Pro Bono Gigolo

Oh, what LA fuckery befalls me now? 

Really, today is just the last hoorah in a weekend of many shades of wrong with a strong dash of what the fuck (situation:  normal).

It all began with the arrival of Ireland's Finest from New York.  Given our past history of collectively tormenting Parisians, uneventful wasn't going to be this weekend's strong suit.  Luckily for the rest of Los Angeles the desert contained us for most of Saturday, so it wasn't really until we struck out Downtown on Sunday that things started to head south. 

Sunday evening was Supper Club, at which we had the pleasure of dining opposite:  Rabbit and Ping-Ping.  No.  Really.  These are their actual names.  I know this because after I had been asked to open the champagne (oh for a man that has skills...), I felt I had sufficient moral highground (here's how I was instructed to do it in Paris; yes, ten-points for pretentious twattery but I'm not named after the key ingredient for a stew) to just come out with it and ask if these were their actual names.  Apparently they are...

And lest we forget 'Anything with a Heartbeat' Wales, who, no relation to the Prince Of, had hands that were extremely dextrous given how fat the fingers that dangled off of them.  He added a whole new dimension to the expression 'backs to the wall'. 

And so, we arrive at today.  Things were just on the regular:  a little light lunch at the Chat opposite a famous director and his dog who was actually sitting on a chair at the table, as if prepared to dine (FYI the armchair the dog had was of way superior class to the bench his agent was relegated to perching on.  I'm just saying...), was followed by a digestive stroll down Melrose, until a hand thrust me this:

Yes, today is the day that I got offered free sex by a gigolo.  And not just any old gigolo.  A gigolo riding a bicycle.  Living the dream folks, living the dream...

Monolingual = monotongue

An undisclosable source rolled over at the Chateau this morning and informed me that I had been yelling in Italian in my sleep. This is a relief because one if my greatest fears is that America will render me monotongue. Not good in a State where the driving is so bad that being able to source insults from three languages is an absolute plus - generally while they pause to scratch their head you can execute some kind of borderline legal maneuver, euro-style.  If I recall correctly, in my dream I was trying to book us a hotel in Rome, so then the shouting would make perfect sense.  And hopefully not too terrifying for my witness. It's the wild gesticulation I'm more worried about:  you can take the girl out of Sicily...

My other home's the Chateau Marmont

So this is the kind of crisis I like.  Because my Malibu residence is closed all day for waterproofing and other heavy building work, I have decamped to the Chateau Marmont to work.  Here's my desk.

And the view above my desk:

 I'd like to say that this falls into the category of 'middle-class crisis of the day' (you know, like when you are having a bad day because Waitrose have run out of fettucine) but it's really not the case, this takes pretentious crisis to a whole other level:  the LA Standard.  It's akin to the time that the Hopa had a tantrum because his regular Sushi chef was not at his local restaurant.  Now THAT's when you know you are drinking the LA Kool-Aid.  I wonder if there's rehab for people that leave LA?  Seems to me like he's going to need it given he's about to move to New York...  Good luck with that!

In pictures:  a really hard life...