I’m not gonna lie. They’re real, and they’re spectacular. So spectacular in fact Kate Moss handpicked them to represent hers in a White Stripes Video. So did Ashley Judd when she had to get ‘em out for ‘The Bug,’ and Kim Cattrall on “Sex & the City”. Yes, those were my knockers. Impressed? Thank you, but not as much as you would have been ten years ago. Or fifty years ago. Or any other decade in American history aside from this bizarre cultural pile up we call the 21st century. The queen is dead. And by “queen” I mean titties.
All fallen monarchs have successors. There was Monroe, then there was Bardot, then there was Anderson. Now we have… Kardashian? In 2012 the ‘Ass’ reigns supreme. Yes, Kim Kardashian has massive bombs but does anyone give a shit? Has anyone even noticed? I vaguely recall two distracting orbs in her sex tape, but I just thought they were midget’s brought in to ramp up the kink factor.
But how? How could such an innocuous threat overthrow a seemingly invincible empire? I blame J. Lo. Somewhere in The Bronx, in, oh say about 1986, the rebel force was preparing to topple the twin dictatorship. And it did, in a victory so unforeseen it hearkens back to the Vietnam War. Or when Ivan Drago killed Apollo Creed.
I present a hypothesis: Ask any guy under 40 what he’s into and the vast majority will reply: Brunettes with nice asses. While men over 40 will invariably reply “Blondes with big boobs.” We are a nation divided.
Had I proposed said hypothesis: In 1990 I imagine the reception would not have been unlike the one braved by Chris Columbus when he was on that whole “the earth is round” tip. Flying cars and legalized marijuana? No problem. But butts? Over boobs? Brunettes over blondes? Preposterous. The busty blonde is this country’s lifeblood, staunchly enduring in the face of world wars and cultural revolutions. Until now.
When I asked British expat/ Hollywood sperm bank Russell Brand to expound on the matter, he had this to say “A woman’s ass is sublime, and the fact that there’s an orifice in there is …well, it is one of life’s great gifts.” Really? Try telling that to a toilet.
So what is the point of this rant other than allowing me to vent about having to retire my Miracle bra while saving on Balayage highlights? It’s to implore you, dear reader, to dig deeper. To embrace the notion that the there’s more to the apple-bottomed brunette than a juicy booty and sultry tresses, and that perhaps Bel Biv Devoe was wrong, and we should trust a big butt and a smile. Or, at least, in a big butt and a smile. Many a lesson can be gleaned from the ass- About tolerance, about beauty, about corn and how we don’t digest it so good. The badonk should be erected as a symbol of equality and a visually pleasing reminder to never discount the underdog.
“If I can change, then you can change. Everybody can change!” Rocky Babloa after he knocked out Ivan Drago in the 15th round. (Incidentally, Drago was a blonde.)
Little known fact: In sex scenes, actresses wear a patch over their naughty bits. It’s to prevent that pesky penis from actually getting where it’s pretending to go. For added protection the actor wears what is known in the industry as a “cock sock.” Picture those half-pantyhose your grandmother wears that bunch up around her ankles, but with a rubber band at the base of the cock. Now throw in some dry ice, crank up the slow jams, and you got yourself a bonafide Hollywood love scene. And yes, I engaged in this most sacred and strange rite of passage on the set of a little show called Entourage.
I booked a role as stripper #4 and dropped my frock with all the aplomb of Gypsy Rose. My abilities were not lost on the show’s star, Adrian Grenier — for his was a discerning eye.
“That girl’s good,” I later found out Adrian remarked to producers. “We should have her back.”
Translation: “I would like to have sex with her.”
And they did have me back, two episodes later. My character was the “The Good-Bye Girl”: anonymous ass number #4 in a seemingly endless parade of booty Vince must bid farewell to at summer’s dawn.
I didn’t find out that this was my role until I was in my trailer and the wardrobe girl handed me nothing but a palm-sized adhesive patch. “What is this, one of those things to quit smoking?” I asked.
“Not unless you smoke with your crotch.”
Well, there was that one time in college….
“Ten minutes until show time. Have your lines memorized.”
My lines? On the end table next to the couch, there was a skimpy script littered with wardrobe appropriate dialogue. (see: grunting and groaning)
Moments later I was in my bedroom. Well, it was supposed to be my bedroom; only this version of myself was much wealthier and a lot less sloppy. A nude Adrian awaited me, already in my bed. How presumptuous.
