Priceless true story about the day Donny Osmond met his doom, from roxtar:
Read the rest (and see the pics) here.The truth can finally be told; I kicked Donny Osmond's ass and made him my bitch! . . . . The place: Jacksonville, Florida. The time: 1990, I guess. I was in the record business, on the road with one of our recording artistes, whose name it would be indelicate to divulge. The local slack-jaws had organized some sort of festival, featuring big tents, fried foods and live music. There may also have been a hot air balloon, and maybe a jet-ski, too.
This show was what we called a "track date". A stripped down recording of the set had been prepared, minus lead vocals and most of the drums. When the lights came up, the tape rolled, the drummer drummed, the Talent sang, and I, along with various crew members, pretended to play various instruments. (I always "played" bass. "Played" it on the Mickey Mouse Club a couple of times, in fact.) Orleans ("Still The One") opened, the Talent was next, and Donny Osmond was the headliner. It was a daytime gig, so we were finished around 5:00 or so. Instead of the usual backstage catering, the organizers had planned a dinner for the acts, the organizing committee, donors, etc. Attendance at the dinner was obligatory, kind of a grip & grin & meet & greet & eat.
Most of the crew blew off the dinner, succumbing instead to the twin temptations of cold local beer and hot local wimmin. My job, however, required me to stay with the Talent. Make introductions, field interview requests, tear him away from autograph seekers, etc. (I should mention that the Talent was, at the time, hugely popular as a result of his regular role on a "daytime drama.") So dinner is served, and we sit down at long tables laden with grub. At one end of the table, me, the Talent, some other of his "people" and a couple of local teevee reporter-babes. At the other end, the Osmond contingent. You never saw such white people in your life. The Continental Divide is the line which separates North America into the Atlantic and Pacific watersheds. Our table had a similar divide. At our end: Cokes, beer and iced tea. At the Osmond end: Seven-up, water, and milk. Donny and Company eschewed both alcohol and caffeine, suckling only at the bland, pale teats permitted by their Mormon religion.
Not bad, anyway, for a day in Jacksonville. Dinner was fine, the Talent was gracious, and I was making significant headway with one of the reporter-babes. My totally sincere line of bullshit, however, was rudely interrupted by raucous shouts from the Utah delegation.
1 comment:
In 2006, Marie's daughters went porno on Myspace. In 2007, her son was in rehab. On October 8, 2008, married Donny was caught on the cell phone cameras of an old couple groping an Asian massage girl in the hallway outside his room at the Flamingo who was called in by hotel staff to provide some late hour "therapy" and apparently employed by the hotel for such purposes (Enquiring minds want to know). Las Vegas is a good location for the clean, family oriented LDS Mormon Chuch spokespersons the Osmonds claim to be.
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