The Upstate Life

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Leiby, Please

The Upstate Life has seemingly dodged the pop culture bullet as of late. I mean, when was the last time TUL bitched about the latest fashion trend, the ridiculous OC season finale, or even everyone's hipster-music lovin' for "Since You Been Gone"? Anyways, it's pretty much a rare occasion when we hear some sort of rambling over on the west coast, but then again, that's because The Upstate Life has very few contacts over there who discuss even fewer stories like the one you're about to read. Rachel tipped this off to us from one of her coworkers whose friend is trying to break the biz as a screenwriter. Reliable Source what?

Let me first preface this by saying that this is not in any way supposed to
be good writing, I wrote this after getting 3 hours of sleep in the past 24
hours, and probably 12 hours total for a 5 day week.

Tonight, I went out to a party for a girl who just won a daytime Emmy. It
was at a divey type bar in West Hollywood whose bouncer was strangely strict
tonight. I expected it to be a bunch of soap actresses and their gay friends
(not that there's anything wrong with that) talking about "All My Children"
plotlines that my mother follows with the same intensity I have the X-Men
for the past two decades.

And, when I first arrived, that was pretty much it, I was the token single
straight guy doing what I always do, hitting on unavailable women.

We all kept bitching about the bouncer, who had been a dick to everyone,
including some pretty attractive girls, and suddenly we learned the reason
why. There were two parties going on in the bar that night, my friend's
and...Paris Hilton's.

Okay, she's the most overexposed cliché of a celebrity you could ever spot.
I've seen her act, I've seen her try to act like she's not acting, and I've
seen her try to act like she's not acting while she's sucking cock. So I
shouldn't have been surprised when she acted exactly like Paris Hilton acts.
She walks in, gets up on a table, and starts gyrating up against the window,
making out with her boyfriend. If by making out you mean dry humping. For
two hours I don't think she made it to ground level. She was
performing...I've never seen a stripper that can go on for that long.
It was weird. You'd think someone famous would want to go out and be left
alone. But she was extremely conscious of everyone staring at her and taking
pictures with their cellphone cameras (and these were not tourists taking
pictures, these were working industry people).

From the moment she entered, the laws of physics in the room changed. She
just exerted this gravitational pull, and ordinary rules like the smoking
ban didn't apply to her or her entourage.

That alone would have made for a decent anecdote. But I turn around, and
suddenly there's an Olsen twin. Ashley, I think. The fat one.

She was a fucking midget. I mean that literally, I've worked with real
midgets and there's no way she's over five feet. But she also seemed to
shrink in Paris' limelight, like she was there same as me, by coincidence,
and suddenly she was...she looked genuinely hurt she wasn't the most famous
person in the room.

And then the hits just kept on coming. Selma Blair is grinding up against
me. Nikki Hilton was there, shit, I forgot about Nikki Hilton...she just
looked like a regular girl to me, I lost track of her.
I spot Owen Wilson and say "look, it's dicknose" a little too loud. Marlon
Wayans is with some black dude I know.

Owen Wilson hits on one the guys we're out with's wives, and suddenly I
don't feel bad about calling him dicknose (once you hear that appellation by
the way, it's impossible not to see a penis on his face, it's like Joe
Camel).

I try to have a conversation with a guy I know who, but it's just
impossible. He's a Harvard grad, I've got a law degree, the girl of honor at
our party won a fucking Emmy but it's like we have nothing to talk about
that could possibly be of any more interest than what's going on around us.

Keep in mind that probably an hour has passed now and Paris is still up on a
couch, dancing, knowing all the lyrics to Hollaback Girl, pushing away the
guy she's faux fucking in a coked up haze.
I pray for one more person to arrive, but not being a spiritual man I feel
that the night has peaked. I should have had more faith.

In walks Lindsay Lohan, and she gives Paris Hilton the finger.

I'm living page 6? What the fuck? Everything I've read about in US magazine
while I wait for the retards who run the express lane at Ralph's to run up
my 15 items is true? Yes.

She comes in with Nicole Ritchie. Both emaciated, and clearly coked up.
Although, unlike Ashley, who I have to say is extremely unappealing in
person, eating disorders work for them. Nicole I never found attractive, not
just because she lacked anything resembling humanity on A Simple Life, but
because she always seemed like cow to me. But in real life she's tiny, and
either rehab or returning to her drug habit has done wonders for her figure.

Lindsay...I made eye contact with her (I made eye contact with Ashley Olsen
too but she just looked kind of sad, I and the married guy I was with both
felt like we could have had a shot with her if it wasn't so crowded and the
tension level wasn't so high after the Lohan posse entered). Yeah...eye
contact, but I swear making eye contact with her was better than some sex
I've had.

All I have to say is that she is just plain gorgeous. Yeah, she's lost
weight, and all it's confirmed for me is that her tits are real because they
seem to have shrunk with the rest of her. But just...great body, sculpted
face, smoldering eyes. She does not look her age, although she acted like
it.

It's weird, but it dawned on me that all these girls are much, much younger
than me. Not because they look younger. They all could pass for much older,
maybe from partying to hard, maybe it's the way they're made up, and I'm
also used to hanging out with a younger crowd and passing for a few years
younger myself. But just...their behavior.

You know that Sidekick commercial where Paris texts Snoop Dog who texts Tom
Jones about his laundry. Evidently, that was a documentary.

Lohan, Ritchie et al just set up shop at a table (while a bouncer who looked
like Randy Jackson looked on), pulled out their palms, blackberries and
sidekicks and texted and im'd...god knows who. Themselves? Their friends who
were at other parties? Paris? For the whole. fucking. night.

There were these two strange camps set up, the hey look at me I'm Paris
Hilton and the show's going on all night folks, don't forget to tip the
waitresses camp, and the hey, let's all go out, get dressed up and close
down a bar so we can send text messages and have no human social contact
Lohan camp.

I was caught in the middle.

The closest thing to detente was Ashley Olsen and Selma Blair (odd couple)
having a debate and then finally deciding to go over and say hi to Lindsay,
the second girl who had ruined their night of attention getting. I don't
think they had ever met before, actually. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker.
History in the making.

This type of shit just doesn't happen in Bethesda.

Posted by Brett at 4:16 PM |