Shrewd, Crude, and Gaga-Esque: Scott Bromley

He's wearing his girlfriend's pink California Raisins t-shirt and expensive designer jeans. Laying down on his modern sand-colored couch, he pats his stomach. "Come feel my extra skin," he demands.

Scott Bromley, 30, is a former fat boy. In the last seven years, he has gone from an extremely overweight funny nerd to an almost svelte funny nerd.

Still laying on the couch grabbing his extra stomach skin, he looks at me with his dark brown eyes, urging me to do the same. His light blonde hair and slightly rosy complexion make him look quite childlike when combined with his look of desire for me to feel his excess baggage. I respectfully decline.

He moves on. "I was legitimately morbidly obese," he states. "It wasn't necessarily what I would eat in a day, but that I have an extraordinarily low metabolism." He reaches for his glass and takes a sip of his diet cranberry juice. He sips, then cringes. "It's disgusting," he says.

Bromley remembers that he was always fat. Growing up, he was exceptionally receptive to infections and was constantly getting sick. "I had pneumonia five times," he says.

But it was not until he had his tonsils removed that he began to feel better, and that he began to really eat. His parents were not prepared for his newfound immense appetite. "I came from an extraordinarily active family," says Bromley. "My Dad was a jock and my Mom was the homecoming queen; basically the American cliché. Then they had me, who was this funny fat kid."

As far as loving supportive parents go, Mr. and Mrs. Bromley were them. "I'm almost certain because they didn't force me to be active that I was able to focus on the things that I enjoyed, which were the creative persuits," he says. His parents supported him in all his endeavors, from drawing to watching television - all activities that required a lot of sitting.

He became extremely focused on things like comic books, video camera operation, and film directors. "I started reading Daily Variety was I was 10 years old, and it's something that I still do today," Bromley says. But while his skill sets grew, so did his waist size.

"Did you get picked on?" I asked.

He stayed focused on the Pac-Man video game that he had started playing after finishing his diet cranberry juice. His large flat-screen HD television made the neon colors look like an acid trip (or so one would imagine). "Nope," he says, as he evades the little colored ghosts on the screen.

He explained to me that there are two types of fat kids. "There are the ones that sit there and let it get to them and are antisocial, and then there are the fat kids who are funny, popular, and they make the joke before anyone else can as a self-defense mechanism," he says. "All those bullies that were making fun of or beating up the fat kids were friends of mine."

Bromley credits much of his success with women and his career to his old weight. "I would recommend being fat because you develop a thick skin. You get rejected and just move on, there's no reason to dwell on it," he says.

He pauses Pac-Man, gets up, and moves to the fridge. I watch him from my seat in the living room, as he stands there looking at it's contents: Thanksgiving leftovers, diet foods, his roommates casserole. He closes the fridge, and returns to the couch with nothing.

"Losing weight took all the fun out of eating," he says. He looks at me, then looks back at his video game, which he has resumed.

For the past seven years, Bromley has been on a diet. It started out as revenge against his ex-girlfriend of 10 years, and has turned into a way of life. "My diet basically consists of the most boring food possible, every single day, seven days a week, coupled with a daily five mile run on my treadmill, just to maintain," he says.

Fat-free soups crowd his cabinets and Coke Zero stocks his fridge. For lunch he eats plain pre-grilled chicken breasts and lots of broccoli and asparagus. His

salads are accompanied by a small spritz of salad dressing, a lemon, or tabasco.

"I can't go out and have a cheeseburger for the hell of it, because I'm thinking, this entire meal is more calories than you eat in an entire day," he says. If he does eat calorie-ridden food, all he can think about afterwards is how much he'll need to run to burn it off.

I can tell he's hungry, so I ask him what he would eat right now if he could. "Anything," he says. "I really miss being able to eat a double bacon cheeseburger.

And pounding down a ton of garlic fries with blue cheese dressing. Disgusting decadent things. I miss things that are deep fried and covered with cheese. I miss being able to have fun with my food."

