While in Miami at a gathering of friends and beloved in-laws, which happened to coincide with the whole Art Basel thing, the lovely Joanna said, oh-so-innocently, “I saw [certain blonde socialite who shall not be named on this blog] this morning.”
I groaned, and the equally lovely Jade, who frequently reads my blog, laughed. We both explained to Joanna how I’ve griped once or twice about how, in Los Angeles (and now, it appears, in Miami), I never spot the celebrities I would actually be interested in seeing in the flesh (hello Keanu? Johnny? Kate Moss [and yes I know you live in London but still that’s no excuse]?) but can’t turn around without another glimpse of [particular blonde socialite who shall not be named], or bumping into someone who’s had some recent encounter with her. I had the same syndrome with Stephen Dorff a couple of years ago — I kept running into him so often, either at the gym in Brentwood where we both used to work out, or on the streets in Beverly Hills, and even, once, in Toronto, that we started greeting each other with friendly hellos (decidedly not the case with aforementioned socialite) even though he still had no idea who the hell I was.
And so of course it came to pass that at the club Mokai* that night while I was blissfully dancing away somebody in my group tapped me on the shoulder and chuckled evilly and said, “Over there.” The socialite — white-blonde and slinky and several inches shorter than the fashion-model height she likes to pass herself off as — had appeared with her posse. We passed her again sometime later, in the street, where she was on the verge of passing out outside some club and oblivious to everyone except the dude supporting her. If only she was doing something intriguing enough to actually justify this pointless blog entry, like driving the wrong way in a carpool lane at 5 in the morning while high on life (and other things), but no. She just is. Much like athlete’s foot, or the rat that died behind our bathroom wall. And I truly don’t have anything else to report at the moment (other than productive sessions in the gym and at the laptop — plus I made a very nice chicken pot pie).
But tomorrow is another day.
Oh wait, here’s something — Janet Maslin, while acknowledging that RED DRAGON and SILENCE OF THE LAMBS are fine novels, totally panned HANNIBAL RISING in the New York Times this weekend. Which was enough to make me decide to read Richard Powers’ THE ECHO MAKER instead, while taking breaks to dip into Stephen Jones’ latest ‘Best Horror’ anthology. If you think Maslin is wrong, let me know, otherwise I probably won’t get to that book — as time-crunched as I am, and as selective as my reading has been forced to become.
* I love how these clubs try to top each other by effacing themselves. Mokai was not only too-cool-for-school to have a sign over its door, it presented itself as an empty, abandoned warehouse complete with darkened windows. Only the discreet valet sign kicked over on its side on the sidewalk offered any clue. And the people trying to get in, of course.