C.J., gossip gumshoe, tackles the glitterati's dark side

I admit that I have, at times, thought you silly, C.J. Though I admire your gumption, your resolve to dig up something, anything, interesting about the C-list celebrities this town attracts--Paul Molitor's ex-wife spending his millions, Prince, Carl Pohlad, various plasticine newscasters--let's face it, there's rarely anything to yawn about. Sure, we all wished Prince would come knocking on our door to do his Jehovah's Witness thing, and we sure were impressed by your map of where the town's bill-cough-I-mean-millionaires were sitting in the stands at the Timberwolves playoffs, but this is a sleepy town. Not much happens. Josh Hartnett buys an old foggie house and eats saome eggs at Bryant Lake Bowl. Kirby Puckett tries to lock a woman in a toilet, Tim Sherno gets gayer and gayer. Ho hum.

Then, you drop a bombshell on us. After your shitty night at Bellanotte, I'm feeling for you. I, too, have been mistaken for the person who's come to clean the toilet, and I, too, have had bouncers push their bodies up against mine. Some people in this town are bigger than their britches, as my mom would say. And I'm glad you are writing about it. Minnesotans pat themselves on the backs constantly at how liberal we are--it's a fucking joke. Until twenty years ago or so the Gay 90s had a quota of black men they'd let in each night. I applaud thee for confronting this in your own gossipy way.

I've got new respect for you, C.J. I imagine you with camera and phone and Star Tribune credit card, hoofing it from "nightclub" to "venue" to "Tabu", places that, in New York, would barely qualify as a kebab shop, putting up with Eaganites and Chaskians in too much bronzer who think Absolut is top shelf and can't tell when their wine is corked, tirelessly searching out something, anything, to make us feel like we're something more than a weigh station on I-35. it's a tough job--not all VIP lists and bar tabs. Thank you. Now please get me some photos of Jake Gyllenhaal with his shirt off at The Saloon and Tim Sherno giving bj's at Bare Ass Beach.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go tear up my Bellanote Frequent Valet hole-punch card. But first, cocktails!