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I have been a loyal member of 24 Hour Fitness for years and years, going all the way back to the heady days of 2002 when I joined the gym's flagship facility in Hollywood just days after opening. I've never really had a problem with the place (unlike with the dreadful con-artists at Bally's Total Fitness), and over time, as more and more people joined up and quality began to lag here and there, I stayed true to my membership. Sure, the mandatory towel rule was rarely enforced, and sure, the lines at the cardio machines were verging on ridiculous, and sure, finding free weights had become akin to a minor scavenger hunt, but I kind of let that all slide. I was happy enough, and the constant stream of reality stars in the gym (not to mention the occasional A-lister -- a.k.a. Justin Timberlake twice!) kept my gluttony for fame satisfied. Things weren't perfect, but it's such a pain to change gyms, and I wasn't going to leave 24 Hour Fitness unless I felt like I really had to.

And then this week happened.

Seeing one celebrity at the gym is always cause for minor celebration. Seeing two is even better. And seeing both of them making out with each other just elevates the entire scene. That's precisely what happened today as my boring old fitness routine was interrupted by the presence of acclaimed footballer Reggie Bush and his amateur videographer girlfriend, Kim Kardashian. Oh, the celebrity spotting gods were surely looking down on me today.

Here's what happened...

Last week, I was invited to a very special Emmy celebration. No, this wasn't an award show. No golden statuettes were handed out. This was a celebration for the Emmys. You see, our favorite television award turned sixty this year, and to celebrate this ripe old anniversary, the Academy decided to throw an event, replete with kitschy prizes and free food. Oh, and did I mention the presence of Marc Summers? It was too tempting to pass up, even if it did take place in the heart of the valley. With a camera in hand, and a fellow blogger by my side (Lisa Timmons, editor extraordinaire of A Socialite's Life), I headed to North Hollywood for what would be one of the more colorful, hilarious, and dare I say exciting nights of the year...

Dramatic recreation.

When it comes to coordination, I like to think of myself as having cat-like reflexes, but the simple truth is that I have the dexterity of an antiquated robot, and that, my friends, is not always a good thing. Take for example what happened to me about thirty minutes ago. I was up at The Standard Hotel, sitting poolside with my friend Anna David and her friend Vanessa Grigoriadis. The banter was flying fast and furious. Both women are fantastically smart, and as they're both journalists (Anna's written for The New York Times; Vanessa for Rolling Stone, etc. etc.), they're very well-read on most topics. I, however, have forgotten what it's like to read — I like to blame Los Angeles because it's easier than shining a spotlight on my own lazy, reality-TV-watching ass — so I was doing my best to sound smart and worthy of such brilliant company.

Well, the conversation eventually headed into politico land, and Vanessa revealed that she's actually writing a New York Magazine piece on Barack and Michelle Obama. Pretty cool. We began to chat and chat, and then I don't know what happened, but suddenly, my hand somehow lurched forward, bumping into my tall glass of what was supposed to be an iced mocha latté (but was in fact some other drink, thanks to the incompetent wait staff). The pint glass teetered back and forth, and I tried to stabilize it with my oversized paws, but remember that coordination thing I talked about? Yeah, I was pretty much like the Lost in Space robot flailing its arms and bleating, "Warning! Warning!" Needless to say, my attempts to prevent a major coffee accident were unsuccessful. If anything, I probably made the situation worse. The glass ultimately flopped over, and out poured what looked like five gallons of NOT my drink. And where did the sudden onslaught of liquid all land? On Vanessa's PDA. That's right. I spilled my beverage on a reporter's Blackberry, a device which contains thousands of very important contacts. Like, writing-a-New-York-Magazine-piece-on-the-Obamas important. Oops.

As you can imagine, there was a mad dash to get the PDA out of harm's way, and somehow Vanessa managed to save the damn thing before any sort of horrendous technical failure set in. Still, I was massively rattled and embarrassed (not to mention flummoxed that I had waited thirty minutes for the stupid drink, only to knock it over immediately). Not my finest moment. I blame Obamamania.

Living in West Hollywood, my neighborhood is routinely patrolled by parking enforcement officers, who quietly stalk their prey from the comfort of their white, eco-friendly Priuses — waiting for that orgasmic moment when they can slap a ticket down on a permit-lacking vehicle and tow it away. Their Orwellian presence rivals a godlike power to be everywhere and nowhere all at once, and should you find yourself on the wrong side of their unflinching Maglites, you'll soon be treated to a stiff fine and a towing charge. It's because of this that residents and visitors alike tend to view parking enforcement with a measure of disdain. Like an army of money-eating pests, they never go away, and sooner or later, they get you.

