An Evening with K-Fed
When exiting a bathroom at the same time as Kevin Federline, what would you do?
I faced this question last night, and I’m happy to say, I think I aced it.
Wearing a jacket nicknamed “patches” for its ridiculous insignia, my friends and I entered a posh Hollywood nightclub. This club, though I won’t name it, is probably one of the top 5 clubs in LA. I only included that last line to show off how hot and trendy I am.
And let me tell you this: I have previously wondered where all the hot 23-year-old women in LA are. I found out last night – they are at this club. Seriously. Across the board, the “hot girl” spectrum was filled, from trashy-hot to glamorous-hot to wow-those-boobs-are-fake-hot.
But the crux of the evening wasn’t brushing past Paris Hilton on the dance floor. It wasn’t watching Andy Dick lick an unsuspecting Persian man. It also wasn’t the wonderfulness of “bottle service,” which, let me tell you, is all it’s cracked up to be and more.
It was K-Fed.
I first noticed the man who brought us “PopoZao” in the bathroom, visiting his career, which was in the toilet. And as an over-tipped “Awkward Helper Guy in the Bathroom” handed me a paper towel (and I avoided eye-contact, as I only tipped him a dollar, which was apparently nine dollars short of the standard rate), I realized I was walking right behind him.
Shaved head. Trendy jacket. False sense of entitlement.
It was he. It was my man. It was K-Fed.
My mind raced. Did I want to meet him? What should I say? How could I get in and out of a conversation with him?
As we walked towards the dance floor, I knew I had only one window. This was my shot. I had to make my move.
I stepped to my left, placing my left hand behind his back. Giving him a soft tap on the shoulder, I said, “Good luck man, I’m really pulling for you.”
I didn’t know what to expect from him. Part of me thought he’d ask me what he thought of his album. Part of me thought he’d push me aside. Part of me thought his bodyguard would clock me.
But to his credit, Mr. Federline looked me in the eye, stuck out his hand and said “Thanks, man.”
I shook his hand, and though I was positively giddy that he didn’t see through my relative insincerity, I didn’t know what to think. This sounds trite, but as I looked into his eyes, I could tell he was a broken man. Sure, his overall swagger was ridiculous, but he was sincerely thankful of me offering a kind word. I could tell he kinda felt sad.
I kinda felt like a douche.
But then I remembered that I was at a sweet club with Paris Hilton, top shelf booze, and lots of cleavage, so I got over it pretty quick.
Then somebody stole my jacket.
Then I found it lying on the street.
THE END.
I faced this question last night, and I’m happy to say, I think I aced it.
Wearing a jacket nicknamed “patches” for its ridiculous insignia, my friends and I entered a posh Hollywood nightclub. This club, though I won’t name it, is probably one of the top 5 clubs in LA. I only included that last line to show off how hot and trendy I am.
And let me tell you this: I have previously wondered where all the hot 23-year-old women in LA are. I found out last night – they are at this club. Seriously. Across the board, the “hot girl” spectrum was filled, from trashy-hot to glamorous-hot to wow-those-boobs-are-fake-hot.
But the crux of the evening wasn’t brushing past Paris Hilton on the dance floor. It wasn’t watching Andy Dick lick an unsuspecting Persian man. It also wasn’t the wonderfulness of “bottle service,” which, let me tell you, is all it’s cracked up to be and more.
It was K-Fed.
I first noticed the man who brought us “PopoZao” in the bathroom, visiting his career, which was in the toilet. And as an over-tipped “Awkward Helper Guy in the Bathroom” handed me a paper towel (and I avoided eye-contact, as I only tipped him a dollar, which was apparently nine dollars short of the standard rate), I realized I was walking right behind him.
Shaved head. Trendy jacket. False sense of entitlement.
It was he. It was my man. It was K-Fed.
My mind raced. Did I want to meet him? What should I say? How could I get in and out of a conversation with him?
As we walked towards the dance floor, I knew I had only one window. This was my shot. I had to make my move.
I stepped to my left, placing my left hand behind his back. Giving him a soft tap on the shoulder, I said, “Good luck man, I’m really pulling for you.”
I didn’t know what to expect from him. Part of me thought he’d ask me what he thought of his album. Part of me thought he’d push me aside. Part of me thought his bodyguard would clock me.
But to his credit, Mr. Federline looked me in the eye, stuck out his hand and said “Thanks, man.”
I shook his hand, and though I was positively giddy that he didn’t see through my relative insincerity, I didn’t know what to think. This sounds trite, but as I looked into his eyes, I could tell he was a broken man. Sure, his overall swagger was ridiculous, but he was sincerely thankful of me offering a kind word. I could tell he kinda felt sad.
I kinda felt like a douche.
But then I remembered that I was at a sweet club with Paris Hilton, top shelf booze, and lots of cleavage, so I got over it pretty quick.
Then somebody stole my jacket.
Then I found it lying on the street.
THE END.
posted by Spencer at 3:49 PM
2 Comments:
Since when did Spencer's column start sounding like reading TMZ.com? I mean come on, K-Fed, Paris, Beckham...Caesar? Watch out Ryan Seacrest you're next!
Very good entry.
Unfortunately, you forgot one key part of the story - when your drunk ass crawled into my bed at 3:30 am on a weeknight so you could slap me and say "Hey Bob, I met K-FED tonight - and I talked to him!!!!"
Honestly, you know I'm going to read the blog anyway - why spoil it?
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home