Kevin Federline Club X promo poster (all images, so-chaotic.net)So Friday afternoon I’m slumming through my usual round up of celebrity websites, and what do I see on Perezhilton.com? Why, an item telling me as part of his “club tour” to “promote” his new “album,” Kevin Federline will be coming to Dallas that evening, March 31. AND he was coming to club X (maybe 5 miles from my house). AND there was free parking. I figured it was fate, that no other time in my life would it be so ludicrously convenient to go see a tabloid star in the flesh, and besides, it would be an excuse to get me out of the house and into a club. Wildly excited, I telephone everyone I know in Dallas who could come…all three of them.
Believe it or not, these posters bill Kevin as "Notorious bad boy and husband of Britney Spears"And guess what? My friends totally dropped the ball on this one.
First of all, not one of my friends (except perhaps Monica) recognized the hilarity of the fact that we were going to see Kevin Federline. The brilliance of clubbing with K-Fed is the brilliance of seeing “snakes on a plane” opening night—it’s so ludicrously bad on every level, it’s got to be amazing. Second, no one realized that this was the excuse we needed to act our age and do something else on a Friday night outside of watching TV or eating at Chili’s. Finally, everyone just sucked. Seriously. If you’re reading this, you guys totally owe me, that’s all I’m saying.
Catch the mic--he's passing itBut the absurd and quixotic call of this celebrity outing was too strong, and even though all my friends bailed, I went by myself, because really, how could I not? I had an early dinner with Elliot (the Elliot, yes) and drove myself over. I may say that I really look unnecessarily good given the circumstances, but my logic was the following:
1) Kevin Federline and Eva Pigford were cohosting this party.
2) Kevin had done the KISS FM morning show to promote the party
3) The website had a strict “upscale clothing” policy
4) Britney was rumored to be coming
Therefore: The place would be packed
Therefore: There would be a line
Therefore: Looking good will help me if I have to wait outside the door
Notice the go-go dancers. Indeed. Catering to the classyThose of you who have done the clubbing thing before know that the ideal time to arrive is between 10-11, because by 11 the place starts to fill up, and by midnight there’ll be a line, and all the partying really starts between 1 and 2. I got there at 10:30 because it was an event night, so I figured it would start filling up really quickly. Imagine my surprise, then, when the ground floor of the parking garage was almost completely empty. I park and head towards the door. There are about 12 security guards, 3 bouncers, and two chicks checking ID’s. No line. I get through, I pay my $15 cover (I know, I know). Still no line. Everyone looks kind of bored and dispirited, but then, I always figure these girls are paid to look aloof. I go in passed another bouncer behind a velvet rope, and surprise surprise…nothing. The club is practically empty.
Club X is a hip-hop dance spot. It has about 10 tables, 4 chairs to a table in the main bar area. Every one was filled with people sitting down. There were another few dozen walking around by the bars and the columns, and some of the club’s go-go dancers were in the middle of the dancefloor, shaking their hotpants in a vain attempt to get people moving.
The club, bless it, had done it’s best to cater to the tastes of heterosexual men. The music was really fun, top-40 hip hop. The go-go dancers were stunning black and latina girls with beautiful, glistening legs and clear heels with no shortage of platforms to display their assets. The bartenders and waitresses all had shirts split to their navels and the shortest skirts I have seen this side of Harry Hines. And yet, that said, most of the people that made up the club crowd were women. I guess the guys are too busy at home playing video games. As they do.
At the risk of generalizing too much, I want to take this moment for what I’d like to call “In Praise of Black Men and Women.” For a long time, at least in Dallas, black fashion has been stereotypical hip hop fashion: Men—oversized, ill-fitting sports jerseys and jeans a family of three could live in; women—tight shirts and halter tops, flouncy skirts or spandex jeans. As a result, everyone looked like a bit like children playing dress up. Then, somewhere in between the 3 years since I’ve been to a hip hop club, everyone became sophisticated. Black men looked like express or marc Jacobs models, the women could have been to any art gallery opening in their white blazers, gold accessories, and H&M inspired retro clothing. In comparison to the polished, professional, beautiful men and women of the African American community, white people looked sad, awkward, and dowdy (polo shirts, light blue jeans for men, jeans and a black top for nearly every girl). And let’s be honest, black women are some of the most spectacular looking beings on this planet—from skin color to jaws to body movement, I saw several women I would sign as models if I had an agency. So well done, black men and women of Dallas—you have thrown the gauntlet.
