I can’t recall when I stopped keeping a list of famous people I’d like to meet, but the reason is crystal clear: They almost always disappoint.
My letdowns began as a child, when my parents wouldn’t allow me to approach my favorite Mary Tyler Moore Show actress, Cloris Leachman, who (inebriated?) cackled fascinatingly at the next table during dinner at a restaurant (does anyone remember Rumplemeyer's?). Then my admiration of athlete/scholar/Olympian/Senator Bill Bradley was dashed, upon finding him in person to be a hokey-jokey donation grubber. Singers Grace Slick and Mick Jagger were both unfunny and uninteresting (but that Joni Mitchell is a real pistol). Bill Clinton, not on my list, was nonetheless mesmerizing, but his subsequent fall from grace means no one’s interested in my retelling.
So I remember with distinct sadness and shame the evening I blew it with Dina Merrill. Don’t ask why I was fascinated with her—I just was. I liked her hair. I liked how she always played the same kind of snooty character. And I was fascinated with the idea of her growing up in the Palm Beach Merriweather Post mansion, Mar-a-Lago. (See, there is a Trump connection—hold on, we’ll get there.)
At an East Hampton political fund-raiser on the now-dead Ted Ammon’s street, she and I both decided to hoof it rather than wait for the parking lot minivan shuttle. (I hate shuttles, don’t you? The grinding gears, the constant starting and stopping, the peering passengers. Ugh.)
Our short, shared stroll was going just fine. I wisely kicked off the yakking talking about how great she looked, careful not to betray any obsession with her hair, and then safely moved on to the righteousness and timeliness of the cause we had just both supported. Was my lifelong hero/heroine encounter curse finally lifting?
No. Just as the first glimpses of rear bumpers came into view, I mentioned that I had been visiting my grandmother, and had stopped by to see Dina’s old pile, now a Trump property, and what did she think of her homestead’s re-branding?
“Oh, jeez. Just as I’m off to dinner, now I’ll be thinking of him while I eat.” And while there was a lilt of humor, I mostly detected a distinct uptick in the footpace. We did not exchange numbers.
The sister corollary of being let down with celebrity favorites is that the ones you have no interest in meeting are always popping up. And I can’t tell you how many times I have had the opportunity to glad-hand the Trumpster (but no touching, he’s germ-phobic like Woody Allen, who I read is most deathly afraid of that little drain cover at the bottom of the shower). For starters, I used to represent and do events with a modeling agency. The Donald is an admitted modelizer, so he was repeatedly on-hand at age-inappropriate gatherings. My family’s real estate operation had some dealings with him. We both went to Penn, and people lined up to hear him speak when I was a student (my first inkling of his odd appeal). In the late 80’s, when I worked at Manhattan, Inc. magazine, I don’t think we published a single issue that didn’t carry his name. He gets around, let’s give him that.
Normally you’d think an eight-paragraph opener to disclose my negative predisposition would dissuade me from writing about Mr. T and his nuptials, but since this forum is meant for event professionals, I would be remiss in my responsibility to not point out: People! Pay attention! This is no way to throw a wedding!
Now I may not be the expert of all times. I have organized exactly two weddings, one for my sister and one for Robert De Niro. But I was taught some wise wedding policies that seem endangered due to recent high-profile vulgarities. Let’s review.
DON’T LET THE BRIDEGROOM SEE THE DRESS BEFORE THE WEDDING. I was told the reason for this superstition is that if the groom sees his betrothed in the dress before the ceremony, then he has nothing to look forward to. The appearance of the bride, lovelier than ever, at the back of the church, is to seal the deal and help warm the feet of even the jitteriest groom.
Now Mrs. Trump part trios has the right to break with tradition in any way she chooses (although given the reasoning laid forth above, the wisdom of displaying a dress with giant pinwheels and her lovely features hidden by mosquito netting might be questioned). But for Vogue to have been a party to this breach of etiquette, with nary a warning to the millions of impressionable young readers it mightily influences, just struck me as completely AW. No, not Anna Wintour. All Wrong. And by commercially capitalizing on Ms. Knauss’ naïveté , with occasional knowing winks to the anti-Trump delegation (the story refers to the church aisle as a “runway” with a smug “oops”), I feel like the poor Slovenian bride would have benefited from a few bridesmaids, another convention she discarded, one of whom might have had a helpful “Whoa, Silver!” moment.