He was mid-discussion with the director, a tiny man with a chin beard. “No, It has to be reverse cowgirl,” my co-star emphatically explained. “That’s the joke. I tell E I’m just coming up for a minute, but the girl is such a sex freak, I wind up fucking her for two hours.”
“Yeah, good idea,” the director agreed nonchalantly, as if they weren’t discussing the fate of my genitals.
At this point I was a stranger to reverse cowgirl but I knew who John Wayne was so I could make an educated guess as to its definition. I did the math: Cows+ Girls + Reverse = Close my eyes and hope for the best.
“Positions, people,” the director bellowed. Hmmmm. If Adrian’s the cow and I’m the girl… My mind continued to calculate as I assessed the naked man in my bed.
“Is this seat taken?” I joked as I awkwardly straddled him.
It was about at this point I realized something about ‘reverse cowgirl.’ One, it should not be done on a brightly lit film set. It should be done at night, with the lights very dim. Or better yet, completely off. And two, watching this with my parents is going to suck. I say this because in that position, there was only going to be one area for Vinnie Chase to focus on. Kind of a bull’s eye, if you will. A bull’s eye I’m generally not comfortable revealing to anyone, let alone a virtual stranger.
I didn’t have time to dwell on this unfortunate fact, as a make-up girl was charging toward me with a spray bottle. “You guys have been at it a long time so you have to look sweaty,” she explained as she super-soaked me.
In this case, “action” signified the start of furious fake humping. “The good-bye girl” would hump Vincent Chase for a full forty seconds before grunting the words: “I’ve never met anyone that could fuck this long.”
To which he would earnestly reply: “I’m training for this movie.”
And she would enthuse, “It’s gonna be a great fuckin’ movie.”
That’s right, folks. It was multitasking. I had to maintain the furious hump while delivering my lines. Thankfully I was trained in method acting, like Robert Deniro in Raging Bull, minus the carbo-loading.
By the third take, ol’ Vince was getting into his role, and he began digging his hands into my behind, forcibly guiding my hips. By the fourth take, we were so committed to the performance my patch almost came off. The thrusting became so vigorous the faux sweat was replaced by the real thing and the moaning took on a lilt of sincerity.
“Cut,” the director interrupted.
Cock block. It was a technical issue, camera focus or some shit like that. But Vince had some acting notes for me. “I don’t want to give you a line read or anything,” he began. “But maybe say it like this: ‘It’s gonna be a GREAT fuckin’ movie.’ Hit ‘great’ more.”
Hit great more. Ok, Vince, this one’s for you.
“It’s gonna be a GREAT fuckin’ movie.”
Nice. Thrusting, humping, groaning, moaning, and “Checking the gate….that’s a wrap!”
The actual scene took an hour to shoot. When it was over, a production assistant ran to shield me with a robe, and the director approached the bed, shook my hand and said, “I have tremendous respect for both of you.”
For what, my willingness to show my junk or the jarring authenticity with which I delivered the line “I’ve never met anyone that can fuck this long!”?
Whatever the case, Adrian seemed to share in this admiration, and asked me for my number. I just know he’s gonna call. Any day now…
Spring 2012: A terrible mistake was made and a dork got behind the velvet rope. Here is her story:
Remember back in elementary school when the gym teacher would make kids pick their teams for kick ball, and Darwinism would play itself out right before your very eyes? The fittest would survive, usually the tall, blonde and blue. It had a vaguely Holocaustic flair in fact, and in quieter moments, you could hear Adolph and Charles snickering from their graves. In my case, the captains would whittle down the choices until only me and the kid with the metal knee brace were left. Then they would argue over which team would be forced to have me as a player, systematically ticking off my defects like trial attorney’s bickering before a Judge.
“We had to have her last time.”
“She’s worthless and weak.”
“She sucks.” (Generally considered a detriment in kick ball, but an asset in Tinsel Town.)
The same thing happened to me when I moved to Los Angeles and tried to get into the Chateau Marmont-the A-list asylum with a door list policy tighter than Miss June’s ass.
I’d heard about this legendary lair from Lindsay Lohan. Or should I say, because of Lindsay Lohan. But Chloe, the Balenciaga bag-bearing bitch who lived next door also frequented the fabled hotel on a hill. She always made sure everyone knew she had been at the best party the night before and that they weren’t invited.
“Where did you go last night?”
“Neat! Where is it?”
“Why do you wanna know?”