There isn't a single person in Bromley's life that isn't worried about his eating habits. His parent's are fearful, his girlfriend is uneasy, and his male friends are perturbed.

"Scott's diet is just plain worrisome," says Max Scoville, 24, a close friend of his. "Last I checked, he subsists mostly on Coke Zero and Pop-Chips."

Even an ex-girlfriend of Bromley's felt resentment towards his selection of food.

"I always hated his diet. There is nothing that will make you feel like a heifer more than when you're starving for carbs and he is talking about how many pieces of lettuce he ate that day," says Samantha Sylvers, 21. "I'd start praying that he would just eat a large pizza all to himself."

"How does it make you feel when people are worried about your health?" I ask him.

His eyes wander over to me from the blinking television screen.

"I know people are concerned with what I eat," he says. "They think that I'm not eating enough, or they say that I need to eat healthier." But Bromley doesn't just scrutinize every nutrition label for his looks; he has to stay slim to be on-camera for work.

After graduating from the Los Angeles Art Institute with a degree in animation, Bromley has held an impressive slew of jobs, from creating his own Cartoon Network

show to now, writing for and hosting IGN.com's "Daily Fix." A true nerd to the core, he is an editor for the international video game company, writing jokes, hosting podcasts, and gaining fans.

"I stay on the diet because I like being in front of the camera," he admits. "I like being the center of attention."

But it was his rigorous diet that almost killed him. He gets serious for the first time during our interview.

"You know what Friday is?" he asks me. "It's my three year anniversary."

"Since what? Oh since you almost..."

"Yep."

Three years ago Bromley's spleen burst. He was 27. He died on the operating table in the middle of emergency surgery. "I remember there was a flash of light, and everything was black and silent, and I remember having a conscious thought that "you are dead" and then I was sucked back," he says.

Bromley's next memory was when the breathing tube was being removed from his throat four days later. He remembers the sensation - and also that his sister and friend were sitting next to his hospital bed watching Gilmore Girls. "I really dig Gilmore Girls," he says.

This nightmare started two days earlier, as Bromley was moving his belongings into his new apartment in the Richmond district. "I had this incredible pain in my chest," he says. Despite the scheduled launch of his company's website the next day, he called in sick because of excruciating pains that had developed in his stomach.

His first thought was to get back to his hometown of Sonoma, California, an hour

drive north of the Golden Gate Bridge. "I knew that there was a doctor in Sonoma where my parents live, that if you go to him he'll give you anything that you need." Bromley couldn't get there by himself though. His Mom came to pick him up and bring him back home.

After one glance at him, the family doctor sent him directly to the Sonoma Valley Hospital's emergency room. Doubled over from pain in a waiting room chair, he recalls that a doctor came in to assess the problem.

"Apparently my symptoms were that of an alcoholic," Bromley says. "The doctor pushed so hard on my stomach that I yelled. And I think it's when he pushed on my stomach that he actually popped my spleen."

Minutes later he blacked out. "I remember my Dad yelling at me to breathe, and my Mom yelling at me to fight," he says. In the midst of the frenzy around him, Bromley remembers nothing but holding his Mom's hand.

The next three weeks were spent in the hospital, and another four weeks recovering at his parent's house on bed-rest. "I couldn't move," he said.

Bromley sits back up and puts down the Xbox controller. "Do you want some of my mom's apple pie?"

As cavalier as that, he finishes his dramatic recollection, and lays back down on the couch. I walk over to his refrigerator to find the pie. "You might wanna microwave it," he suggests.

He continues to lounge on couch and begins to play a Sonic the Hedgehog

video game. His girlfriend, a lanky 6-foot blonde comes into the living room and sits down next to him. She pets his legs; he places them in her lap.

"I used to always plan five or six steps ahead. Before my spleen burst, I was really cautious and very hyper-focused on things. I didn't pay attention to the big picture," he confesses. "Now I'm just like, "fuck it," I'm doing anything and everything!"

He returns to his video game as he massages his girlfriend's large breasts with his foot. She laughs.

