Sloppy with a capital 'S'

My girl Bartok’s in town and after half a liter of sake and two bottles of champagne, our evening was off to a promising start. Around 2 A.M., after we all got bored of watching YouTube videos like these while inebriating ourselves, our group of friends decided it might be appropriate to detach our asses from the couch, detach the liquor from our hands, and actually do something of theoretical worth with our evening.


Everyone tossed around plans, and shot them down, texted our partiers already out on the scene and looked up addresses on the web. We’d settled on an acceptable game plan when half of our friends realized it was Saturday night (they’d been under the impression it was Sunday this whole time) and we had to start the whole planning pow-wow again now keeping the fact that it was unfortunately a weekend in mind.

Weekends equal crowds.

Weekends equal competition for cabs.

Weekends equal Sixth Avenue traffic.

Somehow we ended up at opening night of what someone claimed was a “new” New York nightclub, The Madison, where there was an IMG Modeling Agency party. Gross. But our guy friend insisted on attending.

Inside the bowels of The Madison, which by the way is large and cavernous like the old school clubs of the 70s, I remembered that drunk and baby-model-drunk are two completely different levels of inebriation. I found myself surrounded by sloppy, sloppy, sloppy baby-model-drunks and the perverted modelphiles that stalk them. There was no escape. I couldn’t even maneuver myself to an empty area, because this club had no empty areas. The entire situation made a Thursday at Pink Elephant LINK look classy.

That’s saying a lot.




I spent most of my time trying not to get drowned in vodka as PR’s on top of tables would occasionally let it rain down Kettle One on the eager, open-mouthed baby models below. I watched in disgusted awe as the models then slithered around with one another in a group orgy, as they were too wasted to properly pair off and grind. And I guess this kind of behavior’s to be somewhat expected when waltzing into a club full of seventeen-year-old posers at 2:30 A.M., I guess I just thought considering it was their agency party and therefore theoretically a work event, people might have stopped drinking when they could no longer see straight.

WRONG.

After we planted our coats down in the least violated area of the club available, I realized we’d landed at the boys’ section of the dance floor. I was dead center in the middle of a male model clusterfuck. While amusing, this kind of situation is not enjoyable. None of these chiseled hotties were a day over twenty-two. Most were socially awkward and impressively bad dancers. Many floated through the crowd lost, aimless, unable to talk or even move their mouths. I think most would’ve been relieved if their mother suddenly showed up from Germany, grabbed their hand, and escorted them to the nearest exit for fresh air. And half of these guys were wearing flannel.

Newsflash! Apparently, 90s flannel is back. I was outraged that my friends had forced me to dawn a dress for this event. Clearly, if I had worn flats and assembled a grungy Seattle look I might have had a chance at blending in. As I mulled over this thought, an ano-baby-male model abducted me with what was apparently the club’s outdoor red velvet rope, which he was using as a leash. Having swung the rope over my head and down to my waist, he thrust me toward him, forcing us to dance. Then he reached the rope over Bartok’s head and drew her in as well. Once he realized we weren’t seventeen and on ecstasy, he let us go.

Trying to make the best of the situation, Bartok and I picked favorites. I liked a scruffy, blonde, greasy-haired model in jeans and a green t-shirt, who could have easily passed for Christian Bale’s younger brother. His arms were hugely muscular without being obnoxious and he was tall but not skinny. He wasn’t dancing, which was much appreciated, and looked like he could still probably recite the alphabet without having to pause or ask for help. All signs pointed to that he might be an okay time. Then a fat chick, presumably his booker, suddenly started trying to make out with him. She succeeded in getting one kiss. Disgusted, Christian Bale-boy quickly fled the premises, returning twenty minutes later on the other side of the table. I guess he thought he’d escaped, but the fatty found him again soon thereafter. Sad story.

The other male of note was a flannel wearing James Dean look-alike. At first I couldn’t decide whether he was hot or not. He seemed like the sexy Mexican plumber type who’d guess star on a show like Passions. Then we ended up sitting side by side on a banquet couch, me to rest my feet, him to enjoy a cigarette, and I realized he’s the face of at least a dozen city billboards, I’m thinking Hugo Boss. He had the dark hair and eyes I appreciated and I found myself wildly attracted to him, even hoping that we might dance (gasp! Gross, I know).