“Because it sounds fun.”
“It’s really hard to get in.”
“Well, I’m not gonna try to go or anything. I just wondered where it is.”
“It’s on Sunset. Duh.”
Now all I needed was an outfit. With just the right mixture of Forever 21, Nine West, Express, and a smidgen of bedazzling, I would render an outfit fit for Chateau. Surely they would roll out the red carpet for me- I was the Michigan State Fair’s Spaghetti Eating Champion three years in a row, after all. Turns out they don’t take too kindly to carbo- loading at the Chateau Marmont.
The phrase “walk of shame” is usually reserved for the walk home. But I did the walk of shame virtually every night from Pinches Tacos discounted $10 parking lot all the way up to The Chateau Marmont. The gatekeepers would see me coming, teetering on my tacky heels. They knew they were going to reject me. I knew they were going to reject me. But they couldn’t yell it down the street, now, could they? So we’d watch each other awkwardly until I got to the door.
“Sorry. Private party,” as Kate Bosworth air kissed her way past me. Two hours later and I still wasn’t in, but Boater Number 4 from Season Two of “So You Think You Can Fish” just parted the red velvet rope.
In a few weeks, I would grow really accustomed to hearing “Sorry, private party.” They should have left a recording of it on the doorstep just for me, like Ferris Bueller did for Mr. Rooney.
I came to learn that getting into The Chateau, or any of Hollywood’s ‘It’ clubs, is comparable to getting an under 5 on ‘CSI Miami.’ It’s all about who you know. If you’re lucky, one of the denizens of nightlife will “discover” you and say “You! You’re fabulous! You must come to my party.” Paparazzi, autograph hounds, and people from the Valley wait on the outside looking in, their desperate breath steaming up the windows like a fat girl outside a Krispy Krème.
Inside super models mingle with Oscar winners who dirty dance with tabloid tweens in the throws of Jim Belushi-style meltdowns. It’s a magical kingdom even Walt Disney could not have imagined. It’s the nation’s top tier of homecoming queens and high school quarterbacks that would never, ever, let you sit at their lunch table. They wouldn’t let you in their club then and they won’t let you in their club now.
Unless of course you can manage any of the following:
1) Be Famous: Snooki can get into Teddy’s and I can’t. Occasionally a door guy will employ the new –inmate- in- cell- block- D strategy, desecrating a big shot, thus establishing a name for himself. Like when Hyde rejected Tara Ried. That shit was all over cyber space and the ‘it’ lounge of ’09 was born. Point being, not all celebs are created equal.
2) Know the DJ, Promoter, or Door Guy: It helps if you went to their Bar Mitzvah back in the day.
3) Be Confident: Attitude is everything. If you walk up like you belong there, the gatekeepers will often agree. But if you walk up apologetically, like I do, like no one wants you on their team or in their club, you’re going to wind up sitting in your car in the parking lot of Pinches Tacos with a forty of Pacifico.
4) Be Rich: In the land of La, being cool is preferable to being rich, but everyone has a price. (see: poppin’ bottles in the clu),
5) Have Mad Flava: Yes, surprise, surprise. My years in the “scene” have taught me it’s better to be a 7 in Zac Posen than a 10 in Bebe. For example, the The Olsen Twins can get in anywhere, but the Czechoslovakian Hawaiian Tropic model/Cheesecake Factory hostess is kickin’ it at the, well, at The Cheesecake Factory. In Sherman Oaks.
6) Be a Fox: Surprisingly low on the list, but an asset nevertheless. On a good night, especially if she gets off her shift at TCF early, Svetlana might get in. Especially if Michael Bay or Brett Ratner get there at the same time she does.
7) Attach yourself to a healthy host: Like I did. I got my “big break” in the form of Linsday Lohan’s lawyer, a 34-year-old Manhattan transfer with roughly the appearance and disposition of the Tasmanian Devil. Yet, strangely, he ran with Tinsel Town’s elite. Every clique, you see, no matter how exclusive, has a member that just barely made it in. Taz was that person. He would, in turn, extend his tentacles below the rim of high society and pick up the occasional virus, who he’d invite in to infect the blood stream of fabulosity. I would be that virus. And I’m in the blood stream. That’s right, Kardash, I’m sitting right next to you, and my shit is contagious.
If you don’t possess any of the aforementioned traits, you can always get into The Standard. (see: smell of wine and cheap perfume)
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?”
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?”
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.