What would Serge say?

Driving at 100 top down on the freeway past midnight.  Serge would have approved.  He would probably have said non to the late night sugar coated doughnut that's currently gracing my ass, but so what, he's dead; let's live for the moment.

Talking of which, can we discuss the pleasure that were the people we were surrounded by at the Hollywood Bowl tonight?  The Serge Gainsbourg tribute concert (what else?) provided a spectrum of emotions generally confined to "The Real Houswives of Somewhere Real Estate Prices are Currently Falling".  To my left, a woman so obsessed by personal space that she rudely forced Frenetic out of his seat and onto my lap because we were crowding her.  No one's 'crowded" her since 1976, and that's her problem.  To Jill's left, a woman that frankly inspires one to set up a charity for the good rogering of human kind.  I know you want to listen to the music, so do I, but when it's being masacrered by an American singing a language she doesn't understand any wise man would defer to the cheese, wine and conversation.  This is an hommage to France, after all. (FYI, this was only one artist who will remain nameless, the rest were exceptional, especially Sean, Charlotte and Mike)

Anyway Jill's charming neighbour must have died a death when the entire population of women and gay men vocally threw their knickers at the stage in honour of Joseph Gordon-Levitt who sang in a French that would make the infamous interview with Bradley Cooper seem somewhat schoolboy.

Of course, this begs the question:  who was the Frenchest of them all?  She who man-handled a pre-game three shags in an afternoon whilst roasting a picnic chicken of course.  Serge would have said oui...

Sex rules

You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else.

Albert Einstein  

The Champion and I have been talking sex.  This, alas, is not based on the fact that we are both exhausted from hours of rampant shaggage, but due to the fact that neither of use has a fucking clue.  Literally.

Hollywood might have invaded the shores of France with every bad sitcom the French could swallow (a surprisingly large amount FYI), but the rules to American dating? Negative.  

Now you would think a couple of off-shore Parisiens might just about be up to the challenge?  Think again.  Because in order to do so, we’d have to know how to play by the rules, but we don’t, because we never do.  Take, for example, Saturday night’s Drive-In Debacle, from whom I had heard nothing until today, when he texted me.  Now in my world, that’s just rude, but in the universe we lovingly refer to as Hell-A, he has adeptly played by the rules, waiting the minimum three-days before contacting me.  If this rule is not adhered too, the girls don’t call back.  I know this because that’s exactly what happened to The Champion when he deigned to call a girl 24 hours after getting her number.  Apparently calling because he liked her wasn’t enough, he didn’t play by the rules, so he was out.

Talking of out, can we discuss why the Americans refer to varying degrees of fornication as bases, just like in baseball.  It’s not reassuring.  Especially when what base you can go to is determined by what number date you are on.  Fine for accountants; not fine for red-blooded Europeans who may or may not be partial to a spot of nakedness coming before 10 dates have been suffered through.  I say suffered because, here’s the other thing,  in LA, people like talking about themselves ALL the time.  I once mentioned a great art exhibition at a dinner party and asked if the person opposite had seen it; they flicked their hair and turned away.  Clearly, they would have only been to see it if their face was in one of the paintings, which it would not have been, because they had a face for radio.  That’s the other thing about LA-people, delusional.  Who else could come up with one day my prince will come? 

I’m just saying, sometimes you may not be all that interested in their family farm in Iowa, or the amazing improv work they did while volunteering at a children’s hospital (because that’s why the children were there…).  And when people come out with things like: ‘Oh look at that cute t-shirt, I think I might buy it for my dog’, ten dates would require a phenomenally good arse.  On the flip side, if you actually meet someone whose clothes you would like to see decorating the floor of your kitchen, why wait that long?  And then I realised:  effort.  In the town voted most likely to fake an orgasm, why think for yourself when someone else has already told you the rules?  

Welcome to America, go big or get the fuck out (the West Hollywood Remix)

Let's hug it out, bitch

Today The Champion and I decided to indulge in a little light stalking and tripped and fell onto the set of Entourage on location at The Roosevelt.

This of course provided extensive comedy value not so much watching the filming itself, but watching every trust-fund-Z-Lister who had nothing better to do on a Wednesday afternoon (aka the extras) as they lolled around the pool hoping someone would notice them and make them famous.  Someone was watching them, but it just happened to be us, and we were grading people out of ten on shaggability rather than talent.  Maybe I should go into casting?

Lechery aside, here are some of our most poignant revelations:

1.  No men in Los Angeles have any hair on their chest.  Not one.  Where did all the real men go?
2.  Everybody has a tattoo.  (But could somebody please explain to me why you would get a map of NANTUCKET in orange, green and yellow tattooed onto your back?!?!? - here's a throwaway WTF to you sir)
3.  Still on tattoos, either the Tramp Stamp's making a comeback, the girls have GREAT plastic surgeons and they got them when they were in fashion circa the early 90's, or they are just dumb.  No, we wouldn't hit it.
4.  A well-defined six pack is like great gift-wrapping on a shit present, tell me the last time you read a book made out of paper and then we can talk. 
5.  You could tell I'm not from LA because, apart from the fact that my tits don't require scaffolding and are all my own, I was the only one that dived head first into the pool.  I know, your hair's the money shot...

Anyway, there is a grave risk that we might be coming to a television near you soon, so watch out.  To assist, you need to look for a delectable hairy chest next to an inverted blonde bucking the trend and lying the wrong way up the sun longer with her legs draped in the air.  You can tell it's me because I am the only person reading a book, in an Agent Provocateur one-piece, of course.

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...

My life as directed by Todd Phillips...

Whilst luxuriating in the Hollywood Hills last Friday my eyes grazed over the sight of the hot-tub.  And immediately this quote from Old School came to mind:

"We are going to get so much ass here, it's going to be sick. I'm talking like crazy boy band ass."

It was like dick soup, and nobody bar the ladies had come equipped with a swimsuit, so with all those white Calvin Klein undies it was like a wet t-shirt competition for cougars.  I say cougars because when you are having a conversation (I said, conversation) with somebody born in the nineties it is not only the fact that they have not had the experiences your additional couple (or thereabouts, ahem...) years on the planet have afforded you, but the fact that they are not legally allowed to have those experiences yet...  Which is something I commented on to The Yank earlier today.  It's like Old School in reverse she said.  I coughed uncomfortably.  But really, I have to admit that on occasions my life does feel like it's being directed by Todd Phillips, I mean, she and I took down Vegas (in a year that the hot-tubbers were still in middle school...) and the only thing missing was the tiger in the bathroom.  But that's a whole other story...