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This Just In!
By Lake Stevens, Man About Town
September 22, 2004
A Nice Day for a White (Trash) Wedding
I awoke early the morning of The Emmy Awards, eager to catch up on a few errands and, of course,
to prepare for a stroll down the red carpet. Even though I pop into the Kabbalah Center now and
again, I wouldn't call myself a religious man per se. That day, however, I gave thanks to some higher
power that that horrid Joan and her grubby daughter wouldn't be pawing me again this year. Nothing
spoils an evening faster than the cackling of an anorexic hag.
Propped up by my Chinese silk lounger cushion, I waited for Boris to bring my morning soy milk latte and scone. While I lounged,
I quickly ran down my list of things to before the Emmy pre-party I was to attend at Edie Falco's bungalow.
First, I needed to make a quick stop at Neiman Marcus to pick up that new Locman watch I'd been eying.
I do love an iguana strap -- it makes me feel like a frisky native boy, clad in a
banana leaf skirt, dancing under the steamy light of the jungle moon. Whew! Had the weather man
predicted another Los Angeles scorcher? He must have, for even in the climate-controlled comfort of
my bedroom, I had to wipe the hint of perspiration from my brow.
After Neiman Marcus, I planned to zip down to The Beverly Center to replenish my stock of salves and
assorted luxury skin care products. Gentle readers, since I'm feeling a bit cheeky today, I thought I
might spill a small secret: normally I buy my Estrusé™ Anti-Wrinkle Crème and Fatigue Toner under the
pretense that it's for the "wife." Well, the cat's out of the bag! Even though I'm only 28 (I am!), it
doesn't hurt to use a little "preventive maintenance."
I lazily stretched atop my 500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. Unlike the imposter "Egyptian cotton"
sheets you might purchase at Bed Bath & Beyond or, God forbid, Target, my linens are the real deal. By that,
I mean they are hand-woven by a ten-year-old Egyptian boy who lost his mother in a terrorist bombing carried out by the
Egyptian Islamic Jihad. After I saw him featured on a Save the Children infomercial, I immediately placed an order through
the US Ambassador to Egypt for eight full sets, including bed skirts and shams. I considered shipping him over
and installing him in the guest room so that he might weave more comfortably, but my hopes were dashed after
my lawyers told me that it would break some kind of labor law or something. I didn't really understand what he
meant, but truth be told, I just can't face the indignity of another lawsuit. People are so sue-happy these days.
My "wife" appeared in the doorway to my boudoir just as I was nibbling the last of my scone. I felt more than a
twitch of desire as I admired my love bunny's tanned and toned physique beneath the sheer Japanese silk kimono I
picked up on my trip to the World's Fair in Seto. I was glad to see all the money I was dumping into those sessions
with Gunnar Peterson, "Trainer of the Stars," was paying off.
Upon closer inspection, I spied something in "her" hand. Then it all came back to me with a groan. How could I
have forgotten that only yesterday we had received an invitation to the Kevin Federline / Britney Spears wedding?
"But Darling, must we? Won't she be divorced by tomorrow? Can't we just send a box of snack cakes or something?
Certainly, a carton of Marlboros would suffice. I absolutely will not miss The Emmy Awards for that trash!"
The "wife" just smiled and shook "her" head. With a heaving sigh, I swung my legs out of bed, jammed them into my
Ugg Fluff Scuff slippers and stomped off to have a shower. Why now, why today? I wouldn't even have time to pick up my
skin crème.
On our way out, I made a mental note to fire that dreadful gardener that the "wife" had hired last month. For one, he had
completely destroyed the shape of my most prized topiary. The topiary, given to me by my dear mother on her deathbed, had
been passed down through the Stevens line since the days we held court with Queen Victoria. Now the very sight of it makes
me weep. Worse than the topiary incident, this gardener was obviously older than 30, the maximum age I allow for The Hired Help.
I fancy this to be somewhat like Menudo's policy; once you reach your sweet sixteen, you're out of the group. If it
weren't for those meddlesome Age of Consent laws, a similar policy would be in order at Casa de Lake. (I might add that this
rule applies only to Hired Help of the male persuasion. I really could care less if our laundress, Maria, is 9 or 90...as
long as she uses the correct amount of starch on my shirt collars and does not iron too severe a crease on the fronts of my
trousers.) No one ever said I was an equal opportunity employer.
The ceremony was held at the home of a Mr. Scott Hill in Studio City. Just as I was thinking that it couldn't get any more
tacky, I stopped to stare at the...was that fake wood paneling? When I swallowed, it felt as though a small boulder was
lodged in my throat. I couldn't bear to look at the "wife" for fear that I'd lose all capacity to control my emotions. I
was glad I'd thought to bring an antique painted Japanese sensu fan; it shaded my face from the sun and allowed me to
hide my identity from any potential Paparazzi who might be lurking in the bushes.
Even though I'd never had the pleasure of their company before, I immediately picked out the mother and sister of the bride.
