrageous anecdotes . . . pepper a memoir even the fashion police would find arresting.”
—Marie Claire
“FUNNY . . . GOOD GOSSIP . . . YOUR HOMEWORK FOR THE OSCARS.”
—Boston Herald
“A campy, kitschy homage to fashion and celebrity . . .
[Cojocaru] drops gossip, A-list names and jabs at everything from industry payola to Meg Ryan’s lips. . . . His tastes are as outrageous as his wit. . . . From the inside scoop on Hollywood to enough zingers to placate the most starstruck reader, his book is dressed to thrill.”
—Publishers Weekly
“In Hollywood, Steven Cojocaru is the Moses of the red carpet—parting the class from the trash. This Montreal-born fashionista takes no prisoners.”
—Elle Canada
“Funny, irreverent, and overflowing with gossip, Cojocaru’s tale is a raunchy, riveting rise through the lives of the rich and self-absorbed.”
—Gotham
“This funny man shares his hopes, dreams, and dishes in Red Carpet Diaries. . . . The book is one of those guilty summer reads.”
—Women’s Wear Daily
“Red Carpet Diaries is simply a hoot to read. . . . Filled with Hollywood gossip . . . Stories only a fashion insider could tell . . . and hilarious —and sometimes self-deprecating—tales of getting into big-league events. . . . Tidbits scattered throughout the book . . . make putting down the pages harder than resisting a 40 percent-off sale on the latest must-have Prada pumps.”
—Rocky Mountain News
From the Trade Paperback edition.
—Entertainment Weekly
“TELEVISION’S RED-CARPET ODDBALL TELLS ALL IN A DISHY NEW FASHION BOOK.”
—The New York Post
“Cojocaru’s sharp wit and outrageous anecdotes . . . pepper a memoir even the fashion police would find arresting.”
—Marie Claire
“FUNNY . . . GOOD GOSSIP . . . YOUR HOMEWORK FOR THE OSCARS.”
—Boston Herald
“A campy, kitschy homage to fashion and celebrity . . .
[Cojocaru] drops gossip, A-list names and jabs at everything from industry payola to Meg Ryan’s lips. . . . His tastes are as outrageous as his wit. . . . From the inside scoop on Hollywood to enough zingers to placate the most starstruck reader, his book is dressed to thrill.”
—Publishers Weekly
“In Hollywood, Steven Cojocaru is the Moses of the red carpet—parting the class from the trash. This Montreal-born fashionista takes no prisoners.”
—Elle Canada
“Funny, irreverent, and overflowing with gossip, Cojocaru’s tale is a raunchy, riveting rise through the lives of the rich and self-absorbed.”
—Gotham
“This funny man shares his hopes, dreams, and dishes in Red Carpet Diaries. . . . The book is one of those guilty summer reads.”
—Women’s Wear Daily
“Red Carpet Diaries is simply a hoot to read. . . . Filled with Hollywood gossip . . . Stories only a fashion insider could tell . . . and hilarious —and sometimes self-deprecating—tales of getting into big-league events. . . . Tidbits scattered throughout the book . . . make putting down the pages harder than resisting a 40 percent-off sale on the latest must-have Prada pumps.”
—Rocky Mountain News
From the Trade Paperback edition.
Book Description
Warning: No celeb was spared during the writing of this tongue-in-cheek stroll down the red carpet of fashion, fame, ego, and blinding glitter. Written by the man who isn’t afraid to tell Christina Aguilers her hairdo is a disaster, Red Carpet Diaries could make you feel you know more about Hollywood shtick than Nicole Kidman’s stylist. If you begin to get too much pleasure from Cojocaru’s lizard-skin-jumpsuited journey from ridiculed misfit to #2 on Cynthia Rowley’s speed dial, put the book down and turn on an episode of Antiques Roadshow to calm your heart rate. Also: do not try to operate heavy machinery while reading this book.
Indications: For relief of boredom, wistfulness, insecurity, and bad hair days.
Directions: Read the incredible story of Cojocaru’s rise from schoolyard joke to one-man celebrity status meter. Laugh, cry, lather, rinse, and repeat.
Active ingredient: Unadulterated fashion, style, and wit.
Imbued with style that is pure Steven, and packed with insider gossip from a man who spends his days chatting with Tom Hanks, Charlize Theron, or Sarah Jessica Parker, this irresistible memoir is a peek behind the glamorous façade to the real deal—the dirt beneath the red carpet.
Indications: For relief of boredom, wistfulness, insecurity, and bad hair days.
