Celebreality Bites: Volume 1

Despite having grown up in the backyard of Los Angeles County I had absolutely nothing to do with the city until I was about nineteen. This is of course with the exception of one trip to the Palm Restaurant with my boyfriend plus his dad and dad’s flight attendant lady friend. Then there was the class trip to the Museum of Tolerance; rather ironic having been scheduled by my Catholic school who’s “Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin” anti-gay propaganda is seared into my memory. Oh, and there were a handful of La Brea Tar Pit family days. As a side note, going there as an adult was a far less enjoyable experience having since acquired a keen sense of smell and a heightened level of OCD. The “Imagine Pulling Yourself Out of a Vat of Tar!” segment turned into “Imagine Yourself Catching Malaria from Kiddie Boogers!”
I was a Los Angeles virgin. And like most late bloomers who went away to college determined and pure, I popped my cherry with the boy bang equivalent of the naughty dude who barely showered, probably did drugs, and was rarely seen in class. I can’t say that at nineteen I had 100% quality guaranteed, foolproof taste in people. The crowd of people I fell in with will remain nameless but their ilk were the types to own shi-shi restaurants, private planes, and were listed as named contributors to political campaigns (most often Democratic…this is Hollywood). New money, old money, inherited money, money, money, money.
One night one of these money boys had a party. The host was an emaciated little lizard who, ironically, often sported a black snakeskin leather jacket. The driveway up to the house was lined with vintage cars and Aston Martins. Two gigantic doors with round center knobs opened up to a literal homage to the 1960s shag pad. Silver leafed wallpapered bathrooms, white shag carpet rugs, pod-like patio furniture staring out over Los Angeles. Daddy was in the fruit business, and not in the mafia sense but in the “Look at Me Next to the President” picture in a frame sense…which were littered casually around the house.
I spot Stephen Dorff, or rather, he spots me. He’s shorter than I expected, not as good looking in person, but when he slurs a suggestion that we go sit on a pod in the backyard I think, “What the hell…I liked Blade.” What transpired lasted only a few minutes and included some mild flattery followed by a swift recommendation that we “go make out over there.” He points at the dark side of the house. Now while talking on an isolated pod with a troll is perfectly acceptable, looking down to make out with one is an entirely different animal.
“I don’t kiss strangers.”
“Well, fuck you then.”
Mr. Dorff gets up to leave and proceeds to abandon me in the middle of the backyard with panoramic views of Los Angeles where I am sure that somewhere down there, at some party, some asshole just did the same thing to someone else.

Bite me.


Cameo Writer: Oscar Fashion

This was just too good, people. Enjoy the linguistic styling of my dear friend, Cesar Trujillo. Here is…THE STILETTO BI-ANNUAL

Hello Dear Reader,

I know you have been neglected by my absence. I can explain. I have been recovering from a full body lift, a Brazilian butt plump (You know I have a big back yard with nothing in it), and some extractions and additions we need not discuss. There may be some misspellings as I cannot see the screen clearly because of my leaking tear ducts. I was just sitting here minding everyone’s business and watching the Oscars whilst barely wearing a tulle jumpsuit with a sprinkling of Swarovski somethings in strategic locations….

Here are just a couple of observations from my chaise.

A lot of bizo’s missed the recession memo. There were many a statement necklace around. I am starting a petition encouraging Carolina Herrera to stop making clothes. She just threw Amy Adams in a tomato soup bath and drew a grid on her tits.
Kate Winslet was beautiful. I was loving the bee catcher netting on her gown. Natalie Portman got her Rodarte at Cache in the Glendale Galleria during their annual Persian clearance sale. SJP looked great. She was looking very haggard/equine recently. I didn’t feel the need to give her a feed bag. It was so lovely for Nikki Kidman to take time out of her busy schedule of rolling around with the chickens to come the show. I just wished she would have changed before she left the house.
I love that Miley is recycling. She managed to save all of the tripe from her last barbecue to make her own dress. My heart goes out to Beouwulf. She had to wear that dress from The House of D-rrrhea-n. I know what it is like to have an overbearing transsexual momma running yo shiz. Poor Jesse Biel. It appears that her left breast caught elephantitis. Miuccia did an amazing job of making her look very Michelinesque.

I think it is about time I tape my eyes shut (very necessary after an extreme eye job) and go to bed.

I hope to write to you before my next procedure.

