Head to toe
That brawny Arnie and David “Captain Big Balls” Beckham shared center stage at the Home Depot Center in Carson last Saturday was enough to send this strumpet south for a lousy soccer match. After all, I could finally solve the mystery of the ages.
See, as I perused the official Chelsea-Galaxy program, a small factoid jumped out: Sweet Becks is 6 feet tall. Gadzooks! That’s allegedly the same height as Guvs, although when he won the Mr. Olympia title in 1970 he was listed at a mighty 6-feet-2. Family life, political rigors and bad reviews from the crappiest Batman flick would knock a couple inches off anyone.
However, there exists a muckraking “Governor Shortzenegger” contingent that insists my favorite Österreich Oak doesn’t even reach 6 feet in his lifts. (A call to the yes men and women in sensible shoes back in Sacramento went unreturned; I’m told the subject of Mt. Arnie’s true summit is hush-hush in the halls of Power Bars.)
So here was my plan: arrive in La-La Land early to rub elbows at a yupscale VIP dap and dip. Take my seat at the end of the bar, soak up a vodka gimlet(the GOP moderate drink of choice) and when the two most dashing Euro transplants arrive, stand them back to back to forever silence that Shortzenegger smack.
So I waited. And surveyed the crowd of chic stargazers who’d sauntered down from their penthouses in the Hills. Another giblet—stat! And waited. One more for courage; woo, I’m feeling stripsy! And waited some more. But neither the president of England nor California ever arrived.
No worries. They’d certainly rub pecs on the field, I reckoned. But Arnie never left Maria’s side during the entire match—Swarovski binoculars don’t lie—and Becks sat pretty until the final 10 minutes, whereupon he made a few touches and briefly was knocked on his arse.
Alas, I’m once again left on the sidelines of a sports stadium holding aloft my combination measuring stick and bad-boy flogger. If I had a nickel for every time that’s happened.