2008 Woodie Awards
Hey t***s.
I’m emotionally preparing myself to write this. I’ve got Carpenters music on and everything. Breathe. Out.
To understate the matter, I’ll be swallowing a tub of my pride in this entry. And maybe a scorpion too, since I feel this blog is like “Fear Factor.”
OK, consider this story the proper antithesis to my last entry when I met Tim Gunn and he offered me hot oral sex (through eye-blinks. I read you loud and clear, Tim). There’s much less overt flirtation in this story and many more… tears. From me. And from you too, if your soul works.
The day after the Tim Gunn event, I planned on jumping a bus to Malibu (go on, groan with me) to follow around gossip blogger Perez Hilton for an Advocate story. I’d pitched a story to my editors about Perez, and they were totally game. So I e-mailed him and eventually we started getting in touch via phone — pretty often. Let me tell you, contacting Perez alone made me pee my pants and the pants of those around me. My friends from home were also incontinent at the news. In fact, they freaked out so much that they nearly had something to do. Xoxo, the Midwest.
It’s weird that Perez is so popular (over 5,000,000 independent hits per day), yet he’s so accessible. Judging by how quickly he replied to my first e-mail, he may respond to EVERY e-mail he gets, which is a s**tload, especially since VH-1 just gave him his own show. I met him briefly in person at the Tim Gunn event, actually, and he was very nice, social, and orange-haired. He was also very much wearing a huge vest.
Sorry, Perez, but you’re a tackle-box short of being my uncle Gene (that’s my hottie roommate Elizabeth, btw).
So this publicist-guy Ben set up a great event for me to attend with Perez: a Tori Spelling-hosted BBQ. OK, I don’t know the first thing about Tori Spelling. She did “90210” and her late father owned houses made of like, chinchilla fur. That was all I had. But I was game to learn more, and if it meant a great article for the Advocate, I figured I could brave it.
I think it’s important for you to read the e-mail Ben sent me:
“Thanks for following up with me, I have four events this weekend and I’m going crazy.
The event starts at 1pm address is: (address).
No press so make sure you tell them you are friends with Perez and Ben Russo. I’ll be there. My cell is (#) the number to the house is (#).
THANKS! Ben”
I decided to ignore the “no press” thing. After all, if Ben was so Exclamation Point!-y about my attendance, I figured there was no problem. Ben also text-messaged me saying I needed to talk to “Lorena” once I arrived, too. Since I’m still scarred by the John Bobbitt story, I clenched my groin in fear.
The day of Tori’s party, I wore my most stylish beachfront BBQ outfit — which you know I bought at the mall. Just like Tori. I flagged down a bus on Santa Monica Boulevard that zipped me down to Santa Monica Beach (funny how that works). From there, I waited nearly an hour for the bus to Malibu, and I called Perez to tell him I’d arrive at Tori’s in under an hour.
Yeah, then I arrived at the BBQ. Where do I begin? I found the exact address, and the location looked nothing like a place of partying. It was a small (but lavishly furnished) beach house — and before I went in, I noticed a sign on the front gate. Something like: “If you enter the premises, you permit cameras to film you for televised broadcast,” etc.
Whatever, I’m hot, that’s fine. Turned out those cameras were for Tori Spelling’s reality show that I forgot existed. I apologize to all you “Tori & Dean: Inn Love” fans, I’m clearly not the pop culture fanatic I always dreamed I’d be. Anyway: I walk inside, and sure enough, an entire camera crew (complete with boom mics and lighting people) populate the place. No sign of Tori, however. Also, no sign of anyone who cares that I’ve just let myself in, including Perez.
I felt it was smartest — or at least not very stupid — to remain nonchalant, so I wandered out the back door to the deck, which was (of course) located in a beautiful spot on Malibu Beach. My initial question about this event: Is this really a party? The guests were hardly talking. In fact, they sprawled out on grotesquely expensive lounge furniture and kept to themselves. One chick was reading a book. This made me feel awkward, since we all know I have no tolerance for literature.
But wait, what’s that repetitive snapping sound? I turned around from my seat on the deck to find that, oh my God, paparazzi are stalking the place. I don’t know what they thought they were photographing, but I made myself believe it was me.
Yeah, then I looked back at the house and realized Tori Spelling was standing in the ground-floor window. I’m sorry, am I out of the loop, or am I wrong to think people don’t care about Tori Spelling? I didn’t understand the hubbub. I did understand, however, that my right side is hottest, so I posed appropriately.
Then I was just bored. Tori was inside playing dress-up for an US Weekly photo shoot, Perez was still nowhere to be found, and I was officially antsy. I scurried back inside hoping to find Ben or the people who knew I was coming.
“I’m supposed to find someone named Lorena?” I said to a random houseguest.
“Bobbitt?” they asked.
“Yes. Always,” I replied.
No one knew who Lorena was. No one. I was sent to Tori Spelling’s publicist, who had just finished telling Tori to put on the green dress for the In Touch photo shoot. Um, maybe you have to be evil to be a publicist, but this chick was straight-up Maleficent.
“What? No. No one else is invited here,” she said.
“Oh, I’m with Perez and Ben Russo,” I explained.
“Perez is a private guest and Ben isn’t here,” she spat at me.
“No, no, Ben set it up, he told me to talk to Lorena and, I guess, Megan Profit?”
“Lorena’s not here, and I’m Megan Profit. I don’t know anything about this.”
“Ben told me I could just follow around Perez, and that I could talk to Tori, too.”
“No, we’ve granted exclusive coverage to other magazines.”
I tried explaining that I wasn’t even covering the event — I was covering Perez’s interaction with celebrities. Tori was supposed to be his celebrity confidant who gives cute quotes about him in my article. I forgot to even wonder why Ben said this Megan would know who I was even though she didn’t.
“Well, you need to get Ben on the phone,” she told me.
“Absolutely,” I replied, smiling, dying inside.
Ben wouldn’t pick up the phone, so I texted him. I’ll be damned, he replied instantly. I’m telling you, text-messaging is the language of Hollywood.
Unfortunately, Tori’s publicist decided she needed to talk to Ben herself. I couldn’t hear much since she wandered out the front door with her cell phone, but I did hear, “No, Ben, you knew this was a private party!” S**t.
Then she stormed back inside, scoffed at me, and said, “No. Sorry. If we’d set this up beforehand, I’d have no problem with it. But we have deals with other people. Sorry. I know you drove out here.”
I took one last look across the kitchen at Tori Spelling, who was eating a giant piece of pizza for an awaiting camera crew. She seemed like she’d be funny. What can I say? I left. I sobbed.
I don’t know if I just messed up by announcing my presence at the party or if Ben messed up because the people he said would know me definitely didn’t, but the whole series of events became a fiasco. Worst of all: I hate being talked to like I’m a delinquent. Maybe I’m ruining my chance of ever appearing on a “Beverly Hills 90210″ reunion special here, but that chick was asinine to me. Oh well. By the way, Perez never showed up.
My editors at the Advocate thought my experience was hilarious, and they forgave me. Because the gays always do. Actually, that’s not true. Forget I said that.
Tune in next week when fellow Iowan (and, sigh, I guess my best friend) Jessica Heacock visits Cali. With no Jimmy John’s in California, will we go hungry? My cliffhangers kick ass, guys, admit it.
Big love, xoxo.
Louis
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