Stacey Gilman, 26, has been dating Scott for the past year. "I thought Scott was a soulless bastard, but he made me laugh," she says. "Also he was good in bed; I liked it when we had adult time, even though most of the time I didn't remember [per alcohol consumption]."

The two blonde haired lovebirds snuggle on the couch, cooing over each other.

"Scott tell me about all the girls you slept with," I say, in front of Gilman, because I know she won't mind, and he won't be shy.

Bromley laughs and Gilman looks comfortable. It is known that after he and his ex-girlfriend of 10 years broke up and he began to lose weight, he went on a sexual rampage. He was living in L.A. at the time and explains that "L.A. is the gathering of every single hot person all living in one awful town." Needless to say, he was surrounded by beautiful women.

"Once I became single I became very single. I went out and I just started sleeping with a lot of people," he says. He realized that the dating world wasn't as scary as he had thought it was when he was heavy. The most gorgeous girl at the bar

usually went home with Bromley, because all the other guys were afraid of getting rejected.

He even fell victim of using the casting couch. He slept with women who wanted a job on his television show. "For a single guy in his 20s with some power being a producer on a show, I was privy to people doing anything to get a job. I'm not proud of it. I feel really guilty about it."

It was after his spleen burst especially, that he went on what he calls a "sexual bender". "Each girl kind of helped me realize, I'm not this fat person anymore. I'm the person I was inside the entire time," he says. "There is nothing different about me from when I weighed 315 pounds to when I weighed 175."

But there were only two women that came into Bromley's life that he says completely changed him: Gilman and Sylvers. Gilman was a good friend at the time. The two went out with friends for drinks and parties, and usually came home together. "We would hit that magical cocktail concoction, vodka and charm, and we would go home and have sex," he says.

Bromley and Gilman were one in the same. Both were sleeping with different people, finding nothing serious. Every couple of months, their paths would intersect and they would spend one amazing night together, and then go about their business as usual the next day.

They continue to cuddle on the couch, listening to each other talk and confirming the other's statements with gentle nodding and affectionate nuzzling.

There was an ex-girlfriend, however, that had emotionally ruined him. "I saw that our lives were going in completely different directions, and that our lifestyles were and are very different in crucial areas," says Sylvers.

Bromley shifted his weight as Gilman got up for a glass of water. "I was really pissed off at her," he says. "I started going through a really dark period."

Gilman returns to the couch with a vintage King Kong cup. Bromley looks at her adoringly. "Stacey knew what I was going through, so pulled me aside, and said to me 'you're the most charming guy I've ever met. I'm sick of listening to you whine about girls, just go out and fuck some bitches'."

So he did.

"And now we're in love," he gushes sarcastically, looking at Gilman as she pets his hair. "I love her even if she's drinking water out of a King Kong cup. She got me all my vintage cups, she knows what I like," he says with a smile.

Gilman kisses him and stands up to stretch, her black leggings barely reach her ankles. She gracefully exits the living room and walks down the hall to work on her homework in the spare bedroom that Bromley calls "the virginitiy den."

He picks up the video game controller once more and scrolls through the arcade style games. "So what else do you want to know?" he asks me.

"What do you think people think about you?" I ask him.

My motives for this question are solely because even though much slimmer, Bromley has gotten pretty big for his britches as far as his ego is concerned. He has said to me that his life is something that others would kill for. He is blessed with the attention of women, an excellent career, and even hoards of geeky gamer fans.

"He's shrewd and he's theatrical, much like Lady Gaga," says friend Scoville on Bromley's personality.

Bromley gets up again and walks to the fridge for a Coke Zero. "When people first meet me they think I'm egomaniacal asshole. Really full of myself, arrogant, and it's true to a degree," he says. "However, once you stop and actually and get to know me, you learn I'm really generous and kind."

Bromley sits back down on the couch. He pops the lid to the soda and looks at me.

"As much as I come across as an asshole, I'm really loyal to people," he continues. "If you're on my good side, you'll stay on my good side forever. I'll do anything for you."

