Search Salon

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Recently in Salon People

Nothing Personal
What a fionasco
It's her concert and she'll cry if she wants to: Fiona Apple melts down. Plus: Yoko Ono goes ga-ga over baby Lennon. And: Howard Stern has decisions to make.
By Amy Reiter
[03/03/00]

Nothing Personal
Flowergate!
MSNBC pundit Norah O'Donnell plucks up! Plus: Porn stars do it for democracy. And: Jennifer Lopez's dress voted most popular. Butt refuses to comment.
By Amy Reiter
[03/02/00]

Column
Kiss off, Kate
Give me a ralphing Pilgrim, a dolphin porn movie and sex-shy turtles over some reheated Broadway operetta any day.
By Cintra Wilson
[03/02/00]

Nothing Personal
This Walls can talk
Walls vs. Drudge, dish diggers duke it out. Also, the pants off her back: There's nothing Jessica Simpson's mom wouldn't do for her daughter. Plus: Who's gonna talk about Cody? Kathie Lee to leave "Live."
By Amy Reiter
[03/01/00]

People Feature
Lust and bullets at Rumba Beach
If Chaucer had retired to a trailer in Margaritaville, would he spend his evenings watching Fellini movies? He might.
By Carlos Amantea
[03/01/00]

Complete archives for People

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

A funny thing happened on the way to the luau. Actually, I was being pulled by a speedboat. One minute I was up, poised gracefully atop my Big Kahuna wakeboard, the next I was upside down, underwater, in terrible pain. Something had gone wrong in the area of my left knee. I say "area" because you never know where your knee is going to end up in cases like these. And of course my brain, my own brain, provided no comfort. The instant I felt the pain in my knee, my mind only made matters worse by running through an ESPN-like highlight reel of football's worst injuries: repetitive knee snaps and stunned players who do not realize what they've done until they look down to find a floppy limb situated several inches over from where it belongs.

Turns out, I had a pretty severe hyperextension, with a possible ligament tear, so my Hawaiian holiday abruptly ended. But you know me, I always try to turn my misfortunes into an opportunity to meet girls. And with the brace and crutches, sympathy levels were running high. Flight attendants gave me free drinks (which I used to chase down my pain medication, called, believe it or not, Roxilox!) and other passengers offered to carry my bags.

Back in L.A., it was first things first. I needed to have a party. But before you can say ulterior motive, the phone rang. It was my friend Sara, who is a yoga instructor, which means she is brimming with advice regarding the rehabilitation of my knee. This was not the kind of attention I was looking for. But Sara is totally cool and we always have fun hanging, and so she's going to come over with some Thai food so long as I supply the wine.

"Oh, and I am bringing my new dog, Agatha!"

Ugh.

This has me worried. I don't want Sara to turn out like so many other women I know: married to her dog.

What is it with chicks and dogs, anyway? It pisses me off. A guy gets a dog and, hey cool, I have a dog. Very little changes in his behavior; now he's got to pick up dog food from the store, that's about it. A woman gets a dog and good night. All she does is smother the thing and baby talk to it, and worst of all, refer to it as "we" (which is sinister, because often she really means "we") as in "We just learned to poop on the newspaper." And she will go to these lengths because she is that invested in the process.

And do you know why? Because most women get dogs to fill the empty spaces in their lives. That's why it's "man's best friend" and not woman's. Men go to the strip clubs to fill the empty spaces. The way a man treats a dog at the start is the way he always treats it. A woman gets a dog when she's lonely and sad. But as soon as a serious boyfriend enters the picture, the poor puppy is left to wonder what it did to make Mommy so mad that she stopped coming around.

I went out on a date with a girl who lives for her dog. And her job. She even said with pride that her entire life took place within a 10-block radius of her apartment (her work and the dog park are within this boundary). So when she called me (from work) to negotiate having my body at her disposal for a night, it was as if the Vatican had called up with a special dispensation. She was going to make me a priority. So, I did what I always do when the Vatican calls. I took a shower.

When I get to her place, she's on the phone with her office. OK, but she's wrapping up business, right? Right. The dog is flapping around being annoying, but what does it matter to me? I am going out with Mommy and it is not.

We walk to the restaurant, which turns out to be directly across the street from her office. Fine, I think, she lives and works right here, so the good places she knows to eat at are going to be right here. No problem. But then she gets on the phone and calls the office. Because some unlucky schmo has parked in front of their loading dock.

Well, who cares? Because now we're in the restaurant eating some kickass sushi. (A sign above the counter reads "Chef's Special: Trust Me.") The conversation is pleasant, and under the sake I begin nursing a warm anticipation about things coming.

Next page | "You wanna go with me while I walk my dog?"