Directions: Read the incredible story of Cojocaru’s rise from schoolyard joke to one-man celebrity status meter. Laugh, cry, lather, rinse, and repeat.
Active ingredient: Unadulterated fashion, style, and wit.
Imbued with style that is pure Steven, and packed with insider gossip from a man who spends his days chatting with Tom Hanks, Charlize Theron, or Sarah Jessica Parker, this irresistible memoir is a peek behind the glamorous façade to the real deal—the dirt beneath the red carpet.
About the Author
Steven Cojocaru is the fashion correspondent for The Today Show, a style editor for People magazine, and pens People’s “Behind the Seams” column. He is a red carpet fixture on both coasts. This is his first book.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter Five
CANNES -- BRIGITTE, SOPHIA, AND MR. SPINDLY LEGS May 1998
Airport terminal, Nice, France
Where else but the French Riviera can you stroll off of an airplane and be greeted by Brigitte Bardot striking a sex-kitten pose Or Sophia Loren pouring out of a sundress I'd been in airport terminals before, but not one with hallways lined with paparazzi photos of goddesses snapped on the tarmac as they arrived in the South of France. I'd come to the Cannes Film Festival for exactly this kind of sexy, European-flavored glamour. A first-timer, I was primed to join the jet-setters' club. Pour me a kir royale, cherie, and keep them coming. But do I have to wear a
sundress with these spindly legs?
The story of how I got to Cannes starts with a confession. When I was in
junior college in the 1980s. Joan Rivers had a show on Fox, The Late
Show. They did a publicity stunt where they asked viewers to submit a
videotape to get a chance to be on the show. I worshiped Joan Rivers. I
thought she was hilari-ous and I admired how honest she was. I never saw
her as mean-spirited, just an outlandish performer. I was hell-bent on
winning this contest and becoming Joan's new best friend. I shot my tape
at the Saidye Bronfman Centre after hours, with the help of one of the
techies there. I came up with this idea that I was Joan Rivers' bastard
son that she had tossed away on her way to the top, and I was going to
blackmail her and tell the world the truth. So I did a cheap ripoff of
Joan. I did a lot of "Can we tawks" and waved my death-metal long hair
around. I sent it to her. A couple of months later a bright pink
envelope arrived and on the corner, it said THE JOAN RIVERS SHOW . I
ripped open the envelope, and it was a letter from Joan saying, "I liked
all the jokes about you being my illegitimate son." It was a warm letter
signed by her. The letter also mentioned that if I was ever in L.A., I
should come see the show and meet her afterward. I read between the
lines and took this as an invitation: "Come live with me in Bel Air."
After that, I really be-came obsessed with Joan Rivers. It was time to
save every penny and make a quick trip to L.A. A few months later, I was
ready to embark on my Become One With Joan journey. But first I needed
to lose my heavy-metal hair--I was doing it for Joanie. I didn't want her
to get scared, or to look at me and say "What an ugly girl." I thought
Joan would much prefer my new respectable 'do: a fluffy, feathered crop
that made me look like a CPA. A few weeks before I went out to L. A., I
called Joan Rivers's assistant. My voice shook as I said, "Ms. Rivers
said to call if I was coming into town." And the secretary answered,
"Absolutely. I understand." My ticket was to be waiting at Fox Studios.
I can't even remember who the guests were on the show. They could have
been propped up corpses for all I cared. The whole time, I kept thinking
about what would I say to my idol, and who would get first dibs on the
bathroom once we lived together. After the show, an assistant came up to
me and brought me to the stage where Joan was doing a meet-and-greet.
She had various people there waiting to meet her, and I learned a
valuable lesson about hard work in show business: Joan Rivers was like a
politician. She clocked in a fresh fan greeting and handshake every five
minutes.
Edgar, Joan's husband, shuffled around tired, looking like he had the
weight of the world on his shoulders. And there was Joan, looking much
smaller than I had expected her to look. With her personality I thought
she'd be the height of a linebacker, and not this underweight Chihuahua
in spike heels and a tailored white blazer and sleek navy skirt. Then,
my BIG moment happened. I had prepared my line for her for three months
already. They said, "Joan, this is Steven." And I went "Mother!" She
broke down laughing.
Then there's a postscript to this, and a double postscript. I became a
quasi-stalker to Joan because I decided, in my mind, that we were
friends. I wrote her letters. I did drawings for her, vicious
caricatures of Hollywood stars like the cartoon I did of Elizabeth
Taylor's bosom exploding. She would write me letters back: "I loved your
note. Loved your pictures." We became pen pals and, when Edgar passed
away, I sent my condolences. She sent me back a thank-you note and told
me she appreciated my kind words.
