I’ve been trying to get off club promotion juggernaut Jetset Mafia’s listserv for months. Their barrage of e-mails beckoning me to places with names like “Dream,” “Home” and “Fur” has somehow, week after week, failed to entice me to suit up in a tube top and subject myself to mild sexual assault. But last Friday afternoon, when a Jetset e-mail titled “KEVIN FEDERLINE Hosts PLATINUM FRIDAYS Tonight” hit my inbox, I rejoiced at the fact that Jetset Mafia’s hit-list is as hard to get off of as the real mob’s.
Later that night, I would again curse Jetset Mafia – this time for wasting five hours of my life. But at that moment, I was thrilled at the chance to get up close and personal with the rapper/dancer/D-list celeb who not only had sex with Britney Spears, but – as boys Sean Preston and Jayden James can attest – had sex with Britney Spears twice. I had to go. If I was going to get groped, at least it would be in pursuit of the most inconsequential celebrity this side of Tara Reid.
Two years ago, Kevin Federline was merely a backup dancer to Britney Spears and baby-daddy to low-level celebrity Shar Jackson – a nobody on the celebrity gossip radar. But after a fairy-tale wedding to America’s pop princess complete with tracksuits and fried chicken – while Jackson was still pregnant with his second son – Federline became, if not a somebody, then at least married to one. What ensued was like watching a train wreck in slow motion – the UPN reality show; their first shoeless, seatbelt-neglected child; the adoption of the J.Lo-esque moniker “K-Fed”; the inevitably horrific hip-hop album. But with the second kid popped out and Brit’s subsequent slim-down, it was only a matter of time before K-Fed would become Fed-Ex. Last Tuesday, less than two months after Jayden James’ birth, and only two weeks after the release of Federline’s album, “Playing with Fire,” Brit-Brit made it official: bitch-slapping K-Fed with a divorce and notifying him, rumor has it, through text message.
So I arrived at Platinum, three days after that fateful supposed text, eager to witness part of the meltdown as a D-lister descends to the F list. The club-goers, who paid 10 bucks to get into the half-full club, seemed ambivalent. Most didn’t know Federline would make an appearance; some didn’t know who he was to begin with.
“I’m just here to see the girls who are here to see K-Fed,” admitted Sam McRabi, 28, before offering me a drink; I declined. I, for one, was excited to see the man himself at the height of his ridiculous fame. Perhaps, I imagined, Federline would utter some choice words about his estranged wife. Perhaps one of the barely-legal GW freshmen grinding across Platinum’s dance floor would catch his eye. Perhaps, even, we would hear him rap some of the lyrical stylings of his self-aggrandizing single, “America’s Most Hated” (“K. Federline / I hit like tsunamis!”).
But when K-Fed finally arrived, shortly after midnight, to the hilariously inappropriate soundtrack of former Britney flame Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack,” the club-goers didn’t get the schmoozing, the rapping, or the fighting words that they had awaited with such lukewarm interest. Befitting his status as a glorified nobody, Federline’s hosting duties consisted of glorified nothing. K-Fed sat on-stage, smoking a cigar and looking like an overgrown boy in a gray tracksuit and diamond stud earrings as his posse – yes, there are people even more worthy of ridicule than Kevin Federline – danced or stared blankly at the crowd.
K-Fed spent the night looking bored as a massive security guard hid him from cameras and questions. In – no joke – his most interesting move of the night, Federline plastered a sick grin on his face and motioned with his hands like he was milking a cow.
K-Fed, it seems, has limited his media strategy to only the classiest of moves: reportedly, blackmailing Britney with an old sex tape. Highly publicizing an event where all he would do is sit around – no vilified rap performances, no harsh words against the pop princess, no calls for single ladies – shows that K-Fed has fully embraced the absurdity of his fame. He has accepted what he’s been all along: a celeb-trash spectacle, devoid of substance. With his sugar momma’s divorce officially filed, though, Federline’s hoping he doesn’t end up devoid of cash.
While it’s unknown how much, if anything, he made from the Platinum appearance, if the blackmail works – or his more legally sound appeal for spousal support comes through – he stands to walk away with tens of millions of Britney’s bucks. Well played, Federline. Well played.