This was easy because, not only were they wearing matching pink tracksuits, they had that tell-tale "Spears Nose." Ladies,
there are hundreds of plastic surgeons a mere stone's throw away -- it's okay to use them. I won't pass judgment if it makes
you look better -- only if it makes you look worse.
The wedding was an intimate affair of approximately twenty people. Twenty is the true estimate, but in my eyes, the number
was actually zero. Zero people worth talking to, that is. Who were these bottom feeders? I feared my reaction if any of
them so much as brushed up against my Lauren pinstripe jacket. Remember, when faced with a particularly jarring trauma, one
can possess enough adrenaline to lift a car, and, honey, my jacket was worth more than most of their cars.
We were ushered into a back "garden" that consisted of nothing more than a patch of scrubby lawn and one diseased-looking
lemon tree. Each guest was presented with a gift bag. My spirits lifted a bit -- I do love a goody bag! I tore the bag open
to find a pair of Gap jeans, some Chew Juicy candy, Nike shoelaces and this gaudy key chain that sported a picture of the smiling
couple. Something instinctively told me to pocket the shoelaces. Everything else I tossed indiscreetly into the shrubs. A dark
anger flared when I thought of the wonderful treasures I would have received in my Emmy Awards goody bag.
Shortly after we were seated near the back, the opening notes of Love Hurts by Nazareth sounded from a portable boom box. I craned my neck
to see as the bride entered wearing a strapless white "gown" of some sort over pants. The unshaven groom, dressed in a white tuxedo,
looked like a bus boy at a low-rent country club. Garçon, bring me a touch of class, and make it snappy!
It was at this point that I realized why I had kept those shoelaces. Acting quickly, I yanked them from my trouser pocket, wrapped
them around my throat and attempted to strangle myself then and there. Death was better than this. Yet, before I could complete the act,
the ceremony ended. (Do you know how hard it is to choke yourself to death? If, by some act of the devil, I am forced to
attend one of these in the future, I'll be sure to bring two cyanide capsules -- one for myself and the other in case there happens
to be another A-lister present. I have connections with an old Nazi over in Pasadena who owes me a favor.)
Servers appeared with tall glasses of bubbly. Oh, how my parched lips and tongue yearned for the familiar and comforting taste
of Dom Perignon! I grabbed a glass and thought it strange that the champers had a green tint. Perhaps, I reasoned doubtfully,
it was an exotic varietal I had not yet tried. It was a wedding and they had money, surely there would be some semblance of tradition
and class. The "wife" and I clinked our glasses together -- bottoms up. Immediately after taking a gulp, I began to sputter and
choke. It took me a moment…it was Mountain Dew! They made us drink Mountain Dew! This was a low down, dirty trick -- the lowest
of the low, in fact. My palate would be ruined for days; I had dinner plans the following night at L'Orangerie with Bo Derek!
How could I possibly enjoy my lightly seared fois gras after exposure to this corn syrup-laden outrage?
After the wedding, the bride and groom changed into matching, embroidered white tracksuits. Hers bore the words
"Mrs. Federline" on the back, while his simply said "The Pimp." Also swaddled in tracksuits, were "Maids" and more "Pimps";
the bridesmaids and groomsmen, respectively. Counted amongst "The Maids" were the bride's own mother and sister. They apparently were of
a higher order in the tracksuit hierarchy -- instead of the basic white nylon ensemble, mom and sis were given the queenly luxury
of pink velour tracksuits. I must have been in the bathroom "powdering my nose" when this whole affair turned into a 50 Cent video. Then again,
50 Cent earned his street cred by being shot nine times. These people just had very bad taste.
I turned to the "wife" only to find that "she" had become a limp pile on the ground, "her" clothing mingling with that sad excuse for
a lawn. Gasping, I realized that the grass stains on "her" pashmina poncho would never come out! Could this day be any worse? It
could...and was.
I gave the "wife" a couple of slaps and "she" finally came around. I glanced about furtively and was pleased that no one had seen.
"The Pimps" and "The Maids" were too busy smoking and guzzling more of that Mountain Dew swill to take notice of our little drama in
the corner.
"A little nosh will put the color back into your cheeks," I said hopefully.
I helped the "wife" to "her" feet and we headed over to the "buffet." A buffet wedding. It was like being asked to eat at Fresh Choice
or
The Sizzler. Not that I have firsthand experience
dining at either establishment, mind you! A reporter's hunch simply told me that
both would have been better than the reality of the Spears-Federline brand of hospitality. Heaps of chicken wings, barbequed ribs
and hamburgers were served without even the benefit of utensils! I didn't dare ask if the hamburgers were Kobe beef. Even the
hottest story was not worth the risk of mussing my manicure with such horse slop. I grabbed the "wife" and led "her" out the door.
I later heard that the party continued at a club where the newest Mrs. Federline wowed a surprised crowd with a convincing pole dance.
Wedding guests even had to pay for their own booze. I'm doubly glad I made haste for the door when I did; I enjoyed a
snifter of decent cognac in the comfort of my own home and tried to forget this dreadful night ever happened to me.
And to think that we sent them the most darling silver demitasse spoons from Tiffany and Company.
-Lake Stevens, Man About Town |
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