I think everyone was a little freaked out that a) I had come alone, and b) I had the world’s most negative body language ever, because no one bothered me the whole night, which was great. As a single woman in a club, there’s a constant worry someone is going to come up and start grinding with you, and you will have no wingman to get you out of an awkward situation. So I sat at tables and against the walls and watched the go go dancers and, like everyone, waited for Kevin Federline to arrive.
Kevin and posse arriveHe showed up around midnight, at which time, the club was at maybe half capacity (and that’s me being GENEROUS). He sauntered in with his crew of rappers or hip hopers or whatever, and they went straight to the VIP area and sat down. For whatever reason, Club X’s VIP area is more or less like the rest of the club, only there’s a velvet rope around it and there’s a buffet table. The DJ called out, “Hey Kevin, this one’s for you!” and started spinning Kanye’s “Gold Digger.” I think the patrons found that a lot funnier than Kevin did.
Don't scuff those white-on-whites, dudeSo what’s he like in person? Well, he isn’t as sleazy, for one thing. He had a very sweet blazer on (sequined skull on the back, very nice), and he was a lot better looking in real life than he is in photographs. That isn’t to say he’s as gorgeous as Britney thinks he is, but he’s a nice looking man. The best part about him is he has a very nice smile. He comes into a club, and he genuinely is excited to be there, he genuinely loves the flirting and the dancing and the talking, which I have to admire. I can’t walk into a club and instantly be in a good mood: I really have to warm up for a while. The tabloids give the impression that he’s one of those empty people who parties to fill a void, and he doesn’t really enjoy it. He seemed thrilled and happy to be there, talked to everyone who came over to him, was very nice to his friends. So that’s something I didn’t expect.
K-fed=k-fierceBut then, heaven help us, the DJ started spinning one of his songs. It was something about girls or girls in the club or something, and they gave him a mic. He walked to the edge of the VIP section (where I (unhappily) managed to be in the front row) and started rapping along with his own tracks. Now, this is embarrassing enough, but understandable considering the sound equipment at hand. What made it even more embarrassing was that Kevin couldn’t keep up with his own rapping. He had practiced quite hard, I imagine, to lay down his tracks, and flowing doesn’t come naturally, so he’d rap every other word or phrase. For example, let’s take:
I'm not your brother, I'm not your uncle, I'm Daddy do Steppin' in this game and y'all ain't got a clue My prediction is that y'all are gonna hate On the style we create, straight 2008
Kevin rapped those lines as follows:
I’m….brother, not your uncle…daddy do
Steppin’…game, …a clue
…prediction…..y’all…hate
style…create….2008
The second thing that was awful was--and maybe, because I was in the front row, or maybe, because it was dark and he couldn’t see me properly—homeboy started serenading me. I kid you not. I kept looking around to see if there was like, another girl around me, but oh no, homeboy K-Fed kept pointing to me and singing whatever nonsensical lyrics about the ladies in the club, and then he’d like, look into my eyes and smile, and I was just like, oh please no, have this torture end. The girls around me kept elbowing me to like, clap or whatever, because this was like SUCH A BIG DEAL, but I was really sort of too embarrassed, because a) It’s Kevin Federline, and b) I sort of showed up to see a tabloid trash star, not out of genuine belief in his music. Luckily though, he put down the mic and that was the end of that.
Her skin looks like this in real life, prompting me to have a sudden "Silence of the Lambs" desire for skin-coats. That was pretty gross, huh? Forget i said anythingShortly after the embarrassing episode, Eva Pigford arrived. Maybe it was the unfortunate name, maybe it was the nose, but she was totally not who I wanted to win on America’s next top model. I was rooting for Ya Ya, to be honest, who had much more presence, but there you go. What’s interesting about Eva, is that considering she’s an F list celebrity, that girl has presence. She’s one of those individuals who walks into a room and you simply can’t take your eyes off her. She had absolutely flawless, glistening skin, and she was wearing white shorts and a white button up blouse opened to her navel, with all this gold jewelry, and it was impossible to look anywhere else. It must have been sad for Britney and Kevin to be upstaged by the winner of ANTM Season 4.
