Weekend in Malibu

So much to say and so little room to say it in the magazine. Good I have this blog to share my stories – or rant as one person recently pointed out that I do, or did in an instance. I’d take offence, but as the definition of rant is (according to the ever-so-accurate Wikipedia) ‘A monologue that does not present a well-researched and calm argument,’ I must confess to being a sometime ranter, most often here. I prefer to think I’m just passionate about what I say, and therefore on occasion speak, or write, before thoroughly thinking, or I’d even prefer the term babble, it sounds a bit cuter, But hey, I think I’m ranting, so I’ll move on.

Prior to moving West I used to yearn to go hang out with the cool kids on the beach in Malibu on summer Saturday and Sunday afternoons. One Sunday last summer I made it to Malibu and spent a day playing beach volleyball at the then Polaroid House and ultimately getting my hair done and my forehead burnt my David Hasselhoff (see photo).

The rest of the summer, although I enjoyed the tradition of Saturdays at Bridgehamptom polo that I adhered to for several consecutive summers, I fantasized about being on the beaches of Malibu.

This summer I actually live in LA and looked forward to a summer full of Saturdays and Sundays spent at a Malibu beach house. Ironically, this weekend was my first on the West Coast all summer – and the last weekend of the Malibu summerhouses. Never driving anywhere I shocked my friends when I offered to take the convertible to Malibu – and even gave in to taking the freeway, a foreign place to me I haven’t visited in nearly seven years. I lived, so did my friend, even though halfway we realized I didn’t have brake lights! At least I had brakes.

The house was fun. I stayed sober so the sobering experience was a bit different than I’m accustomed to, but nonetheless I enjoyed watching Pete Wentz DJ for the Boost Mobile BBQ and his six-month pregnant wife Ashlee Simpson, clad in black under the blazing sun, talk about the child she’s due to have in about three more months. She kept referring to the unborn child as ‘he’ but I have better sources saying it’s a ‘she.’ We’ll see.

Ian Ziering, gosh I can’t believe I’m mentioning his name, but he strutted around like on audition to be the next Mario Lopez. Guess they are both ‘I-was-famous-in-the-90s-but-still-have-great-pecs-and-a-cheesy-smile to use for a comeback kind of guys, so…

David Spade was there and I still have an odd fascination with him. I finally did my, ‘What is it About David Spade’ Q&A with him a few weeks ago and although somewhat gratifying it wasn’t altogether satisfying. I still want to know more about how he lands women like Heather Locklear and Lara Flynn Boyle. I need to dig deeper. Well, not too deep.

The next day I was going to go back to the same house for the Young, Fabulous and Broke party to people watch again, (and missed sightings of Luke Wilson and Matthew Perry by missing out) but I decided to have a more mellow and cultured Sunday and joined a few girlfriends, back to Malibu, to see actor-turned-photographer Scott Caan’s photo exhibit ‘Thirty-two’ at Canvas in the Malibu Country Mart. I narrowly missed Sienna Miller, or as Perez aptly refers to her, Sluttyienna, and Balthazar Getty get mobbed by paparazzi leaving lunch but caught a very low-key and casual Natalie Portman viewing the photos and hanging with girlfriends. Despite my loose vow of sobriety I had my arm twisted and tried a Rose’s Mango Mojito. It’s a friends client, what’s a girl to do? Would have been rude not to. I liked it.

Ok, I’m ranting, and babbling, so I’ll stop now.