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Recently in Salon People

People Feature
Will success spoil Janeane Garofalo?
After a decade of playing second fiddle, Little Miss Sidekick finally gets lucky. Will we still respect her in the morning?
By Andy Dehnart
[01/26/00]

Nothing Personal
Cry me Joan Rivers
Mariah Carey pins eating disorder on comedian's swipe; Marilyn Manson preserves foreskin for posterity; and "Who Wants to Marry a Multimillionaire?" Why, Miss Marla Maples, of course!
By Amy Reiter
[01/26/00]

Nothing Personal
A few good young guns at the firm
A slap in the face and a sock in the pants: Tom Cruise gets his Calvins in a wad over "Magnolia" fluffed-or-stuffed controversy. Plus: Papa Leo? Virginie Ledoyen denies paternity rumors in the cutest French accent.
By Amy Reiter
[01/27/00]

People Feature
Driving Miss Crazy
In a recent episode of "Jane Fonda's Life," a chauffeur introduced her to a new fella: God.
By Lance Gould
[01/27/00]

People Feature
Jesus Christ vs. Ted Turner
Are their uncanny similarities mere coincidence? You be the judge.
By Lance Gould
[01/27/00]

Complete archives for People

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Price of fame
Puffy was there, and the Goo Goo Dolls, and I almost ran over Kurt Loder. But everyone was working. So, all of the sudden, we missed the lame party with the imported transvestites.

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By David Goodman

Jan. 28, 2000 | Dear Button,

Let me just warn you that this letter may be a scramble as my brain is deeply entrenched in Neal Stephenson's "Cryptonomicon," a book that can best be described as "head-explody." Ostensibly, it is a tale of the serious business of code breaking, primarily during the Second World War. But it is also sending feelers down into my mind and tickling the nerd center. Lots of number-play with heavy use of coincidence and primes. I'm spinning.

But that all seems boring when I have tale to tell of Al Yankovic (aka "Weird" Al, although he has since dropped the "Weird"). Have you kept abreast of VH1's winning series "Behind the Music"? Despite being (basically) the same story again and again, it is quite good. A band gets together, usually in the '80s. They get big. Then they get really big. Now it is the early '90s. Parties and chicks and drugs and excess. But inevitably the bottom falls out, always around 1992. Narrator: "When we come back: In 1992 the bottom falls out of Mötley Crüe's rock 'n' roll fantasy." In fact, the segment of the hour-long show from 30 to 45 minutes is called the POF, or "Price of Fame," segment. The exacted toll usually includes, but is not limited to: overdose, death, betrayal, divorce, institutionalization, wrecked cars, jail time and loss of limb. The final 15 minutes, however, mark the band's return -- Present Day.

What does this have to do with Mr. Yankovic? Well, Al's "Behind the Music" has no POF section. He is a pleasant, fun, nice, courteous, soft-spoken guy who graciously accepted club sodas from a drunker and drunker host (me) at our Christmas Party. I just got lit and pushed club soda on him hoping he would finally get pissed and be un-nice in some way. Nope.

So then I moved to David Spade's dad, whose name is Sam Spade. Apparently, he and the son have a rocky past but have come to understand each other in some way now. And so here is Sam at the home of Hollywood badboy Trey Parker, looking especially diminutive against the background of Trey's colossal Steinway D. I introduce myself and make it clear that I am the guy to ask if he needs anything. Sam is grateful and puts his hand on my shoulder.

"Do you know my son?" he asks hopefully.

I met Spade the Younger at a private party in some bar on Melrose, I think, just down the street from Denzel Washington's restaurant, Georgia, where a bunch of us had gotten logy on fried chicken. David and I have a mutual friend in Pam Brady, who at the time was writing for David's show "Just Shoot Me" and who now writes for both that show and "South Park." David shook my hand and told of how he had been on George Clooney's list that fateful Christmas when "The Spirit of Christmas" began making the rounds.

This was about a month after Chris Farley had died, and I'd read the short piece David published in Rolling Stone about not going to Chris' funeral. He simply could not resign himself to it. I mentioned the piece hesitantly, but with sufficient gravity, in order to compliment his honesty. David was receptive and gracious. We went from looking in our drinks to looking at each other. We didn't start making out or anything, but it was clear we were at the threshold of a real conversation, which parties like these generally preclude.

With this much talent in the room, the starfuckers were out in full force, including this chick I met by the bathroom who had gone AWOL from the Army and wanted me to tie her up and do naughty things to her. She was a friend of a friend of a friend whom I vaguely remembered seeing duck into one of our limousines earlier, and now, two hours later and with no contact in between, she already has her hand pressed against the goods. Clearly an amateur, she went for the writer.

So this is just the brand of woman you expect to fling herself headlong in the middle of your nice, quiet conversation, and as I'm hanging out with David I am doubly sure it is coming.

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