This was snapped earlier in the day. Notice, she looks pretty normal, so queeny celebrity bloggers can back down. Terrible, yes. Fat? No.I say Britney because shortly after the beautiful Eva arrived, so too did Britney arrive. She had 4 completely superfluous bodyguards around her (no one was reaching for her, no one was approaching her). What’s astonishing about what Britney looks like in real life is the fact that she is in no way astonishing. She looks like every other white girl in the club, she weighed as much as every other girl, she was as pretty and glamorous as every other white girl (though, to reiterate, not even close to as pretty as any of the black girls there). She was shorter than me, weighed as much as me, had the same kind of skin as me. The main difference was, of course, that I would never wear a white t-shirt, jeans, a cropped fur jacket, and a gray fedora to a night club. She walked through the crowd and made a beeline for Kevin, and she got over to him, and his face got immediately tight. No kiss, nothing. She sat down next to him, and started knocking back red bulls.
It’s difficult to know where to stand on the Britney “is she or isn’t she” pregnant rumors. To me, she looked pregnant, because all parts of her body looked normal, and then she had a really big belly. If she had been “fat” (which, to clear something up, she isn’t. She’s normal), she would have carried it (one would assume), all over. But she doesn’t—she only carries it in her gut. She got up to go to the bathroom every 30 minutes, also a good sign that she might be pregnant. But then, on the con side, she was putting away a ton of red bulls and what appeared to be RB and vodka, as well as champagne. So the jury’s out. What is true: she looks really unhappy, and they look really unhappy together. I didn’t see him laugh the rest of the night.
Britney at Club X. Her shirt reads "Do you still remember me?" The answer was a definite "Sorta".The worst part of the night was definitely the last 30 minutes. The dancefloor was pretty packed for the Ying Yang twins, so the DJ feels like it’ll be a good time to slip in Popozao. He puts the record on, and the dancefloor clears. Not in an obvious, rude way, but in a gradual lessening until only two or three people remain. The club is still very empty, and by now, the radio has announced that Britney had arrived, and it’s 130, the peak clubbing hour. Kevin comes up to the DJ booth and takes the mic. He wants “all the pretty girls”, “all the hot girls” to get in the front. One of his homeboys takes the mic and adds, “if you’re in the back, you smell like shit.” I stay in the back, along with every other man in the club. So roughly 300 people are around the DJ booth as K-Fed and his people attempt to rap to Kevin’s tracks. They aren’t bad, per se, in fact, one, “rockstar,” is pretty good, but it’s pretty good in the way that you’re boyfriend’s band is pretty good. Pretty good considering, not pretty good to get airplay. Kevin does maybe 3 tracks, and after each track, more and more people drift away from the DJ booth. The dancefloor is empty. In a vain attempt to keep people from heading towards the bars, K-Fed asks his wife, sort of sarcastically, sort of not, to come over and “give the people what they want. Say hi to the people and make it official.” She walks up, hiding behind a mixer, and says “hey everybody!” in that stupid, retarded Louisiana accent, and people clap nicely enough, but she fails to stop the drift. By the time Kevin left the booth, maybe 50 people were still there. I was no exception. I bailed pretty quickly. It was really sad, but, in the same way, exactly what I expected.
The night was sad for everyone. For the club owner, who probably shelled out a fortune so K-Fed could come to his club, and paid a king’s ransom on security, and still no one showed up. It was sad for Kevin, because everyone hated his music. It was sad for Britney, as everyone was pretty indifferent to her, and I think she expected a bigger draw. Observing them the night, you know what I’m guessing the root of their problem is? I’m guessing Britney married a clubber (they met in a club, he’s a frickin back up dancer), and she expected to change him. She expected he’d settle down, she expected he’d stay at home once she had a baby, and that isn’t going to happen. He has too much legitimate enjoyment of the scene to ever honestly prefer take out Chinese and HBO to highballs and go-go dancers. So moral: don’t try to change a man if he’s happy with how things are going.
Oh, and don’t marry a man who cheats on his pregnant girlfriend.
