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rue-madame's Diaryland Diary

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They're different from you and me

Recap of the last few days:

Friday night: cocktails at Michael’s Room for some friends’ birthdays. In an effort to be a little more extroverted, I decided to chitchat with folks I had never met before. Talk about gambling and losing: there were two of them. The guy was actually pretty nice, but he started to depress me with his lament about his teenage daughter who is being home-schooled because she couldn’t take the 7th grade. Then the worst was his companion, a woman who could not shut up about her neurosurgeon boyfriend, her former life as a model, and her current career as a makeup artist. And she was coarse and unattractive, and I don't mean in a Beautiful/Ugly way. Terence was at the other end of the bar, watching me glaze over, wondering why the hell I was talking to The Pornogaphers as he called them. It was very GhostWorld.

Saturday: shopped for a present for the soon-to-be-rockstar (I got her a cool Yoshitomo Nara book,) then went to her birthday party. It was well attended, mostly by cooler-than-thou, nonchalant rock and roll bedheads. I met a familiar-looking, nutty guy who kept comparing his girlfriend to the Bat Boy from last year’s issue of the tabloid News Of The World (the tabloid was on the coffee table.) I couln’t place the guy--I kept thinking I’d met him before, or that I’d seen him at a different party or something like that... when it hit me: he was in “Fight Club.” Duh! This always happens to me! I see someone I recognize, stare at them for a while scouring the recesses of my brain for evidence, then realize way past the point of appearing cool and appearing more like a freak with a staring problem, that the object of my laserbeam is a fricken celebrity. They are not my friend, I have never met them before, and I am a Supreme Dork. This happened to me on Sunday night at the movies when I could not take my eyes off of a guy in a baseball cap who turned out to be Richard Schiff (Toby from “The West Wing.”) I am not really that star-struck but you’d never know if from my hayseed in Los Angeles ways.

Some friends from San Francisco stopped in for a few days--they were in town visiting a friend in the hospital. They came, they ate, they shopped. Man, I have never seen two people drop so much cash at a comic book store. Granted it wasn’t all for them, but still: two Buffy figurines, a Bart Simpson head/Rubik’s cube thing, the entire series of Sandman comics, Simpsons toys and some other stuff. I love people who are so insanely profligate (and generous.)

I read the new Nick Hornby book in, like, 2 days. It’s called “How To Be Good,” and it wasn’t. I have a bad feeling that the book club members are going to unanimously love it. Oh well, there’s no accounting for bad taste. So now, I’ve moved on to “Fraud” by David Rakoff and I lovelovelove it. It cracks me up that I'm even in a Book Club. I hate other people's opinions (except for Terence's, and the opinions of a select few friends whom I love too dearly to dismiss over reading differences.) It's not like I'm in the club to ensure that I actually read instead of, you know, indulge in some brainless activity like watching tv or surfing porn. I have a feeling it's going to be hard to extricate myself from the committment, but I will hang back and see what happens.

What else can I tell you? Did you know that Stevie Nicks employs an assistant whose job it is to blow coke up her ass? Apparently, this is old gossip, but it was news to me. Also that Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite. Who knew?

7:04 p.m. - 2002-03-20

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