NO EFFORT SHOULD BE MADE TO FINANCIALLY PROFIT FROM ONE’S WEDDING. Do I really need to explain the rationale for this?
IT IS BAD FORM TO BRING UP PREVIOUS ROMANCES AT THE REHEARSAL DINNER. It amazes me how often this occurs. Supposedly witty toasts are made trashing previous lovers (or worse, wives). It is the ultimate in bad form. For starters, often previous boyfriends and girlfriends have mutual acquaintances in the room, who can be offended and/or report back.
At one Trump preliminary event, prematurely jowled Donnie Jr. publicly announced his belief that because Daddy and Melania’s relationship was so strong, this would be his father’s “last marriage.” That he doesn’t see this comment as an insult to his mother and her 20-plus year commitment is sad; that it made the papers is indicative of Trump’s lack of understanding about what should be private.
But how can you blame poor Donnie, when his father raises the familiar specter of infidelity himself? When asked why there was no bachelor’s party with strippers (at least this time around), Mr. Trump publicly explained that would be like putting a glass of Scotch in front of an alcoholic. Nice.
The person I really sympathize with in this realm is the progeny of The Donald and Marla Maples, 11-year-old Tiffany Trump, just old enough to understand what all these references mean, and young enough to be permanently scarred.
A MALE RINGBEARER SHOULD BE YOUNG ENOUGH THAT THERE IS ALMOST NO POSSIBILITY OF HIS REMEMBERING THE INCIDENT. There is a family photograph of me in short pants that I still bristle at, in which I am 3 years old. Donald and Melania chose for their free rings to be borne by a non-relative: The Apprentice producer Mark Burnett’s 7-year-old son.
After getting a glimpse of this pauvre dauphin on that classy new show The Insider, in his satin breeches over white tights, I can’t help but hope that none of his classmates see the clip, and that a fund is begun immediately for his long-term psychotherapy.
I guess that if I were to sum up my advice to those planning a wedding, I’d borrow a page from the manual of doctors everywhere:
FIRST, DO NO HARM.
Posted 01.26.05
Columnist Ted Kruckel is an experienced and opinionated former event and PR pro who ran events for 20 years for high-profile clients like Vanity Fair, Elle Decor, Christian Dior and Carolina Herrera. He shuttered his firm, Ted Inc., in 2003. You can email him at [email protected].
My letdowns began as a child, when my parents wouldn’t allow me to approach my favorite Mary Tyler Moore Show actress, Cloris Leachman, who (inebriated?) cackled fascinatingly at the next table during dinner at a restaurant (does anyone remember Rumplemeyer's?). Then my admiration of athlete/scholar/Olympian/Senator Bill Bradley was dashed, upon finding him in person to be a hokey-jokey donation grubber. Singers Grace Slick and Mick Jagger were both unfunny and uninteresting (but that Joni Mitchell is a real pistol). Bill Clinton, not on my list, was nonetheless mesmerizing, but his subsequent fall from grace means no one’s interested in my retelling.
So I remember with distinct sadness and shame the evening I blew it with Dina Merrill. Don’t ask why I was fascinated with her—I just was. I liked her hair. I liked how she always played the same kind of snooty character. And I was fascinated with the idea of her growing up in the Palm Beach Merriweather Post mansion, Mar-a-Lago. (See, there is a Trump connection—hold on, we’ll get there.)
At an East Hampton political fund-raiser on the now-dead Ted Ammon’s street, she and I both decided to hoof it rather than wait for the parking lot minivan shuttle. (I hate shuttles, don’t you? The grinding gears, the constant starting and stopping, the peering passengers. Ugh.)
Our short, shared stroll was going just fine. I wisely kicked off the yakking talking about how great she looked, careful not to betray any obsession with her hair, and then safely moved on to the righteousness and timeliness of the cause we had just both supported. Was my lifelong hero/heroine encounter curse finally lifting?
No. Just as the first glimpses of rear bumpers came into view, I mentioned that I had been visiting my grandmother, and had stopped by to see Dina’s old pile, now a Trump property, and what did she think of her homestead’s re-branding?
“Oh, jeez. Just as I’m off to dinner, now I’ll be thinking of him while I eat.” And while there was a lilt of humor, I mostly detected a distinct uptick in the footpace. We did not exchange numbers.