Scoville agrees. "I've met the real Scott and I know he's got a good heart. His spleen, however, was removed a couple years ago and that is just gross."

Even Sylvers felt the same. "He was always easy. I always felt like I had a genuine friend in him, and I enjoyed his company, especially one-on-one. It was when we were one-on-one that I felt like I was getting the true side of him."

And that's really how Scott Bromley is. Under his charm and extra skin, he never ceases to be himself.

Blue Suede Shoes of Contentment

Don't ever ask David Wiegand out to a business lunch with you, because he despises them. He won't eat the veal scallopini, the cobb salad, or anything else on the menu. He much rather prefers his own home-cooked leftovers and brief telephone calls instead of excessive chit-chat over lobster bisque. That being said, Wiegand is a man of little time and strict diet.

Being the Executive Director of the San Francisco Chronicle's Datebook section does warrant for a very busy schedule. Not only does he oversee the entire Datebook, he also writes entertainment reviews. But you won't ever see a restaurant review published under his name.

"I would be a terrible food critic," says Wiegand. "I think that most food is prepared in extremely unhealthy ways." He won't eat salt and thinks that most people eat far too many carbohydrates. But he does garner a respect for the knowledge that food criticism demands.

"I think it's possibly one of the best examples of what a critic in general needs," he says. "Do you know how it was prepared? How the sauce was reduced?" Wiegand understands that with the power of the reviewing pen comes great responsibility - the need to possess the knowledge in order to credibly critique.

As he sips on his beverage, a Hansen's Diet Zero-Calorie Zero-Sugar Creamy Root Beer (I wonder what this drink is even made out of), he sits across the Chronicle's oiled wooden conference table and casually talks with me about the ins-and-outs of his profession as a reviewer.

Wiegand believes that "a critic is the advocate for the readership." He won't trash the new Tori Spelling reality show just because he doesn't like it - he believes that his purpose is to say only what he thinks, to see if it might be something that the reader is interested in.

And if he does decide to trash Tori Spelling's show, he will do so because of his level-headed opinion on the fact that the show really isn't that good. "I'm not out to convince the reader that I'm absolutely right and that anyone who disagrees with me is an idiot," he says.

In reality, Wiegand values reader disagreement. "Frankly, I like hearing people who disagree with me, I'm interested in different points of view," he says. If a reader wants to call him and tell him he's wrong about Tori Spelling because she has the best stomach in Hollywood, he'll (laugh) and take the perspective with a grain of salt.

But while it may be fun to embarrass D-list celebrity's entertainment efforts, it's not always easy. "Bad reviews are the most fun to write, but they're also the hardest to write because it's very easy to take a cheap shot at something," says Wiegand. He explains that if you're just using a machine gun and cutting the performance down, trying to see how clever you can be about it, you're not really doing an intelligent negative review.

The idea comes back to the fact that the reviewer must have a knowledge of the subject matter in order to offer the most honest criticism possible. It's also important to remember that, despite how awful the entertainment may be, "people actually believed in this thing," Wiegand says.

And don't expect him to accept a box of cookies in bribery for a good review. "It actually offends me, I'd like to think that I can't be bought," he says. Even around the holidays, when bottles of wine mysteriously appear at his desk, he follows basic newsroom protocol. "Most publications have a rule that if the gift is valued at more than $50 dollars you have to give it back," he says.

But reviewing for the Chronicle does have it's perks. Wiegand has stacks of DVD "screeners" sitting at home that TV producers send him to review. He'll see all those shows for free and before much of the public. He also get's free admission into venues. Did he pay to see Hugh Jackman's performance? Of course not.

But you can bet that Wiegand handles himself professionally and responsibly. Instead of procrastinating (think college) after the event, he writes down his experience right away. "I like to go home and draft the review that night," he says. "I think you lose something if you wait 'till the next morning to do it. It just becomes kind of cold and clinical."

