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People Feature
Throw me a quote
All I needed were a few pithy comments from celebs on the subject of sports gear. After hundreds of messages, I've finally realized that Hollywood doesn't like me.
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Nothing Personal
Sex, flames, egos and eggs
Extra! Extra! Sharon Stone's just like a lesbian, except not a lesbian; online columnist death match! Walls and Drudge duke it out on Page Six; Plus: Salman Rushdie goes to Hollywood.
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[03/11/00]

People Feature
Jawboning with Snakeburger
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[03/11/00]

Nothing Personal
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[03/10/00]

People Feature
Fred's dead. Or is he?
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By Carlos Amantea
[03/10/00]

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Giant grouper abuse: It's amazing what people will do to be liked.

Day Six

This morning I woke up to a timid knock on the side of my head. It was Gwen, who writes poetry and sunbathes in her jeans. That afternoon was the "Survivor" swim test (all contests have been designed exclusively for CBS by a team of Romanian gymnastics coaches to humiliate and discourage bookish types) With tears welling in her protuberant eyes, Gwen confessed that she didn't know how to swim. I felt sorry for Gwen; she needed that million dollars -- it was something to love. I volunteered to help and we went down to the lagoon.

When we returned to my hut afterward, we found Pat outside, rifling through my coconut stash. He looked at us and grinned, "Is that your girlfriend?" he asked, swinging an elbow in Gwen's general direction.

"No," I said.

"Sure," he said, laughing his hyena laugh.

"She's not!" I insisted.

But Pat just sauntered off with two of my coconuts, "Steve's got a girlfriend, Steve's got a girlfriend ... "

"Asshole," I muttered.

Gwen didn't answer. She just looked at the ground.

Day Eight

Well, Gwen passed the swim test, but the wet T-shirt contest was another story. I don't see what I could have done. To be honest, I'm not sorry she's gone.

Day 10

Last night, something happened. We were sitting around the bonfire, drinking beer (they're airlifting it in; the CBS medical emergency helicopters drop it on the beach when they think we're not looking), when Pat comes running out of the woods with Debbie's bra tied around his head and his bare chest smeared with Velveeta (the production area was supposed to be off-limits, but half the cast is doing it with the crew at this point, so the network is letting it slide).

So Pat is running toward us, waving a huge caterpillar between his thumb and forefinger, chanting "Eat it! Eat it! Eat it!" when something came over me.

I snatched it from his hand and tilted my head back, chewed and swallowed. Then I closed my eyes and raised my fist and this is what came out:

"WHOOOOOOO!"

"WHOOOOOOO!" yelled Jason, as he fell out of a tree.

"WHOOOOOOO!" yelled Pat, as he poured a beer over my head.

"WHOOOOOOO!" I yelled again.

That night, I had strange dreams. I dreamed I was running through the jungle. The macaques shrieked all around me. Fruit bats grazed my head as I ran. I came upon the remains of a huge bonfire, and dipped my hands in the ashes. I smeared the ashes on my chest and went to the edge of the lagoon. In the reflection, I saw what I'd drawn. Two Greek letters.

"PARTY! WHOOOOOOO!"

That's when I knew I'd survive.
salon.com | March 13, 2000

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