I can't say that I know the real, intimate Joan Rivers--even though she
did one time say she wanted to sleep with me--but I do know one side of
Joan Rivers. I know her to be a woman with manners, who is caring, and
who gave some attention to a punk from Nowhere, Canada. Now that I have
a career in this business, I see how time is the most precious thing.
And Joan took the time out to respond to me. She made me feel like I
mattered.
My trip to Cannes was booked at the last minute. All the good hotels
were full. When the travel agent suggested a nearby village, I thought,
"How charming." But surely the cab driver had taken a wrong turn and
made a left into downtown Bosnia. I was trapped in a shantytown--with
dilapidated buildings left for dead during the war--buried in the
mountains. And my lodgings, the ten-room inn with the--gulp--shared
toilette was nothing more than a Motel 6 with a French accent.
My first morning, I decided to get in touch with my inner explorer and
walk down the mountain to Cannes. Of course, a major butch voyager
outfit was in order: I threw on a clingy see-through Dolce & Gabbana
white tank top, white gauzy balloon drawstring pants and single-toe Yves
Saint Laurent hip-pie sandals. But that didn't say seen-it-all navigator
enough to moi. The ensemble begged for oversized Jackie O sunglasses and
a white, straw cowboy hat as final touches. In my mind, it was very
Marrakesh bedouin chic meets the Cote d'Azur. In reality, it was more
like an outfit that would only play at a karaoke bar in Ibiza.
During the mid-1990s, People's "Stylewatch" column just kept growing and
growing. Carol Wallace, the editor of People, really liked that page and
supported it. Carol took me under her wing and molded me into a strong
reporter. I always tell her she took Pippi Longstocking and made her
into a man. So I met every star in Hollywood for that column. Some
people are speed demons. I was a star demon. From your Julias to your
Toms--I interviewed everybody. And I was, all too often, disappointed.
Very quickly, I tuned in to their flaws and foibles. When you're talking
to a movie legend at the Oscars and she's got painted-on eyebrows and
mounds of "Hello Bella Lugosi" makeup on, it kind of takes the mystique
away.
But television just kept calling me. I went to countless auditions. Once
I tried out to be a VJ on MTV. In my mind, to be a VJ on MTV was to be
very colorful. So I poured myself into a pair of skintight Moschino
jeans with Mona Lisa's face silk-screened all over them. The calendar
said 1995, but my taste was still trapped in the '80s. I wore--I'm
embarrassed to say-- a leather vest with no shirt underneath. And biker
boots. And that horrible Steven Segal rip-off ponytail. Suffice it to
say, I did not get the gig.
My big break came when Elycia Rubin, the fashion director at E!, saw
something beyond the ponytail. Elycia has become one of my great
friends--she's a major glamour girl and a striking brunette with emerald
eyes. She started offering me spots on E! News Daily and E! specials.
Eventually she invited me onto the one-hour "Oscar Fashion Review" with
Joan Rivers and her daughter Melissa. This was an opportunity, but I was
terrified--I would be up close and personal with Joan. Would she remember
her gushing Montreal fanboy?
The Oscars were on a Monday. On Tuesday morning we had a seven-thirty
A.M. production meeting at E! The guests on the show were designer
Carolina Herrera, myself, and Frederic Fekkai the celebrity hairdresser.
Frederic sailed in with freshly washed, tousled hair that artfully fell
in the right places around his face. He was immaculately turned out in a
sharp blazer, a painstakingly pressed shirt and slacks, and gleaming
loafers. I detested him on sight. But he was so incredibly charming, I
came around and we've since remained friendly. Though I'll never be able
to get my locks to tousle so obediently.
Then there was the ultimate class act, Carolina Herrera. So stylish, so
composed. She mesmerized me. I was happy to just gawk at her from afar,
but then spoke to me. And it turned out that this great elegant lady was
full of life and mischievous humor. This was a revelation: I didn't
think wearing silk georgette and being earthy went together. After that
I felt perfectly comfortable grilling Carolina about her fabled friends:
"You knew Jackie O," I sighed. "Do you have a used towel she owned I'd
like to put it under plexiglass in my living room."
Then it was time for Joan's grand entrance. She didn't have a stitch of
makeup on. I'll hold back on describing the sight except to say that to
this day I still experience grizzly flashbacks of the image, probably
not that dissimilar to the post-trauma Desert Storm soldiers suffer
from. But the early-morning outfit was killer. Joan took her seat at the
head of the boardroom table wrapped in a cashmere coat with a gigantic
fox-fur collar. Joan Crawford would probably have made the same choice.