As our interview drew to a close, the last thing I found myself thinking was that Wiegand was cold and clinical as a reviewer or a person. We chat about his Australian Cattle dog, Morgan, his love for theatre, and his complete and healthy contentment with his job. "It's pathetic," he laughs. "I wish there were more hours in the day, I wish I had more energy, I literally work seven days a week. But I can't really take a grown-up job because I couldn't wear blue shoes."

He stands up and walks me to the elevator, and I can't help but stare fondly at his feet. You don't see people wear shoes made of electric blue suede every day. Wiegand's shoes would put Elvis' to shame.

Don't Step on My Heels in the Presence of God

I can not remember the last time that my Grandpa broke-wind in a church. I actually can not remember the last time he was even in a church. But there he was, crop-dusting his lunch gas across the Grace Cathedral's candle-lit corridors. My Grandma was quite embarrassed, but I believe that it added to the experience.

There we were, at the top of Nob Hill inside the old stone place of worship, where pigeons and bums take refuge and all religions are welcome. It wasn't the devotion service or the architecture that drew us in, but what was built into the nave's floor.

If you didn't know any better, you would think it was a big four-leafed clover, or a symbol of the occult. Instead, it's a maze used for prayer and reflection called the Labyrinth. Unfortunately, you won't find David Bowie and your baby brother at the end of it.

Grandma set out to walk the Labyrinth's path in her black leather boots. For meditation purposes, it is recommended that walker's remove their shoes. I did not participate in that recommendation, as I would have stunk up that whole church. I followed behind her, trying to allow her space in case she wanted to "reflect." Grandpa sat this one out because he was getting cranky.

To set the serene mood, there were women singing and playing the piano. I'm guessing that they were going for an ethereal angelic hymnal but it sounded like a soundtrack for drinking Koolaid before going to the great alien mothership in the sky.

The church's cherry-faced Labyrinth Guide, Lon Haack, described the Labyrinth to us as a tool for worship. "People start out walking fast then end up walking slower, as they fall into deep contemplation about their lives and their relationships with God," says Haack. Do I agree with him? No, not really.

As we tip-toed through the narrow path of the Labyrinth, our steps went from slow to slower, like Haack said. But not because we were in a deep concentration - there was a serious log jam. A large caterpillar of people was crawling ever so slowly along the trail to the center of maze. The little brat behind me kept giving me flat tires.

Trying to put my irritation aside, I was trying to feel something from God, anything. Then my chest started hurting. I couldn't tell if it was the presence of God or my crab roll lunch giving me heartburn. I'm guessing it was the latter.

The most troubling part of our "reflection" was the fact that most of us were doing the tango with everyone else. The paths were two-way traffic lanes. The people that had finally reached the middle of the Labyrinth come out the same way as they came in - knocking the rest of us off our spiritual paths.

The two-way log jam became so senseless that myself and the woman behind me started laughing. She and her partner walked off the Labyrinth, went outside, and lit up smokes. Where is the serenity in that? Grandma and I couldn't find it either, so we fled

the Labyrinth, walking right off the side along with about four other people behind us.

Grandpa was wandering around the back of the church waiting for us, but was most likely lost. Before we left for home, we lit a tall white candle for relatives passed. There was more emotion absorbed from that tiny flame than from the cold stone swirls of the Labyrinth.

Reading the Bible and Smoking Marijuana Come Hand-In-Hand

He eats a strictly vegan diet. Only natural foods like scallions, tomatoes, and coconut oil will do. Why? "Because I want to live until I'm 250 years old," he says. "If you shop at the store, it takes two or three years off your life."

This "logic" comes from the Reggae Prime Minister, a forty-year-old Rasta Man who "didn't need a father or a shelter to become the man he is today." Since migrating from Jamaica to San Fran"psycho" to become a reggae superstar, he's developed quite a few hypotheses for how he became "his self."

But is he more than a slow talking, dread-lock wearing, Bob Marley loving, weed smoking Rastafarian drunk on coconut rum with bad dental hygiene? I'm not so sure.