— Penelope Anne Chinchilla Capodemonte Salome Lavetra Cinay Smith

PS – I saw John Legend buying a dress for some Hoe at Prada on Saturday. Confucius says what? He was with a completely different hoe at the Oscars. Everyone needs an SBSD (Single Black Sugar Daddy), but you hope yours doesn’t mess around on you.


Oh, I Wish I were an Oscar Mayer Winner

To a very small, very select group, the Academy Awards represent years of toil, bullshit, lunch meetings, getting funding, losing funding, hard work and the climax of a very big and heady dream. To the rest of this city, it is an opportunity to party on someone else’s dime, not unlike celebrating Christmas even if you’re Jewish and you’re just “into the vibe.”
As I stand in line waiting to check in for the Bolthouse/Whitesell Oscar fete I am saddened that I am not allowed to bring my camera in to document the event. The slew of badly pressed, cheap gowns…the overtly sexy cleavage…the bare legs with small bruises. This is where merit and might meet gold-digging irrelevance. The people that actually deserve to celebrate the Oscars are not in line with us, of course. They take the narrow road up Mount Olympus in their own cars and limos. They shuttle the rest of us like they do the party decorations and catering brought in hours earlier. I see Bill Mayer in the parking lot, which I suspect is a fluke as he disappears moments later into a car.
I am not unlike the other people waiting in queue. I have nothing to do with the entertainment industry as of yet. Not in any grand capacity, really. But these things can be fun, and I’m not one to turn down a people watching extravaganza. I never do feel completely comfortable at these things though. I feel like I should wait for things like this until they mean something more than free drinks and a 2 AM breakfast bar (waffles, fresh fruit, turkey bacon, bacon bacon, chorizo frittata, sun dried tomato and feta cheese frittata, the works). I am a shameful mooch.

Recipe for a AA Cocktail:
4 scantily clad ladies
4 opaque black tights
1 Monster Energy Drink
1 forty-five minute valet disaster
1 Diet Coke with Lemon
1 pair of very high Jimmy Choo eel-skin booties
1 pair of sensible black flats (kept in my purse for emergency situations)
1 enormous and tasteless marble mansion
600 party goers
3 different types of hors d’oeuvres
1 DJ living in the past a la 2006
180 degree view of the Los Angeles skyline

We call it a night around 3 in the morning, after realizing that nothing really crazy is going to happen and struggling to remember if it ever does. My friends are buzzed and silly with alcohol. The night is a success. I take off in my car, back to my little duplex and my sleeping boyfriend, wondering how I just ended up under a giant plastic party tent with Javier Bardem and Amy Adams.


Sharing Crotch Space with Beyonce Knowles

There was a time in my life when I could be quite starstruck. Backstage at an Eminem show – a Y2K misstep – I managed to get a picture of my friend and I sandwiching Dr. Dre between our heinous tank tops from Forever 21 and two overly friendly smiles. He made some joke about a menage a trois. We were sixteen but neither party cared.
I kept that photo in a cheap faux cherry wood frame next to my bed until I moved away to college. I can’t say why – except for the fact that it in some way validated my existence. It also served the additional role of conversation starter at my sleepover parties. Girls are easily excited and equal opportunists, squealing over sixteen year old boys with sparse facial hair as well as thirty-something rap producers with criminal records. It was a simpler time.
Years later I am jaded from this jet setting, glamorous, Los Angeles life. I see Lindsey Lohan and Sam Ronson storm out of a hotel lobby. I am unimpressed. Justin Timberlake walks past my lunch table. I keep my food down. Pete Yorn whispers sweet nothings in my ear about how I am a nerd “in a good way.” I do not swoon. I am the pillar of who the fuck cares.
Just the other day I was doing a photo shoot in the very same patchwork elastic lace leggings Beyonce wore in her latest music video. The very same! My vagina and her vagina were existing in the same space for a moment – different moments – in time and space. But did I turn pink with glee, excitement blushing my face? Did my vagina know the importance of this monumental event? Would this be my closest brush with stardom yet? Alas, non. All I could think about was her giant booty stretching out these pants as they went sliding down my backside. My acquisition of acute narcissism and heaping ego has done wonders for me and my vagina’s dignity.


