By: Tony Tripoli
It’s just a plain old-fashioned shitty time right now.
A professional dancer in the first half of her career won “Dancing With The Stars”, Crystal Bowersox didn’t win “American Idol”, and instead, some guy who doesn’t sing so great did, AND apparently, the “Sex And The City” sequel is a gold-dipped turd.
Happy Memorial Day, America.
I guess this year, we’re remembering mediocrity.
Oh, and don’t get me started on the oil spill and Jesse James’s interview…both huge sources of crap just gurgling out non-stop.
One bright spot: I have a week off.
The TV Show I write on, THE DISH, is on hiatus this week, because we are airing a special episode: THE DISH PRESENTS TV’s FIGHTS AND FEUDS! It is a really funny recap of the big A-holes on our TVs this year, and we aren’t even to June yet. We award our top prize, The Golden Brass Knuckles of Excellence, to that bad Mama-Jama, Kate Gosselin.
I am telling you this not to promote the show (which premieres Saturday at 10pm, check local listings), but rather, because I HAD A REAL LIFE RUN-IN WITH KATE GOSSELIN, and you need to know!
We taped the special last Friday afternoon, and when we were done, I went to Burke Williams Spa for a “let’s get this vacation started” massage. It is a great spa, and the best part is, you go early and soak in whirlpools, saunas, and steam rooms, while drinking water with a cucumber slice in it, which is, apparently, incredibly fancy, and what I would be doing at home, if I loved myself more.
An hour after taping our shows, I’m in a towel, alone in a steam room, forgetting the stresses of dealing with the dumbasses of the world….ahhhh.
Then 2 men enter the tiny sweatlodge. One in a towel, the other nude and impossibly attractive.
Nudie plops down next to me, extends his hand, and, in his outside voice, asks “How ya doin’ Bro?”
So much for forgetting the dumbasses.
My response was brilliant. Since he was being inappropriately loud, I decided to reply in the tiniest whisper I could, thereby educating this ingrate in proper steamroom etiquette. Obviously, he would realize what a clod he had been, and lower his voice, and drink some magical cucumber water.
I whispered: “Just relaxing.”
Not only did nudie NOT lower his voice, he upped the douchebag ante by announcing to the audience that lives in his head: “I’m Jordan, and this is my publicist, Ben.”
That one shocked me, and I’ve lived in L.A. over 20 years.
But, I think I took him down a peg or two. I spent the next few minutes telling Ben how fascinating his job sounded, asking countless questions about his career, and even his other clients.
I never asked nudie anything.
Pretty soon, he got pouty, and left.
Oh, and I’m pretty sure Ben enjoyed his absence as much as I did.
After my massage, I was waiting for the elevator down to the parking level, when the doors opened, and out walked Kate Gosselin and her silver fox of a bodyguard.
She was wearing more makeup than any drag queen I know, and I know quite a few. Her dress was extremely tight, and extremely mini. Perhaps it was one of her daughter’s. Don’t ask about the hair; you know the answer.
She breezed past, and in one of those reflexive moments in life where you act without thinking, I blurted: “Excuse me, Kate, may I tell you something really quickly?”
I don’t know what I thought I was going to tell her, but I knew this would be a good story, so I’d just have to cross that bridge when I got to it.
She stopped in her tracks, spun around on her extremely tall heels, and said, in a tone that could best be described as “accusatory”: “WHAT?!”
Well, now I’d poked the hornets’ nest with a stick, hadn’t I?
“I write on a TV show, called THE DISH, and, um, we love you there, and, um, we tease you a lot, but, you know, love you….anyway, we just taped a special, about the best fighters of the year, and hey, we awarded you the Golden Brass Knuckles of Excellence…..so, that’s, you know, cool, huh?”
Her reply was simple. Just a single syllable. Yet, in that syllable, I got a glimpse into the daily lives of little Aiden, or, Maddie, or the one with the glasses. And, it was brutal. If this is what they hear when they tell Mommy they are hungry or got a boo boo, or miss their Daddy, then we gotta get ‘em out of there.
I didn’t even capitalize it, because she didn’t. And trust me, she didn’t have to.
Lucky for me, her Golden Brass Knuckles of Excellence hadn’t been delivered yet.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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