Aside from escaping age by avoiding canned foods and chicken broth, the Prime Minister is an avid gardener. Most particularly fond of the herb variety, he treats his plants with the individual care one would reserve for a domestic pet.

It's with his herb garden that he supports himself. The Prime Minister hasn't held down a full-time job in quite some time. "I wouldn't last a week at a nine to five job. I'm a born hustler," he says.

Haggling elementary school kids for money in Jamaica got old, so he started to use his passion, which was just as lucrative. "Music is always profitable," says the Prime Minister, who got his start by singing at church. "I write my own songs, I sing, I chant, but I don't play instrument."

According to him, he's been a musician since he was born. The moment he passed through the birth canal, to be exact. "My Grandmother was in the kitchen cooking, and a singer was singing, and from that day on I was singing," he says.

Since October of 2009, the Prime Minister has been recording and performing his Bob Marley spinoffs. But being compared to Bob Marley would be nothing short of a glorious compliment to him. "Bob Marley is my musical God. I've never seen this man, and everything he's said to me is correct," he says. While I'm not quite sure how that scenario works, I trust his judgement.

As he croons "I'm gonna lead ya children, with music to the promise land" to us, over and over again, he looks around the room and focuses intently on things that are not there, kind of like a blind person.

"The fans are the profit. If they aren't happy, you can't be," he says of being a musician. "We as artists do it to the best of our ability to make people happy." The Prime Minister does make people happy - including all of his girlfriends, and most likely the mothers of his six some-odd children.

Along with keeping his fans in good spirits, he makes sure to appease the big guy up in the sky. He swears that he reads the Bible every morning and prays on bended knee every night. "A chapter a day keeps the devil away," he says. This doesn't come as a surprise after he declared that is a preacher, amidst his other professions which include a doctor, a teacher and a lawyer.

But for my sake, I hope that the Prime Minister sticks to singing. He does have a nice vocal range - maybe not America's Next Top model range, but definitely Jamaica's Next Top Model range.

Until he gets to that big-time stage, you can find him at the Rocket Room and other small venues around San Fran"psycho" where he works for a better day. "Anything with singing is my life," he says.

Don't Put Bono Near Bukowski

His large tired face is scarred and pock-marked from years of bar fights and childhood acne. His hair, a salt and pepper shade, is slicked back while the ends curl wildly. His full beer-belly is pressed tightly against his collared button-down shirt. But you already know this, if you know Charles Bukowski.

In the documentary Bukowski: Born Into This, by John Dullaghan, the every essence of the late poet and novelist is captured. The film pieced together the life of Henry "Charles" Bukowski by use of precious archival footage in black and white film and photographs. Interspersed with these vintage pieces of Bukowski in action, various friends, family, and fans offer their memories and adoration. The best interviews were from old buddies and ex-lovers that recalled all of the "obscene" that was late wino poet.

While the recollections of drunk Bukowski running up and down the street with his privates hanging out of his pants are humorous and perfectly him, it was both the footage of old interviews and poetry readings that gave the documentary a real voice.

The voice, his voice, drove the film. It was surprisingly deep and smooth, like worn faded leather. He read his poems, line after line, as the film rolled showing him walk the dry dusty streets of 1950s Los Angeles. The film's editing was sloppy, but it fit the man.

As a whole, the vibe of the film was rocking', until Bono showed up. There he was in his blue-tinted sunglasses, talking about how much he loved literature, and his discovery, and how he could "eat the language," and I just wanted him to stop talking about bone marrow and shut up - ultimately to get out of this documentary.

On top of the extremely embarrassing (almost fifteen minute) segment of Bono talking about himself, Sean Penn was there, acting like a cool guy and Tom Waits looked a little messed up. One could assume that these interviews were used in the documentary to seem credible; if big-time musicians and actors liked Bukowski, then he must have been great.

Wrong. Having those three idiots ramble on about their "adoration" made me re-think the director's intentions. If he hadn't put in tweedle-dee and the gang, the film would have had a more earthy, underground, grassroots feel. Bukowski was never into Hollywood, so the director should have kept it out.