Occasionally though, my friends and I find ourselves siding with parking enforcement. While I'd like to think that no one deserves the hassle of being towed away, truth is that it's also perversely glorious watching the bridge-and-tunnel folk descend on the nearby Sunset Strip and try to park in front of our apartment building, arrogantly thinking they can park their dumb car just ANYWHERE without checking the signs first. Trust me when I say it never gets old watching these people's stunned reactions upon return to the empty spot that used to hold their car. Just this past weekend, my friends and I enjoyed the sight (from our balcony) of one shirtless, long-haired, drunken fool stumbling up and down the street, bemoaning the sad fate that had befallen his now-missing car. "Duuuuude, I got towed!!!" he lamented to no one in particular, his long frizzy hair flowing in all directions like Troy Polamalu after a roller coaster ride. This continued for a few minutes until his buddy picked him up and ferreted him off to who knows where — hopefully Supercuts. This cruel turn of events was nothing short of hilarious for us as we watched yet another douchebag fall victim to The System. Of course, he was probably too drunk to drive anyway; so the towing was good in many ways.

Still, watching one idiot get his just desserts is never enough. We always want more; so imagine our thrill when moments after the drunken troll doll departed, two new teenage douchebags pulled up and parked their red mustang without even checking the parking rules. Surely parking enforcement would have their way with them...

Just over two months ago, I did something that I never thought I'd do: I hung out with Speidi. That's right, I spent a morning intermingling with Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt, stars/villains of MTV's hit show, The Hills. Needless to say, it was quite the momentous occasion, especially since it landed me on TMZ for the first time ever. These were extraordinary new heights for me, and the brief taste of the tabloid life was thoroughly intoxicating; although, I was happy to return (er, remain) in anonymity when it was over.

Anyway, I posted some of the pics that surfaced from that eventful morning, but I wasn't really able to talk about the backstory until now. Behold, the TELL ALL post that will shock the internet!

It's been a while since I've written up one of my gym horror stories, but sadly, I think that's more a sign of my lackadaisical workout routine than it is of improved hygienic awareness. People are still disgusting, and never was that more evident than today when I headed to the gym and encountered a lapse of cleanliness so foul that I had no recourse but to actually talk to a staff member. And people who know me know that I'm not one of those people. I'll complain and roll my eyes, but I rarely go running to the authorities. This time, however, I had to do what was right: narc. It was either that or barf.

I had quite the celebrity sighting yesterday. It wasn't so excellent because of the star wattage — although, that was pretty cool —  but more for the bizarre randomness of the entire event. I'll explain.

It was about 7 PM, and my friend Jash and I decided to stop in at Angelina's Frozen Yogurt, one of the few fro-yo spots in Los Angeles that I can tolerate (mostly because it's not overpriced and, more importantly, they serve flavors beyond just plain and green tea. I mean, seriously, what is up with the flavor nazis? But I digress). Anyway, as we walked into this humble shop of icy dairy goodness, I noticed an old woman off to the side receiving what appeared to be a lifetime's supply of frozen yogurt. She seriously had so much, I thought she might be on some strange, geriatric office run. The whole thing was kind of bizarre, and I just figured she was an old coot doing some typically old coot-ish thing.

Well, I stood by the registers and waited to place my order, but of course, the server was busy tending to Miss Haversham in the corner. I looked over again, but before I saw the woman's face, I was distracted by her ever growing collection of yogurt. She had ordered pretty much the largest size you can get, which I think was about a quart. Now, most people when they get a quart of ice cream or frozen yogurt, they usually put a lid on it and bring it home to devour over the course of a few days. This woman, however, was going to eat the whole damn thing. I could tell because the server continued to pour frozen yogurt into the container way after it had reached appropriate lid-containment levels. Yes, there was a full on fro-yo swirl at the top of this gargantuan load, but I merely shrugged it off. I've seen crazier things in L.A.. And besides, if this woman wants to stuff her face with fro-yo, all the power to her. There are some days when I wish I could be just like her.

Anyway, the server finally came over to me, and after I placed my not-so-healthy order (regular sized Belgian chocolate with peanut butter cup topping. Heh.), I glanced back at the dairy-lovin' lady for no real reason. I don' t know why I did it. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was because she was hovering generally in the peanut butter cup region. Whatever the reason, for the first time, I actually saw her face, and something suddenly clicked in me. I was staring at a legend.