I was wildly intimidated. Joan looked at me and boomed, "How were the
Oscars last night " I blurted out, "With all that collagen, I had to
wear a lobster bib to avoid being splattered on.&q...
CANNES -- BRIGITTE, SOPHIA, AND MR. SPINDLY LEGS May 1998
Airport terminal, Nice, France
Where else but the French Riviera can you stroll off of an airplane and be greeted by Brigitte Bardot striking a sex-kitten pose Or Sophia Loren pouring out of a sundress I'd been in airport terminals before, but not one with hallways lined with paparazzi photos of goddesses snapped on the tarmac as they arrived in the South of France. I'd come to the Cannes Film Festival for exactly this kind of sexy, European-flavored glamour. A first-timer, I was primed to join the jet-setters' club. Pour me a kir royale, cherie, and keep them coming. But do I have to wear a
sundress with these spindly legs?
The story of how I got to Cannes starts with a confession. When I was in
junior college in the 1980s. Joan Rivers had a show on Fox, The Late
Show. They did a publicity stunt where they asked viewers to submit a
videotape to get a chance to be on the show. I worshiped Joan Rivers. I
thought she was hilari-ous and I admired how honest she was. I never saw
her as mean-spirited, just an outlandish performer. I was hell-bent on
winning this contest and becoming Joan's new best friend. I shot my tape
at the Saidye Bronfman Centre after hours, with the help of one of the
techies there. I came up with this idea that I was Joan Rivers' bastard
son that she had tossed away on her way to the top, and I was going to
blackmail her and tell the world the truth. So I did a cheap ripoff of
Joan. I did a lot of "Can we tawks" and waved my death-metal long hair
around. I sent it to her. A couple of months later a bright pink
envelope arrived and on the corner, it said THE JOAN RIVERS SHOW . I
ripped open the envelope, and it was a letter from Joan saying, "I liked
all the jokes about you being my illegitimate son." It was a warm letter
signed by her. The letter also mentioned that if I was ever in L.A., I
should come see the show and meet her afterward. I read between the
lines and took this as an invitation: "Come live with me in Bel Air."
After that, I really be-came obsessed with Joan Rivers. It was time to
save every penny and make a quick trip to L.A. A few months later, I was
ready to embark on my Become One With Joan journey. But first I needed
to lose my heavy-metal hair--I was doing it for Joanie. I didn't want her
to get scared, or to look at me and say "What an ugly girl." I thought
Joan would much prefer my new respectable 'do: a fluffy, feathered crop
that made me look like a CPA. A few weeks before I went out to L. A., I
called Joan Rivers's assistant. My voice shook as I said, "Ms. Rivers
said to call if I was coming into town." And the secretary answered,
"Absolutely. I understand." My ticket was to be waiting at Fox Studios.
I can't even remember who the guests were on the show. They could have
been propped up corpses for all I cared. The whole time, I kept thinking
about what would I say to my idol, and who would get first dibs on the
bathroom once we lived together. After the show, an assistant came up to
me and brought me to the stage where Joan was doing a meet-and-greet.
She had various people there waiting to meet her, and I learned a
valuable lesson about hard work in show business: Joan Rivers was like a
politician. She clocked in a fresh fan greeting and handshake every five
minutes.
Edgar, Joan's husband, shuffled around tired, looking like he had the
weight of the world on his shoulders. And there was Joan, looking much
smaller than I had expected her to look. With her personality I thought
she'd be the height of a linebacker, and not this underweight Chihuahua
in spike heels and a tailored white blazer and sleek navy skirt. Then,
my BIG moment happened. I had prepared my line for her for three months
already. They said, "Joan, this is Steven." And I went "Mother!" She
broke down laughing.
Then there's a postscript to this, and a double postscript. I became a
quasi-stalker to Joan because I decided, in my mind, that we were
friends. I wrote her letters. I did drawings for her, vicious
caricatures of Hollywood stars like the cartoon I did of Elizabeth
Taylor's bosom exploding. She would write me letters back: "I loved your
note. Loved your pictures." We became pen pals and, when Edgar passed
away, I sent my condolences. She sent me back a thank-you note and told
me she appreciated my kind words.
I can't say that I know the real, intimate Joan Rivers--even though she
did one time say she wanted to sleep with me--but I do know one side of
Joan Rivers. I know her to be a woman with manners, who is caring, and
who gave some attention to a punk from Nowhere, Canada. Now that I have
a career in this business, I see how time is the most precious thing.