"You get the stink of L. A. in your bones," said Bukowski. His endless quotes filled the documentary, on everything from women to college to how he began to write. "When you get the shit kicked out of you long enough, and long enough, and long enough, you'll have a tendency to say what you really mean," and he constantly did.

Fellow friend and colleague Carl Weissner said that "by the end of the century, Bukowski will be known as the guy who liberated poetry from the clutches of the academics."

The documentary ended on a melancholy tone - Bukowski's wife Linda was sitting on his grave. She recalled his last few breaths, and the look that overcame his face. She described it as more of a softness, that all of his wrinkles smoothed out, all of the tension left. For the first time in his life, his skin was as soft and smooth as a baby's bottom.

It was as she was describing this to the camera, that I felt something sad. Maybe my girly sensitivity is to blame, but it was a gripping and honest memory of the way that this uncommon man left the world. I was moved, and that's all the director could have hoped for.

New Wave Dreams in Count Dracula's Tavern

As I drunkenly scribble down notes on my cocktail napkins, feeling like Don Draper, I watch a guy on the dance floor do the lawn mower. And at the bar drunk Giants fans fist-pump like they were on the Jersey Shore. And in the corner booth the curvy Latina sucks face with the creepy red-head. The mood was apparently right. Or I was just in the Marina.

Oh, the fine neighborhood in San Francisco that is the Marina district. Home of the valet parking and the douchebag. On a Saturday night, one can expect to see Bentley's, Land Rovers, and Lamborghini's line every street curb, and prostitutes huddled on every corner - oh wait, those are actually just girls trying to get into the club. My mistake.

In the midst of the glitter and the herpes, on Fillmore Street, lies a little ghetto jem: The Comet Club. Inside, one can find a bar that might be mistaken for Satan's with all the red backlighting, black velvet curtains, and mirrors. Lining the back wall are scuzzy ivory-colored booths that (I'm sure) aid many a drunk man's cop-a-feel shenanigans. The gaudy gold-framed mirrors on the walls would be finely suited in Captain Morgan's private wench lair.

Thank Christ for The Comet Club's sake, there was more going for it than it's Vampire-esque appearance. The lawn-mowers, fist-pumpers, and face-suckers were all definitely feeling the alcohol - but they were also feeling the beats.

The music had people moving - and humping and grinding - all over the place/each other. Tim Lane, or as dancers and listeners would call him DJ "Mr. Bad Rules," was traipsing his fingers all over the turntables.

He started the nights set with played-out artificial tracks like Rihanna's "Only Girl in the World," and seamlessly blended them in with other cheesy numbers like Justin Timberlake's "Carry Out." These choices ensured him a captive audience of boozed-up girls screaming (slurring) the lyrics while swaying their alcohol-sodden heads.

The night was still young at 11 p.m., and after my second Newcastle, I watched a few more thirty-somethings drift in through the velvet-clothed doorway. DJ Tim must have been able to sense that these rough night-owls wanted to dance, and put on "Say Aah" by Trey Songz. He spiced up the track by mixing in more techno beats, making it pretty even funner for those drunkies.

First on the floor were the ugly-ducklings. The least genetically-blessed in the club, I mean. They threw their arms around, sideways, up in the air, and down again to their awkwardly rotating hips. The little disco ball cast it's dim oval shapes on the floor. And the fact that I could still clearly see these lights on the floor meant there weren't enough people dancing on it. The DJ could tell, too.

"Yeeeee-uh, the bartender wants me to turn it up!" he shouted. With that, he faded in "I Touch Myself" by Divinyls. I almost choked on my beer - I love bad 90s singles! Surprisingly, DJ Tim managed to work a more electronic-dance vibe into the song to keep it danceable for the growing crowd.

My Newcastle groove really kicked in when DJ Tim put on "The Seed" by The Roots. Then he really got my buzz going with "Need You Tonight" by INXS. And by the time he put on "Don't You Forget About Me" by Simple Minds I went wild. Am I really listening to 80s New Wave in Count Dracula's tavern? Bring me a fourth beer!

