FOREWORD BY STAN LERNER: Downtownster does not celebrate its first birthday until February, but I still feel compelled to post the TEN BEST downtownster blogs of 2009. And while I think all of our blogs have been great, these are the ones that readers read the most and gave us the highest level of props for writing. This particular blog let the world know that Downtown Oliver Brown had a sister and David Mamet’s assistant Meaghan had some serious talent–readers loved Betty Booze!
Question: What’s better than wearing a skirt?
Why in his right mind, he would ever say yes, is beyond me… but I wasn’t about to question it. His ASSistant emailed me the address, and then after a nanny emergency, I was emailed another.
I was supposed to meet him that night on the roof at the Standard in downtown Los Angeles. That is definitely NOT where we met.
When my friend dropped me off (in a 1990 Eagle mind you) I wasn’t at all surprised by the location, but I was convinced that I would have NO real one on one intimate time with him… which was disappointing. I could have swept him off his feet… (sigh)
I had to show my I.D. at the door. The large man, accompanied by three other large men, was in plain clothes… which insulted my intelligence when I saw his surveillance ear piece.
He asked me if I had any weapons on me and then, as if he’d known me for years, leaned down and gently said “flask please, ma’am”. I looked at him in my best “f*ck you, how dare you assume… (I can’t even finish that).
I handed him the flask in my bag. He smiled, and moved out of the way, letting me inside.
There were kids everywhere! It was like Michael Jackson’s house at midnight. I looked around, my hands were sweating so badly, I could have taken a shot with the water shed. I tried to spot him, but there were just so many little humans running, screaming, crying, laughing, shitting, pissing, farting… you name it they were “ing-ing” it.
I walked to the bathroom, and removed the flask that was strapped to my right inner thigh. I meant to only take a sip or two but I “invisiblized” the contents in record time. I had already had a few shots of Jameson before I left the house, so I was slightly intoxicated (to my and your amazement, I’m sure).
I washed my hands and tried to get my liquor inspired brain to calm my nerves. I don’t get star struck, and I don’t get nervous… which is why I was about to shit my pants stepping back out into the toddler safari.
I spotted him, surrounded by his baby militia he looked like a greek god… wearing Gucci. I approached, and approached, finding it the afternoons mission to get close enough to touch him. He saw me, and waved. I waved back like I was greeting a human size bottle of Jack Daniels. As soon as the little sobriety I was clinging to knelt down and sucker punched me in the vajayjay, I stopped waving and walked through the room like a jewel thief maneuvering laser security beams. I lost balance at one point and swung my bag to regain my composure. Thank hay-zeus no one saw what happened. As I swung my bag, it forced a little kid into an air born glide straight into the coin machine. I pretended not to notice, and continued through towards HIM. My heart was beating so fast my tits looked like they were ceasing.
I was finally near him, he yelled to me, “ball pit”. Oh the amount of times those two words were thought of in the same sentence, he could never imagine. I put my bag down, and followed him and his culture infused family into the ball pit.
Hard is the word you would use to describe a concrete slab; but hard is the word I would use to describe walking through a ball pit with a half a liter of Jameson coursing through my veins, not to mention, the ENTIRE Jolie-Pitt offspring. So I did what I always do in tough spots, I sat and waited it out… UNTIL, he said my name…. “BETTY!” I heard it in repetition though he had only spoken once… my body went numb. For being a professional lush, there is no better pay off that sitting in a ball pit, drunk as f*ck, with Brad Pitt calling your name.
I looked up at him. I just stared. “We’ll go back to the house after, talk then… now we play!” he said. If only he and I were on the same page as to what “play” actually meant.
I smiled again, wondering how I could interview someone that I couldn’t speak to… I knew the answer, so I got up, excused myself and climbed up to a neglected corner inside a small plastic tube. I swallowed the rest of the flask’s liquid and returned it to my inner thigh strap (as I did, I made a note to self: SHOW LARA CROFT MY FLASK STRAP, because you know, she’d appreciate it).
I climbed down, and when I say “climbed” I really mean, I fell down, took out a few kids, thankfully none of the “chosen ones” as I like to call the J-P Baby militia. I hit the ground so hard, I almostfelt it.
An hour later I was back in the ball pit, Little Shiloh was on my lap throwing balls at her siblings… she hit one of them each time, they were EVERYWHERE. It was like a family of ants.
I felt the need to pee, but Angie walked in and kissed Brad who was in the opposite corner, literally being DAD OF THE F*CKING YEAR…I wanted Angie (yes Angie, hey if Us Weekly can call her that, so can I) to see Shiloh loving me up… you never know when they might be in a crunch and need a alcoholic journalist to babysit…. I bet the pay’s unbelievable.
So I paid more attention to Shiloh and before I know it there was pee in my lap (why am I always getting piss all over me?).
I picked her up and told B (only way to shorten Brad) she had an accident. He thanked me for noticing and brought her to the bathroom.
Three minutes later I was sitting at the table watching Angie playing with the kids. I was imagining her rocking her children to sleep at night, as they were nestled tightly within the safety of her lips when Brad came up and said, “we wont be having you over. Thank you for coming down, please leave.”
I gathered my things, went to the bathroom and walked towards the door.
It was the best day of my life, no matter what the outcome, and I still, as always, have a story to tell.
As I walked out I put my hand out to the man who had taken my flask. He smiled and said “of course ma’am.”
I smiled back, walked around the corner, sat on the curb and called a cab.
As I took a sip from my returned flask I couldn’t be mad… I was impressed. Only Brad Pitt could organize a way to make me drink pure urine, and my reaction is a smile. I just wish it was Brad’s piss and not Johnny Hugeneck’s.
That’s the last time I’ll ever step foot in a Chucky Cheese.
Answer: Wearing no underwear, pisssing in the ball pit, and blaming it on Shiloh Jolie-Pitt.
Signed, Sealed, Delivered,