Whitney Brown Does Asia Town

It’s Whitney’s 25th birthday. The plan is and goes as follows: meet the ladies at Bario Chino, eat copious amounts of guacamole and cheese (independently), get drunk, squeal obnoxiously, be forgiveness by restaurant patrons once a candlelit cake is delivered to our table, eat cake out of hands because we are not given plates, pay the check, delicately stumble onto street.
Twenty minutes later we are in a room drowning in red vinyl and multi-colored Christmas tree lights. Karaoke. It’s like the Cha Cha Lounge and the Chinese New Year had a baby and the baby’s name was “Fuck Yes.” We take residence in the first jumbo booth off the entrance. Whitney distributes her Chinese takeout boxes filled with candy hearts, AstroGlide, chocolate flavored condoms, and stickers. The gesture is simultaneously reminiscent of childhood Easter celebrations and my seventh grade human sexuality class.
The night tallies away. Songs are sung. Whitney gets more beveraged per the celebration requisites. Friends start to leave due to impending next-day responsibilities and alarm clock settings. By midnight, each song equals one more empty booth. By one o’clock, only the die hards and our party remain.
The three people in the booth adjacent to ours are nonplussed by Whitney & Co’s rendition of various unremembered tunes. A small blonde gentleman’s boos come in with greater frequency and volume and when the time comes for his duet, he rips the mic out of Morgan’s hand midway through “Happy Birthday to yo…”
Blondie and his chubby accomplice begin butchering “There is Always Something There to Remind Me.” Our crew boos. “Fuck you assholes,” yells Blondie. Blondie’s accomplice remains awkwardly silent. Our crew boos some more. Blondie proceeds to mimic jerking himself off, replacing the microphone with his…well, I’ll let your imaginations run wild.
The owners put the cabash on the brouhaha citing “disorderly conduct” – one of the rules taped to the projection TV circa 1991. Blondie sits back down in his booth with two lady friend and after a few malicious yet factual comments regarding their small stature from our camp, they finish their beers and leave. Whitney bribes the bartender with $5 for three more songs. The violence has ended but I am now subjected to “Sexual Healing” by a man who admits his throat is dry and mutters something about echinacea or emphysema into the microphone.


John O’Hara

Middle school was pretty traumatizing. I had big cheeks, a Super Cuts haircut a la Tom Sawyer, and wore a buffalo nickle necklace I got on a family camping trip to Yellowstone National Park. None of this necessarily made me popular. And despite (or perhaps with concurrance) the logic and irregular mathematics of adolescence, I was determined to hang out with the cool crowd. They were mean, obnoxious, entitled. I was desperate to be like them. Of course, in hindsight, I should have run for the hills. Had i done so, I would be writing this blog in Mandarin or Portugese or one of the other five languages I had picked up in the excruciating time of my young lonliness. Instead I had my mom buy me a Nash Skateboard for Christmas and a plastic guitar from JC Penneys so I could attempt to woo people like John O’Hara. I would talk to him on the phone for hours in my bathroom about to Voo Doo Glow Skulls, pretending I knew who the fuck they were. My version of good music in 7th grade was Third Eye Blind and Everclear.
We never actually dated, but I thought we were en route to something magical. I thought after 762 phone hours he would ask me to the movies or kiss me in the girl’s lockerroom like Chad and Samantha did when they were dating. But I lost the battle. In between classes one day during the social anxiety frenzy that occurs between history and science class, I found out he had started dating Melissa Mandel. Blonde, short, big boobed, loud mouthed Melissa Mandel. I was temporarily crushed, as I remained for the most of that time in my life…a span that lasted from approximately 1997 to 1999. And I never did learn how to skateboard.


