"Hey, if every woman dumped her husband for crashing a blimp into the Superbowl, no one would be married."
I suspect it probably goes without saying that I’m not a huge football fan. But to illustrate it further, a conversation I had with Adam should do the trick:
Adam: What are you doing for Superbowl?
Me: My publisher is having a shindig at Spago.
Adam: Fancy.
Me: Yep.
Adam: You gonna watch the game?
Me: What for? I don’t even know who’s playing.
Adam: You don’t know who’s playing? Are you retarded?
Me: What do I care? As long as they huddle and smack each other’s asses, that’s all that matters.
Yeah. Not a huge fan. But when someone tells me “free food and open bar,” I’m there.
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I rounded up Kevin and Joy as my dates and dragged them kicking and screaming (yeah, right) to Spago earlier this afternoon. Joy and I hit the chow line right away and got ourselves some fantastic burgers, then wandered into the kitchen for salad. As I looked up from the artichoke hearts, I realized I was face to face with Shannon Tweed. And yes, Gene was standing right behind her. And no, Gene didn’t recall ham handedly hitting on me two years ago. Come on – that guy has to hit on at least 800 women a day.
We took our seats by the back bar just in time to watch the halftime show, but we were so busy being social we never paid attention to it. Plus, we were discussing x-rated stuff that you’re too young to read about. I made my rounds and met some of the other people I tend to only speak to on the phone or via e-mail, like Stanley, the head of sales, who told me he’d read most of Sexography (and from what I get of his description, he liked it and thought it was well written.) Or my new editor Henrietta, who has the greatest British accent. I had about three words with Michael, the head of the operation, and spent a good chunk of time hanging out with Ashley, who holds everything together. My one faux pas was not recognizing Sonia, who did the gorgeous design of Sexography’s cover. I’m so used to seeing her sitting behind a computer that I didn’t even realize I was standing right in front of her. D’oh.
Anyway. The most entertaining part of the evening wasn’t the game, the food, the free booze or the x-rated talk – okay, maybe it was the x-rated talk – but watching the Beverly Hills housewives in their “casual” wear pretending to be interested in the game. They all looked so uncomfortable – like they’d rather have all their plastic surgery undone than watch the game. There was one woman I encountered in the bathroom who’d had wine spilled on her jeans. It’s pretty much a guarantee that if there’s an open bar, wine will be spilled on clothing. When you don’t shell out $12 a glass for something you’re apt to be a little more careless about it. So as she went on and on about the wine incident, I turned to her and said, “You know, why not just go with it? When you get home, take a bottle of wine and pour it in a pot, put your jeans in it, let it sit overnight, and then your jeans will have a cool new wash on them.”
She looked at me like I’d just suggested she go work at McDonald’s. “No,” she snapped.
Oh well, I tried. The funny thing was when I was waiting for my car at valet a few hours later, she was still complaining about the wine incident. I guess some people aren’t happy unless they’re miserable.
Anyway. It was fun. And I know that the Colts won, thanks very much. My disappointment of the evening, however, was not meeting Buzz Aldrin so I could call him “me main man.” But I have his home address, so maybe I’ll just drop by to say hi.
Kidding, kidding.
Maybe.
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