We were wearing almost identical brown bracelets (yes, this guy was hot enough to pull off flannel and man jewelry) so I tried to use this as a conversation starter. I got shut down. Then he stood up and it became evident that he could barely walk. I bumped into him ten minutes later and he fervently gripped my shoulders and asked:

“Where’s the Danish guy? Where is he? ”

I guess they’d lost a younger, Danish, baby boy model they were supposed to be chaperoning.

“There’s a Danish guy over there,” I said pointing one of my friends who is Danish, “but I don’t think that’s who you’re looking for.”

“No. No it’s not,” he admitted sadly. He seemed heartbroken.

We proceeded to have a brief conversation in which I learned his name and that he was from Amsterdam. Then a very feisty baby girl model wearing what looked like a backless thong as a top, grabbed my shoulder, shoved me off Amsterdam James Dean cartoon style, and started grinding with him.

Possessive. I get it.

I think she was on E.

I realized I was officially in Hell.

Models too drunk to find their coats had taken out their aggression by vigorously flinging our jackets around as hard as they could. Nice. Somehow we recouped all our belongings, and with my feet soaked in vodka, I managed to stomp out there before the 4 A.M. last call with some dignity. James Dean and I said bye on my way out.

As we’d anticipated at the beginning of the evening, Sunday later proved to be a much better night.

My First Celebrity Crush

I’ve never understood girls fawning over actors and musicians. I’m guess I’m just way too practical. Why waste your precious seductive thoughts and energy on someone who doesn’t even know you exist? On someone you have no hope of succeeding with? The superstar is unavailable, out of your league (sorry to be harsh), but seriously – save your screaming for an emergency fire and your wall space for a global cause that actually matters.

1. I never been into the ‘hot actor’ because we all know attractive male actors are five foot two in real life. Face it: These are men who were forced into the theatrical path as a kid because they were too small to succeed in sports at school. Do you think any good-looking guy who was large enough to be the star quarterback in high school would choose starring as Willy Wonka in the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory instead? No. No, I think not.

2. I’ve never been into the ‘hot drummer / guitarist / boy band guy’ because I’m really not a fan of concerts or live music (I know, throw rotten fruit at me. I’m a weirdo). Since worshipping such musical stars usually involves paying exorbant amounts of money to attend their ‘live’ usually lip-synced performances, where you battle tens of thousands of other people in a mosh pit for oxygen and have to listen to female tweens shrieking bloody murder, I’ve always passed on the whole ‘band fan’ idea.

3. Lastly, I’ve never taken interest in a molebrity [that’s a model / celebrity] male model crush since having worked the biz in Milan I know that 80% of guys in print ads secured the job through sexual favors to powerful male photographers. This puts a large, dark, homosexual cloud over your fantasy of you and the Calvin Klein underwear model in a field of sunflowers together. Uugh.

So there you have it. I’ve never been into celebrity crushes … UNTIL NOW …

Monday night I went to see Rescue Dawn at the Angelika and fell in love with Christian Bale. It wasn’t just his boyish charm, humbling good-looks, longish hair and radiant good nature. This guy’s a fucking fantabulous actor. He MADE the movie. I was ready to watch him struggle through the jungle of Laos for another four hours, just because he did it with such charisma in an utterly believable, blended performance – humor mixed with unrelenting hope. And this is coming from a girl who’s not a huge fan of Vietnam movies. Rescue Dawn is worth seeing. The POW camp was a fascinating and incredibly written study of human nature that utilized black comedy in an amazingly realistic way. Besides, how many men can look sexy and have a sense of humor while eating a strangled water snake with heir bare teeth for survival. I’m one hundred percent positive that only Christian Bale could pull it off.



Like any new fan, I came home after the movie and googled the shit out of Christian. My love for him only grew. He’s a serious Method actor known for his pursuit of intense acting jobs and his willingness to gain or loose weight in order to best personify his character (he gained 100 pounds in 6 months before filming Batman). He’s also actively involved in the world of independent films, which means he’s maintained artistic integrity. He’s also an accent expert, so could woo me with heavy British slang one day and a rough Greek accent the next. I’m ready for him to star in every screenplay I’ve ever written. We could be a dynamic duo – entertainment partners. I think we’re meant to be!

Too bad he’s already married …