Exiting a parking garage can be a tricky process, at least for those idiots who still haven't grasped the subtleties of inserting a ticket into a machine. I often grow frustrated with those ill-prepared drivers in front of me -- the ones who take upwards of 60 seconds to complete a 30 second transaction. The most common problem it seems is that people simply don't have their money ready. They've idiotically stowed away their wallet or purse in the wasteland of their back seat, hidden under piles of clothing and groceries and general clutter. Of course, there are then those special times —  which happen more frequently than you'd expect — when the person in front of you has gone so far as to have packed his or her wallet in the trunk. This, my friends, is simply unacceptable.

Of course, these things happen to the best of us. I one time found myself behind NYPD Blue actor Henry Simmons, and I'm not sure exactly what he had done to the machine, but it was bad enough to warrant him getting out of his car and finding an attendant. How richly embarrassing. The humiliation he must have felt is why I try my absolute best to be quick and efficient when leaving a parking structure. I always make sure money is nearby, the ticket has been placed in a highly visible location (central console, usually), and the window is already at least halfway down by the time I pull up to the attendant or machine. It's a recipe for success, but sometimes even the best of us have a dreaded misstep. That happened today.

I'm so fired up with political activism right now I'm surprised there's no annoying Facebook group dedicated to me. Last night, I attended my very first Planning Commission meeting here in West Hollywood, and while I knew I'd encounter several stodgy old people and myopic idiots, I didn't realize the degree to which they'd a) annoy me, b) get me riled up, and c) use poor logic to defend their statements.

The issue at hand was whether or not The Standard Hotel could extend its pool-side bar service hours. I won't bore you with the details, but the proposed resolution would ultimately allow the hotel to serve until 1:30 AM on the weekends. I, of course, was totally for this move for a variety of reasons, the most self-serving being that I would love to enjoy my nights at The Standard without being herded away from the pool at the stroke of 11:30 PM . More importantly, however, keeping The Standard open until closing time would keep it and The Sunset Strip competitive with other nightlife options — most of which are fleeing to Hollywood. And after seeing this planning board, I understand the exodus.

My entire experience at the meeting after the jump. Be warned, I will be ranting.

Recently, my friend Nhan rented out a restaurant for her birthday, and to make the occasion extra special, she added a theme: prom. Well, who wouldn't like that — aside from Christian on Project Runway? My friends and I happily poured ourselves into the appropriate outfits, which in this case meant tuxes for the gents and '80s dresses for ladies. Sadly, I had no silly ruffled shirt to accompany my tux; so I had to cheese myself out in a different way: slicked back hair. It was the first time I had endeavored to helmet-ize my hitherto gorgeous locks, and I'm happy to say the effect was perfect.

Once all gussied up, we all strolled out of the apartment looking like 1985's toast of the town, and as we headed over to the prom, we laughed that we should go somewhere later where we'd be the only ones dressed up in costumes — just to see people's reactions. Little did we realize that would happen... AT THE PARTY.

(Dramatization)

Another day, another gross story from the gym. Thankfully, this tale details significantly fewer threats to my personal health and hygiene as my last gym horror story, but I still find it quite appalling. I guess by now it's probably not hard to imagine what's so offensive this time around, what with my headline spilling the beans rather obviously. Still, I'm never one to turn away from telling a compelling yarn, especially when it highlights a breach of etiquette, hygiene, or some ungodly mixture of both...

Now that nearly forty-eight hours have passed since we hit 2008, I've finally summoned enough stamina to string together a post about New Years. It was a relatively good one for me and my friends. We all got drunk, we all danced like idiots, and we all took enough silly pictures of each other that any future political careers may seriously be at risk now. Of course, I wouldn't be a blogger if I didn't share some of our photos; so enjoy our drunken night of revelry, as seen through my oft-used camera.

Ever wonder what Mrs. Claus would look like if her breasts were the size of cantaloupes and her waist the size of a flashlight? And what if she wore no pants and her name was Laurie? And what if she had an exhibitionist streak that would make even the most perved out elf blush? (Okay, analogy has gone too far —  apologies) Well, in a lovely twist of fate that I'll just chalk up to old-fashioned yuletide magic, I crossed paths with such a creature this weekend, and the experience was something short of awe-inspiring. Had it occurred five years ago, I would have feared that such a bizarre encounter would have sadly only lived on in my memories, but thanks to the wonders of modern cell phone cameras and iPhone technology, I can relay this slutty, areola-tastic encounter to all of you in all its grainy glory. Pictures and story after the jump, and needless to say, unless your office has a particularly lenient nipple policy, the following images will be NSFW.

I don't want to be overly cynical or anything, but I'm truly amazed at how dumb people can be sometimes.  Yes, I know that sounds harsh and particularly "angry blogger"-ish, but it's true.  I mean, we all do dumb things —  it's normal — but the other day at the gym, I witnessed one of the most idiotic, or rather, baffling displays I've seen in quite some time.