Every year, in the months preceding summer, I delude myself into thinking that if I take the stairs once a week and refrain from eating the crust off my pizza, my body will somehow morph into one resembling Madonna's. It didn't work last year, it probably won't work this year, but at least I make the effort. Doesn't that count for something? I thought so, until I saw Mrs. Guy Ritchie on the cover of Vanity Fair's Green Issue looking as taut as a trampoline.

Is it wrong that I—a gay guy in his early twenties—am envious of a body owned and operated by a woman of nearly 50? I say no. I say I make it my mission to find out what exactly she eats/drinks/does/injects to achieve her physique—because when I sold my soul to the prince of darkness, I don't recall there being an "everlasting hot body" clause anywhere on that contract.

According to fitness fiend Tracy Anderson—whose Studio City fitness studio opened two years ago and has only flourished since—Madonna, in part, gets her toned form from her dance aerobics classes. I was recently sent a DVD of said workout, so I made an attempt at learning the routine—maybe my physical fitness pipe dreams would come true this year after all. Needless to say—as indicated in the title of this post—I lasted about four minutes, at which point I went back to basking in the warm luminosity of my computer screen. My legs were sore the next day, and I'll probably make another attempt at learning Tracy's moves as the summer inches closer, but for now I'm quite content taking in Google's glow off of my MacBook Pro. Besides isn't getting a head start on my tan just as important?

—Marcos Luevanos 

I shuffled out of the office on Friday apologetically early: I had a mission to reunite with my bed, and kick an emerging rhinovirus out of my body. Cut to: me on my way home, making a detour into the L.A. vs War show, then another one to a house party in Echo Park, and then one more detour to the Echoplex, employing the use of a press pass and a desperate expression to get into a secret show by Prince. Who never showed up. So there I was, still in work clothes with a melting, neglected cocktail and a cold getting worse by the hour, surrounded by hundreds of very attractive men of ambiguous sexuality, none of whom were Prince. Friday, you sucked.

Saturday, thanks for taking up the slack. Where Friday gave me frown-provoking anti-war art, Saturday delivered a downtown drive-in with singing transsexuals in "Hedwig and the Angry Inch." While Friday's house party offered disastrous parking, Saturday gave me a spot directly in front the massive, throbbing Local Heroes warehouse party downtown.

And Friday, you purple balled me with a rumored yet unsubstantiated Prince appearance, but Saturday handed me Kate Moss at Little Joy. With her limo idling out front and a chauffeur standing by, Ms. Moss and an entourage of comically fashionable people shot pool while the rest of Little Joy pretended not to notice. While everyone else was succeeding in playing it cool, I was apparently requesting to have my photograph taken in a motorcycle helmet.

The helmet was passed around to various friends. Photos continued to be taken.

And when Kate Moss, in tiny, skinny pants and a silver lamé tunic turned to me and wanted it on her head, what could I do but take a blurry photograph?

Saturday—we'll miss you.

High fives,

Ward