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11 Stardom Hello, says your chauffeur, accent on the o, as in, O how the ice bin sweats. Now look you’ve gone and let him break your resolve to peek at the mini bar’s free what-have-yous or solve the moonroof sheer and blue as a nightgown’s underside. The tequila-sunrise sun, cherryless but cheery, fizzles in its sky-blue highball, and you’d just as soon be a sequin in the pool of your lap, wading beneath the palms, waving to fans at the fern bar. (They are drinking a drink named after your name.) So this, you think, is what the butterfly feels atop the Hollywood Bowl: Hello, hell. Soon, you’ll be whisked away to Barbados, dissolved into the glossy of a gaggle of flashbulbs, lovers all, saying open your eyes wide and say whiskey. Your body’s grown a gown around that word. ...

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