Snax In The City: Get Your Fix

My dear, dear friend (as my dad would say, but in his case it would be referring to a women he's met twice, but in my case it is my dear friend) who shall remain nameless, moonlights as the hostess (the fetching, feisty, fresh-faced hostess) at one of the hottest restaurants in Los Angeles. She emailed me at 1:00am after returning home from a late night shift. The email was a LOL-inducing account of her night where she encountered a number of A-list actors, including a famous power celesbian (her word, not mine). My friend may have been "foster"ing a crush on the actress, who was a true brave one based on her choice of partner. Seems like this Oscar winner's life mate could compete with Cynthia Nixon's St. Bernard, cough, girlfriend in a showdown between the pusty power partners who prefer pussy.

Oh hell no?!?!

More like, "Oh NELL No!"

The email was sent off to me at one in the morning, but I didn't get the email until I returned home twenty minutes later. I know what you're thinking, one of Brian's late night tricks, but no, no, you see I was up late, working the night away on my screenplay. Upon realizing I ran out of my writing fuel, I laced up my sneakers and headed out into the night. My typical late night run for my d.c. aka my diet coke (No offense Don Cheadle.) So, I raced out the door, crossed Hollywood Blvd, and walked right up to the 24 hour Rite Aid located around the block from me. (Who needs waterfront property when you've got all access to the Rite Aid!?!)

I headed directly to the refrigerated section in the back of the store, hell bent on picking up an ice cold case of diet coke. (I know, I'm so hardcore, watch out Winehouse!) Cut to me, crouched on the ground, the cold air blowing out of the cooler, my arms scrambling for the coldest case of diet coke, when I hear someone approaching. Moments later a dirty pair of motorcycle boots stomp up to me, stopping inches from my face. Wow...big boots!

The man tears open the door to the adjoining cooler, revealing the cases of beer he's rummaging through. The man's on a mission to find his brew. I can hear him scoffing and huffing. Dude is majorly agitated for sure. I find an ice cold case of diet coke and I cradle my bundle of joy in my arms and stand up from the floor, slamming the door behind me. The motorcycle man, alerted to my presence, momentarily stopped his manic booze hunt and turned to get a good look at me. We made eye contact....

Ladies and gentleman, I give you Danny Bonaduce...or should I say Bona-douche-e, because a) it's a play on words, and b) he looked like a douche.

I know he was on the Partridge family, but I never watched that show, preferring to watch the Walsh, Conner, hell, even the Tanner families instead. I know the Bonadouche from his douchey morning radio show in Los Angeles that I would sometimes catch, along with his his douchey appearances on VH1 reality shows and a really douchey publicity stunt at a C list award show where he appeared naked on the red carpet, covering himself with only a hat.

I've seen the uncensored picture form the red carpet where he dropped the hat and showed the full monty, once and for all proving that Danny is not only a natural douche, but he himself has a natural red carpet. Well, orange carpet to be exact.

[Here's the link to the picture. The doodle's courtesy of Perez Hilton. Look at your own risk, or better yet, don't!]

http://img.perezhilton.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/10/aabonaduce02__oPt.jpg

The man is roided up beyond all belief. He's jacked, ripped, diesel, whatever you wanna call it, he's it. But in no way is this an endorsement or an approval. The man looked so tweaked out of his gourd, his body pumped up to unhealthy and unnatural levels and if there ever was to be a movie made based on his face, it would be called Snakes on the Veins. The serious raised veins on his body seemed like they were trying to communicate with me. His veins were akin to a sick twisted version of braille, and if you were brave enough to run your hands over the veins they would spell out some of the world's greatest secrets. He's the walking, breathing Douche-Vinci Code. (Bad Brian, Bad!)

Whatever steriod cocktail Barry Bonds was sipping on, the Douche was downing pitchers of them, and twice as fast. Look, if you're going to be an annoying, douchey, roided out red-headed bottom feeding freak, at least be Carrot Top. Dude gets to stay at the Luxor...for free!

I admit, I'm being overly critical and obviously my own body issues/gym fatigue are coming to the surface and I'm taking it out on the Douche, but my body, for better or worse (and mine's the latter, for those keeping track) but for better or worse, my body's mine, and if I want to put shitty chemicals in my body, I'll chose something legal, like Diet Coke, thank you!

At the end of the day, Danny and I were evil twins, both of us bulging out of our t-shirts as we scoured the aisles of Rite Aids, scratching ourselves in withdrawl, desperate to find our drug of choice at a run down convenience store in the wee hours of Monday morning. The only difference between us is that my goal was to sufficiently caffeinate myself to a level in which I could stay up and write another three pages of dialogue even more rambling and meandering than this blog. (Can you imagine?)

His goal was to get a little pick me up because it was obvious the guy was coming down from a really good high, or in his case, a really sad high. Sad, because he's the cock-flashing, roided out Bonaduche.

So, back to the scene at hand, I'm secretly staring at the Bonadouche, scanning his outfit from head to toe, or should i say from hair (wet!) to boots (scuffed).

and yes, you read that right, wet hair.

...Brian, get away...

I ESCAPE.

I RUN to the cashier.

I AVOID the SNAX that are calling my name. (No Kit Kat, NO!)

I HEAR his boots approach.

I FORK over my cash.

I FEEL his presence behind me.

I GRAB my fridge pack of Diet Coke.

I HEAR him twitching/tweaking. I HEAR his veins.

I HAVE to get a look at what he's buying.

I MUST see what he's purchasing. I'm intrigued.

I TURN around.

I SPY his purchase.

(in spite of this) I KEEP MY SHIT TOGETHER.

I exit the store, walking back home in the darkness, smiling to myself.

I get home, I flip open my laptop, I read the hilarious email my friend sent me, I LOL at her celebrity encounters.

And that's when I was forced to ask myself the tough question: Who's got the better story in the celebrity showdown. On one hand you have an Oscar winner demanding more Pelligrino on the other hand you have a D-list Former TV/Current Reality TV Star buying a case of Mike's Hard Lemonade.