The dance floor is bulging with lawn-mower-er's now. DJ Tim keeps the hits coming and more Marina-dwellers seep into the club. I look up from my cocktail napkins to see a dark-haired Aladdin look-a-like eyeballing me intently. Not. Interested. Homie.

"This is how we doooooo it," shouts DJ Tim. The crowd cheers. Aladdin moves on after I burp up some of my crab cake dinner. The dark red light of the Comet Club grows darker and the DJ Tim's beats get louder - or I'm just profusely drunker. I scribble some more notes: "The Patron shot ended my night. Great DJ…" And stumble out the door.

Rachelle Ann Gosling?

Ryan Gosling’s performance in Blue Valentine made me want to find the love of my life and make it work. It wasn’t just his impossibly beautiful face or his impeccable romantic capacity, but his desire to fully submerse himself in love's hardships and paddle through. It’s been a rather long time since I’ve fallen in love with a character in a movie (think Leonardo DiCaprio, circa 1998) so I’ll tell you the reasons behind my heartfelt adoration.

Dean Pereira (Gosling) is the ideal man. He is handsome, caring, manly, creative, hardworking, funny … the list could go on. The perfect balance between a sensitive sap and a insensitive jerk, Dean turned out to be quite the idealistic man, despite his broken-home upbringing. Through low ambition, he spends his days working for a moving company earning a small but honest living.

And then he sees her. And he immediately knows he loves her. And this is exactly what women want. We want a man to see us, and in that split-second, decide that we are who he has been looking for his entire life. And that's how she felt, special.

But then she fell out of love with him. His wife Cindy, played by Michelle Williams, could no longer deal with the realities of their relationship. Cindy lost herself, swallowed up in Dean’s love for early morning beers and wasted potential.

But it wasn't his fault. Dean is a grown-up Holden Caulfield. Childishly hilarious, selflessly giving, ever-youthful physically and emotionally, he won’t ever die. Dying is for suckers.

And that's what Cindy couldn't handle anymore. In the flashbacks during the film, we see Dean captivate Cindy in his vigor for her, being as goofy and charming as possible to win over her heart. But in the realtime scenes of the film, it was obvious that his sparkle had wore off throughout their short marriage. But what exactly did he do wrong?

He stood by Cindy's side through an unthinkably tough situation; the acceptance of a child that wasn't his own, and taking her hand in marriage when he did not have to.

He buried a dog that he loved because his wife neglected to keep it safe. He was beaten to the ground over petty jealousy, and still brought her flowers. He was concerned that his daughter's oatmeal wasn't cooked, and taught her how to eat the raisins. He searched for his wedding ring in exceedingly tall grass, when most other men would walk away.

Dean’s upper arm tattoo is just another emblem of his love for his youth and family – like the Giving Tree, Dean will give all that he has to Cindy and their 3-year-old daughter Frankie (Faith Waladyka).

Still, for Cindy it wasn't enough. She felt resentment that Frankie loved Dean more; resentment that he wouldn't get a better job; resentment that their romantic getaway took place in a trashy rotating-bed hotel with blue illumination.

And I think this was director Derek Cianfrance's point (probably more so than to create a character for women to fall in love with). Blue Valentine is ultimately a picture painted to show viewers that a husband and wife should grow not only as a couple, but as individuals through their marriage.

Cindy kept moving - she raised a child, worked for a career, drove the soccer van, changed her appearance, kept a household - things that matured her as a woman. Dean on the other hand, was exactly the same, minus some hair. It's hard to live your life everyday when you're leaving behind the person you're sharing it with. The band grew so thin it snapped.

Blue Valentine ended with Cindy and Dean walking away from each other. Cindy moving forward and Dean moving the same as he always has. And that's fine with me.

Blue Valentine

Derek Cianfrance

Ryan Gosling, Michelle Williams

Rated R: real-live adulthood

♡♡♡♡♡ out of ♡♡♡♡♡