By Suzy Mccoppin
Ass of Spades
I see you baby, shakin’ that ass. If you live outside of L.A., it may surprise you to learn that David Spade pulls some seriously top shelf bitches, but as an accomplished pro of the LA club scene and to quote Bob Seger, “Shit, I’ve known that for ten years.” so when I saw him last night on the patio of the Chateau Marmont, I had to know…Was I Spade worthy?
Los Angeles is the land of the pretty. It’s the industry. I estimate that for every 30 beautiful women in Hollywood, there are 10 good looking guys, but seven of those are gay men, and two are “strays” — straight men pretending to be gay to nail hot girls.
If you doubt my approximation, it’s cool, but let’s put on our Nancy Drew pumps and go deeper. David Spade is a stellar lady-killer. Accept it. Now, I’m not saying that Spade is not good-looking and funny. He is quite fetching in a Melissa Joan Hart in an after school special about lead in the water kind of way. He has parlayed his impish appeal into more ass than Wilt Chamberlain multiplied by Brody Jenner and divided by Clay Aiken. His reported resume reads like a Maxim Top 100: Heather Locklear, Geena Lee Nolin and Lara Flynn Boyle, the year she ate a sandwich. Even Krista Allen of the soft-core epic Emmanuelle, who was tapped continuously by none other than George Clooney.
And there he was. Sitting fifteen yards away from me tearing into the spaghetti bolognese. His lithe physique silhouetted against the moon light, flaxen taunting wisps cascading from his tattered baseball cap. Did he feel my eyes focusing on his manly 28 inch waist? Did he know I have that same XS shirt?
Time was of the essence as I neared my mark. 15 yards became 10 as I wizzed through my archives of pick up lines. “Turn around and show me your ass of Spade.” No, that’s no good. “Is your dad a thief?” Too trite, and who knows, you don’t hear a lot about his folks, he may be. “Wanna french?” Yes. That was the winner. Times up kids, pencils down.
I sidled up to him and, at the last second, opted to freestyle. “Hi. I’m Suzy.”
Not bad. Not bad at all. It was natural, relevant, succinct and accurate.
“Hi. I’m Dave.”
Oh, he’s good. It was a subtle variation of my opening line. Spade was plagiarizing me. I took this as a welcome sign.
“How are you?”
“All right.”
Having taken the proverbial inch so easily I forged on in pursuit of the goal line (See also: Three point Shot, Hat Trick, and Home Run). Raising the stakes, I decided to get personal.
“Have you been here before?”
“No.”
One word answer. And a negative at that. My team just took a hit.
Bloodied but unbowed, I offered: “Me neither.”
Coldly, Mr Spade began to pivot away from me and threw these parting words as he left me in the dreamy hybrid of moon and candle light. “Nice to meet you.”
But I knew it was a lie. It hadn’t been nice to meet me. Not for me. Not for him. I had my answer: I was not Spade worthy.
I went home, put on my Dickie Roberts DVD and sobbed sweetly, slowly.
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