Bryce Romero

He was there on my first day of kindergarten. Dirty blonde hair and evenly bronzed arms. He wore round glasses. I was in love. We took naps on woven rugs in our classroom full of two foot tall desks. Our cubbie holes were near each other. It was there that I hung my coat and stored my woven rug for nap time. Mornings started with the Pledge of Alegiance and was followed by a prayer to the Lutheran flag flying next to it. We would stand in the square grass courtyard on cold California mornings and stare up at the two flag posts flying two flags. With the exception of the time that the redheaded boy in the desk next to me stole my sticker book, these were peaceful times.
During recess Bryce and I would escape hundreds of meters away from the kickball games and tether ball courts. We sat against the white painted cinderblock gates, closing us off to the outside world which we never had any interest in venturing into anyway. The wall was cool on our backs and the black asphault parking lot left marks on my shorts. He was my first boyfriend.
My 7th birthday party was an at home Sock Hop, complete with spoons for michrophones, side pony tails and pink lipstick. My parents didn’t have the money to buy me a bright colored poodle skirt made out of felt so I ended up reusing the skirt I wore to a square dance I went to with my dad. It was faded pink with delicate pink and green flowers. It looked like a voluminous bed sheet. Bryce came; the only boy. He wore jeans cuffed at the ankles and a white shirt rolled at his underdeveloped biceps. On his left arm one of his parents had drawn a heart with “Jenny” written inside and on the other was “Mom” drawn on a 45 degree angle. We danced in my family room until I started crying for some reason that I can’t drag out of my memory. It was a successful party.
After second grade Bryce moved to Scottsdale, Arizona so that his sister could pursue an Olympic dream in gymnastics. We would have had to of parted ways anyway. My mom moved me over to public school because Shepherd of the Valley was “too gossipy” and “ammoral.” I’m fairly sure most of the mothers were banging or wanted to bang Mr. Hartmire who taught 6th grade.


The Public School Cafeteria Gourmand

Eating at school was rare. I mean, I ate, but I ate lunches that my mom packed for me. These lunches were packed for some years in various tin lunch pails (My Little Pony being a personal favorite) and when I got “too cool” for it, paper bags. I’m pretty sure I was still lame enough to be using the MLP one at this point. The lunchtime staples were fairly predictable and never failed to please. I’d have a ham sandwich on Orowheat whole wheat bread cut on the diagonal, a Capri Sun or Welch’s Grape Juice (I preferred white for it’s unique and underrated complex flavor, however the standard purple variety would suffice) and one sweet treat…usually blue flavored Gushers or a strawberry Foot Long Fruit Roll Up, which, at the time, seemed like an extraordinary length for a snack but now rather tidy and modest.
I had a Hello Kitty wallet. It was pink with pink snaps closing the change pouches – one diligently labeled “cookies” and the other, “phone.” I was quite organized as a child and I am pretty sure I adhered to my strict monetary guidelines.
My elementary school cafeteria provided a different menu from the one at my old private school. There we dignified the dining experience with an altogether foreign title. We had “Hot Lunch” at Shepherd of the Valley Lutheran School. God was saving us from something, something wicked. My public school cooked up sloppy joes, strange odors, and the most delicious chocolate chip cookies served wrapped in a greasy square of waxed paper. They were never cooked all the way through. In fact, these cookies were frighteningly undercooked and likely a red flag salmonella hazard. They were so tasty they merited that reserved pouch in my wallet filled with my parent’s money.
Their pizza was another story. I generally stayed away from the cafeteria which the exception of my aforementioned dirty little cookie secret. I was always under the impression that cafeteria food was for impoverished youths with negligent parents. It is quite possible this idea was on loan from my mother. The vegetables were never the right shade of green, the milk cartons never gave me the impression they were being stored at the right temperature, the meat never smelled like meat.
But one day, for whatever reason, I was drawn to the pizza covered in dried out government cheese that sat on a sickly white crust like chapped lips. It was foul, terribly foul stuff. Whatever they half-cooked these pizzas on, it had a perforated bottom to it and the underbelly of each slice displayed the pimpled evidence – Braille for your tongue, silently screaming “Don’t fucking do it!” But I was young and I didn’t hear the call.
Later that day I was sitting across from my mom and brother at my favorite dining establishment, Chili’s, when my stomach clenched and twisted in such a violent manner that I couldn’t even begin to eat my Kiddie Grilled Cheese. The rest of the evening went as follows: Mom takes me home, I get in parents’ bed, I writhe around in pain, I begin to perspire, I writhe around in pain some more, little invisible daggers poke at my innards, my parents insist they take me to the hospital, I refuse, I writhe, parents insist, writhe, daggers, refuse, daggers, daggers, daggers. I give in.
Dad drives me to the West Hills Hospital in our tan Toyota Land Cruiser. He hoists me up, my head bobbing up and down watching our journey from the parking lot to the Emergency Room lobby. The sliding doors open. The sliding doors close. Fluorescent light assaults my eyeballs. And finally, all of a sudden, before we even make it to the receptionist desk…I throw up all over the back of my dad’s gray wool coat. I am flooded with shame, relief, and the vow never to eat at school again.