If there was ever an example of “what’s wrong with this picture?” it was me last week at the SPORTS ILLUSTRATED SWIMSUIT MODEL party in Los Angeles. It was held on the night of my birthday and I went because, well…because I don’t feel old ENOUGH.
A good friend of mine works for SI and invited me. I figured, what the hell? Free drinks and maybe I could get a few of the swimsuit models to be guest bloggers (movie reviews, Iraq war analysis, Lisa Curran vs. Vix swimwear)
The bash was held at the Pacific Design Center in West Hollywood. If the nearby Beverly Center indoor mall is known as the “gray whale”, the Pacific Design Center is the big blue box it came in. A giant tent was set up (or, in this case – “erected”) in the courtyard and carpeting was set down (or “laid”).
Wasn’t sure how to dress for this. Decided against the suit I donned for the Rosenstock bat mitzvah. Settled on the slacks and sweater I wore to the FX pitch meeting. They’re a hip network, right?
Still, I felt out of place. Was it my shoes, my leather jacket, or the fact that I was the only man there who brought his wife?
But at least I didn’t have a pony tail.
Big surprise: the party was 75% guys, all preening like peacocks, all trying to look so cool, all hoping no one would notice that it was Valentine’s Day so how well could they be doing if they were alone at a party to ogle supermodels? Dead giveaway #1: the posturing dorks who were on their cellphones. Like they could be heard over the music, which was played at the threshold of pain. Dead giveaway #2: the losers who brought cameras. Pictures for their wallet to go along with the condom that’s been in there since the Clinton administration.
At one point each swimsuit model was introduced. There were little escalating pedestals set up around the tent, a la Gold Medal ceremonies at the Olympics. Every girl was named Fernanda or Daniella. “From the Brazil shoot – Fernanda Motta, Fernanda Tavares, Daniella Sarahyba!” One by one they took their places, squeezing onto the small disc shaped platforms, each wearing a sheer gown that proclaimed in its elegance, “a thousand dollars an hour”.
I was expecting a tasteful moment of silence for Ana Nicole but alas, none was observed.
The highlight of the evening was the introduction of the SI swimsuit edition cover girl – Beyonce. The digital cameras were a’ clickin’, the pony tails a’spinnin’. Beyonce was beautiful and charming and had that fetching look of “get me the fuck out of here!”
A few former swimsuit models were also in attendance. How tragic must it feel to be over by 29? However, their shame and heartbreak was relieved somewhat by every guy in the tent hitting on them.
I’m actually friends with one “hall of famer”, Stacey Williams. Okay, maybe not close friends, but she knows me well enough to confuse me with someone else she sort of knows. Seriously, Stacey’s a sweetheart and now doing quite well as a consultant for environmental concerns. There IS life after Tahiti. We chatted for about ten minutes. She told me what she was up to, I bragged about creating SEINFELD, 24, and FAMILY GUY.
None of the Fernandas or Daniellas would agree to guest blog for me. Even after I offered them candy.
After about an hour we decided to leave. Stepped outside and was just about to walk the red carpet back to the valet when a huge gust of wind blew the red carpet away. The metaphor did not go unnoticed.