And Joan took the time out to respond to me. She made me feel like I
mattered.
My trip to Cannes was booked at the last minute. All the good hotels
were full. When the travel agent suggested a nearby village, I thought,
"How charming." But surely the cab driver had taken a wrong turn and
made a left into downtown Bosnia. I was trapped in a shantytown--with
dilapidated buildings left for dead during the war--buried in the
mountains. And my lodgings, the ten-room inn with the--gulp--shared
toilette was nothing more than a Motel 6 with a French accent.
My first morning, I decided to get in touch with my inner explorer and
walk down the mountain to Cannes. Of course, a major butch voyager
outfit was in order: I threw on a clingy see-through Dolce & Gabbana
white tank top, white gauzy balloon drawstring pants and single-toe Yves
Saint Laurent hip-pie sandals. But that didn't say seen-it-all navigator
enough to moi. The ensemble begged for oversized Jackie O sunglasses and
a white, straw cowboy hat as final touches. In my mind, it was very
Marrakesh bedouin chic meets the Cote d'Azur. In reality, it was more
like an outfit that would only play at a karaoke bar in Ibiza.
During the mid-1990s, People's "Stylewatch" column just kept growing and
growing. Carol Wallace, the editor of People, really liked that page and
supported it. Carol took me under her wing and molded me into a strong
reporter. I always tell her she took Pippi Longstocking and made her
into a man. So I met every star in Hollywood for that column. Some
people are speed demons. I was a star demon. From your Julias to your
Toms--I interviewed everybody. And I was, all too often, disappointed.
Very quickly, I tuned in to their flaws and foibles. When you're talking
to a movie legend at the Oscars and she's got painted-on eyebrows and
mounds of "Hello Bella Lugosi" makeup on, it kind of takes the mystique
away.
But television just kept calling me. I went to countless auditions. Once
I tried out to be a VJ on MTV. In my mind, to be a VJ on MTV was to be
very colorful. So I poured myself into a pair of skintight Moschino
jeans with Mona Lisa's face silk-screened all over them. The calendar
said 1995, but my taste was still trapped in the '80s. I wore--I'm
embarrassed to say-- a leather vest with no shirt underneath. And biker
boots. And that horrible Steven Segal rip-off ponytail. Suffice it to
say, I did not get the gig.
My big break came when Elycia Rubin, the fashion director at E!, saw
something beyond the ponytail. Elycia has become one of my great
friends--she's a major glamour girl and a striking brunette with emerald
eyes. She started offering me spots on E! News Daily and E! specials.
Eventually she invited me onto the one-hour "Oscar Fashion Review" with
Joan Rivers and her daughter Melissa. This was an opportunity, but I was
terrified--I would be up close and personal with Joan. Would she remember
her gushing Montreal fanboy?
The Oscars were on a Monday. On Tuesday morning we had a seven-thirty
A.M. production meeting at E! The guests on the show were designer
Carolina Herrera, myself, and Frederic Fekkai the celebrity hairdresser.
Frederic sailed in with freshly washed, tousled hair that artfully fell
in the right places around his face. He was immaculately turned out in a
sharp blazer, a painstakingly pressed shirt and slacks, and gleaming
loafers. I detested him on sight. But he was so incredibly charming, I
came around and we've since remained friendly. Though I'll never be able
to get my locks to tousle so obediently.
Then there was the ultimate class act, Carolina Herrera. So stylish, so
composed. She mesmerized me. I was happy to just gawk at her from afar,
but then spoke to me. And it turned out that this great elegant lady was
full of life and mischievous humor. This was a revelation: I didn't
think wearing silk georgette and being earthy went together. After that
I felt perfectly comfortable grilling Carolina about her fabled friends:
"You knew Jackie O," I sighed. "Do you have a used towel she owned I'd
like to put it under plexiglass in my living room."
Then it was time for Joan's grand entrance. She didn't have a stitch of
makeup on. I'll hold back on describing the sight except to say that to
this day I still experience grizzly flashbacks of the image, probably
not that dissimilar to the post-trauma Desert Storm soldiers suffer
from. But the early-morning outfit was killer. Joan took her seat at the
head of the boardroom table wrapped in a cashmere coat with a gigantic
fox-fur collar. Joan Crawford would probably have made the same choice.
I was wildly intimidated. Joan looked at me and boomed, "How were the
Oscars last night " I blurted out, "With all that collagen, I had to
wear a lobster bib to avoid being splattered on.&q...
