LOOK, I KNOW the last thing Elizabeth Taylor needs is a lot of advice about her upcoming wedding, especially from some hack columnist in Baltimore (of all places) who didn't even make the guest list.
Which sort of ticks me off, to be honest. Oh, sure, I know Liz Taylor. Met her a few years ago. Didn't I tell you about that?
Well, what happened was, I was in this department store in New York when there was a major commotion near the entrance.
All of a sudden, walking up the aisle toward me was none other than La Liz herself, flanked by the requisite phalanx of uptight bodyguards, officious PR people and fawning department store honchos.
It turned out Liz was there to make an appearance pushing her new perfume "Passion." And I was there to make an appearance in Bathroom Fixtures, where I hoped to find a Dixie cup dispenser for under 20 bucks.
Coincidence? I'm not so sure. There might have been more to it than that.
Anyway, we were walking directly toward each other. And just as we were about to pass -- even before one of her bodyguards elbowed me out of the way -- she looked up at me and she . . . she smiled.
Oh, what a smile it was! Dazzling, radiant, like throwing open the shutters in a darkened room.
There was something in that smile, some kind of chemistry between us, an unspoken message that said: "You with your Dixie cup dispenser and me with my perfume . . . we are kindred spirits, are we not?"
At least that's the way Iinterpreted it. Someone told me later that she was probably thinking: "Get out of the way, worm. I'm running late."
Look, I'm not saying she owes me a wedding invitation because of that incident.
I'm not saying that I hang out by the mailbox every day and pester the postman with anxious cries of: "Anything from Liz today?"
I'm just saying an invitation would have been nice, that's all.
But if we can get past my own personal disappointment here, this is about Liz's wedding to husband No. 8, Barry Fortensky, a former construction worker who . . . .
OK. Someone just informed me that the man's name is Larry, not Barry.
Which brings me to my point: If you're Liz Taylor and you're about to be married for the eighth time, how do you keep the names of all these husbands straight?
Me, I can barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning. And here's a woman who, when asked for a brief synopsis of her married life, has to take a deep breath and recite: "Well, let's see . . . there was Nicky and Michael and Mike and Eddie and Richard -- Richard was Nos. 5 and 6, by the way -- and John and now this new fellow . . ."
Whew. I get exhausted just writing all those names.
Anyway, if I were Liz Taylor, here is what I would do in the next few days to prepare for the wedding.
First I would ditch Harry -- or whatever his name is -- for a few hours. Have him run the Rolls through the car wash or pick up some groceries or something. Then I would give the servants the rest of the day off and find a nice quiet place in the mansion.
Then I would sit down and engage in some serious introspection along the lines of: "OK, what am I doing (or not doing) that is causing me to go through husbands the way other people go through Kleenex?
"Am I too pushy? Too compliant? Is it my perfume? The yo-yo dieting? Are the arm-wrestling trophies on the wall too intimidating? Or is it my choice in men? Should I just stay away from police line-ups from now on?"
In addition, I would think of the pain I've caused a certain columnist in a certain East Coast city, who had his heart set on flying out to California and being there at Michael Jackson's ranch when the first strains of "The Wedding March" echo through . . . oh, never mind.
Best of luck, Liz and give my regards to Garry.