The sister corollary of being let down with celebrity favorites is that the ones you have no interest in meeting are always popping up. And I can’t tell you how many times I have had the opportunity to glad-hand the Trumpster (but no touching, he’s germ-phobic like Woody Allen, who I read is most deathly afraid of that little drain cover at the bottom of the shower). For starters, I used to represent and do events with a modeling agency. The Donald is an admitted modelizer, so he was repeatedly on-hand at age-inappropriate gatherings. My family’s real estate operation had some dealings with him. We both went to Penn, and people lined up to hear him speak when I was a student (my first inkling of his odd appeal). In the late 80’s, when I worked at Manhattan, Inc. magazine, I don’t think we published a single issue that didn’t carry his name. He gets around, let’s give him that.
Normally you’d think an eight-paragraph opener to disclose my negative predisposition would dissuade me from writing about Mr. T and his nuptials, but since this forum is meant for event professionals, I would be remiss in my responsibility to not point out: People! Pay attention! This is no way to throw a wedding!
Now I may not be the expert of all times. I have organized exactly two weddings, one for my sister and one for Robert De Niro. But I was taught some wise wedding policies that seem endangered due to recent high-profile vulgarities. Let’s review.
DON’T LET THE BRIDEGROOM SEE THE DRESS BEFORE THE WEDDING. I was told the reason for this superstition is that if the groom sees his betrothed in the dress before the ceremony, then he has nothing to look forward to. The appearance of the bride, lovelier than ever, at the back of the church, is to seal the deal and help warm the feet of even the jitteriest groom.
Now Mrs. Trump part trios has the right to break with tradition in any way she chooses (although given the reasoning laid forth above, the wisdom of displaying a dress with giant pinwheels and her lovely features hidden by mosquito netting might be questioned). But for Vogue to have been a party to this breach of etiquette, with nary a warning to the millions of impressionable young readers it mightily influences, just struck me as completely AW. No, not Anna Wintour. All Wrong. And by commercially capitalizing on Ms. Knauss’ naïveté , with occasional knowing winks to the anti-Trump delegation (the story refers to the church aisle as a “runway” with a smug “oops”), I feel like the poor Slovenian bride would have benefited from a few bridesmaids, another convention she discarded, one of whom might have had a helpful “Whoa, Silver!” moment.
NO EFFORT SHOULD BE MADE TO FINANCIALLY PROFIT FROM ONE’S WEDDING. Do I really need to explain the rationale for this?
IT IS BAD FORM TO BRING UP PREVIOUS ROMANCES AT THE REHEARSAL DINNER. It amazes me how often this occurs. Supposedly witty toasts are made trashing previous lovers (or worse, wives). It is the ultimate in bad form. For starters, often previous boyfriends and girlfriends have mutual acquaintances in the room, who can be offended and/or report back.
At one Trump preliminary event, prematurely jowled Donnie Jr. publicly announced his belief that because Daddy and Melania’s relationship was so strong, this would be his father’s “last marriage.” That he doesn’t see this comment as an insult to his mother and her 20-plus year commitment is sad; that it made the papers is indicative of Trump’s lack of understanding about what should be private.
But how can you blame poor Donnie, when his father raises the familiar specter of infidelity himself? When asked why there was no bachelor’s party with strippers (at least this time around), Mr. Trump publicly explained that would be like putting a glass of Scotch in front of an alcoholic. Nice.
The person I really sympathize with in this realm is the progeny of The Donald and Marla Maples, 11-year-old Tiffany Trump, just old enough to understand what all these references mean, and young enough to be permanently scarred.
A MALE RINGBEARER SHOULD BE YOUNG ENOUGH THAT THERE IS ALMOST NO POSSIBILITY OF HIS REMEMBERING THE INCIDENT. There is a family photograph of me in short pants that I still bristle at, in which I am 3 years old. Donald and Melania chose for their free rings to be borne by a non-relative: The Apprentice producer Mark Burnett’s 7-year-old son.
After getting a glimpse of this pauvre dauphin on that classy new show The Insider, in his satin breeches over white tights, I can’t help but hope that none of his classmates see the clip, and that a fund is begun immediately for his long-term psychotherapy.
I guess that if I were to sum up my advice to those planning a wedding, I’d borrow a page from the manual of doctors everywhere:
FIRST, DO NO HARM.
Posted 01.26.05
Columnist Ted Kruckel is an experienced and opinionated former event and PR pro who ran events for 20 years for high-profile clients like Vanity Fair, Elle Decor, Christian Dior and Carolina Herrera. He shuttered his firm, Ted Inc., in 2003. You can email him at [email protected].
