Yesterday I got a taste of the superstar lifestyle. I was in a magazine cover shoot, got my ass kicked by a very large, ripped personal trainer, and copped a feel of celebrity thigh.

And if you happen to own a magnifying glass, you might just find my face gracing the May cover - at least, if it's not obstructed by a cover line.

[Note: After February's cover featured a very scantily clad model, my dad said, "I told your mom if you ever wound up on the cover, I didn't want to know about it." Ha ha.]

We were invited to be "extras" in the Dave Chappelle cover photo. The shoot took place at Pier 59, where there's a huge building full of enormous studios - huge, loft-like rooms with a painted permanent backdrop, a set production staff, and a very posh bar in the lobby for the VIPs.

Now, I've been on photo shoots before, but not a real celeb shoot (unless you count Lisa Madigan, Chicago's attorney general - who is very nice, by the way). The requested playlist of hip hop tunes was up and running on the club-quality sound system, the buffet spread was ready to go, the wardrobe options hung on a rack in Chappelle's private dressing room, which had the light-encircled backstage mirrors. Us lowly extras had some munchies, too, back in our cattle pen. A swarm of fashion editors lay in wait for his arrival. And even the EIC stopped by for some schmooze time with the VIP.

The shoot was scheduled from 1-3 p.m.; DC didn't show til three hours past call. And apparently he's a very slow dresser - it took him an hour and a half to put on a track jacket and Pumas. Plus three stylists to tuck in his shirt.

Our "multiethnic, all-age group" of friends and random, unemployed folk provided the muscles for the crowd surfing concept. DC was cool with us manhandling him. I definitely had my hand on his thigh. I'm not sure if he was having some diva moments or is just a little ADD, but he kept wandering off whenever the photographer (who was perched on a raisable platform - and clipped to it with a safety line) stopped to change rolls (I'm still curious as to why such a major photog would be shooting film...), and once to apply Chapstick.

Anyway, the highlight was when he grabbed my hand out of the throng for the last two frames...

A mag staffer behind me was staying back out of the crowd. He said he planned to just Photoshop his head on someone else's body in production.

The shot actually looked pretty cool in the Polaroids. I think it'll turn out pretty sweet.

Right now, as I type, the third and final installation of the DC interview tapes is headed toward me in a hired car. It's holding up my impromptu trip to D.C., so I hope it gets here soon. I'm anxious to hit the road. I'm sure the Chinatown bus is an adventure waiting to happen...

Okay, the writer just came by with the tapes. All I have to say is, the mag must pay well. I'm embarrassed that this fine-looking man in swank top-end clothing and a sleek hired car - with driver (I'm not gonna lie, I did have a brief SATC brain flash) - drove all the way out to my wee little place in Astoria (His initial reaction when I gave him my address: "QUEENS?!?"), where I met him at the door in my $9 sweater.

Apparently, if you make it in this line of work, you make it.

P.S. On an entirely different topic, how the fuck does anyone get into Skeleton? (The broadcaster just said, "This guy's almost too smart to be doing Skeleton." Heh.) And, who the heck is responsible for designing/building the track? And how many of these exist in the world at any given time? The Olympics are truly fascinating...