LA-LA continued

So the rest of LA was great. Mike and Cam were working during the week, so, to entertain myself, I had developed a delightful, 3-day routine were I’d wake up, attempt to surf , have a breakfast burrito by the pier, and then cruise around in the Hairdresser Special, sightseeing and avoiding the tranny hookers who were inexplicably drawn to my ride. I drove through the fancy neighborhoods and ooed and aaahhed at the mansions. And if there wasn’t a Range Rover parked in virtually every driveway, then I’m an anti-semitic black trapeze artist with post-partum depression. Range Rovers are baaadass machines, but the fact that they’re everywhere you look in Southern California, the cradle of American liberalism and alleged environmental consciousness, is a joke. New rule: the people of Los Angeles are no longer allowed to patronize the rest of their nation, reminding them of their responsibility to the environment, until every SUV in suburban SoCal is incinerated. Reduce, Re-use, Recycle, Re-you-people-live-in-giant-glass-houses.

I spent one whole afternoon at the Getty Center. The best part of my visit was the fact that it enabled me to call my mum that evening and tell her, when she asked me what I had done in LA, that I had gone to a museum – as opposed to conceding that I was trying to do body shots off of wannabe-starlet cocktail waitresses. Because moms don’t like to hear that.

In all seriousness, the Getty Center, named after oil magnate and philanthropist J. Paul Getty, was terrifically impressive. It’s built up on a hill in Brentwood, overlooking mountains, seascape, and suburbia. There are only 2 visible floors, but hidden below is a 7-story underground parking facility: the ultimate expression of deference to the automobile and just about right for LA. The whole thing cost $300 million to build, which was only a tenth of the foundation's endowment. Note to self: become an oil tycoon.

I took the 1-hour tour that explained the various parts of the facility. We learned why the architects chose certain shapes and materials for the facility’s construction, and it was all very impressive. In my tour group was a middle-aged woman who was clutching a chihuahua. The dog / rodent was behaving nicely, but I could not stop staring at the 4-legged doorstop, and I wondered if the woman was, in fact, violating museum policy by having her pooch, diminutive though it was, on the premises. I wanted to make a citizen’s arrest, or at least a big stink, but it was then that I realized that I should go back to paying attention to the tour guide, as he had been saying some interesting things and I had missed about 2 minutes of explanation about the purpose behind the western portico or something. Thanks for distracting me, stupid chihuahua.

The art that was housed inside the building was really a secondary attraction to the building itself, save for a room that housed about twenty French impressionist masterpieces, which, by my guess, had a combined value of about $100 million. Coincidentally, that is exactly the amount of cash I blew on my last night in LA., but more on that below.

The boys had showed me a great time in their fair city, and the last night was a joyously drunken lurch towards the finish line. We started off at a great Japanese bar / restaurant, imbibing much sake, went on to another great bar, and then ended up at a fancy-pants nightclub, where Cam’s buddy got us in through the back door. The place was good fun, and added to it was the kinetic charge of industry people trying to impress and size up one another. We spotted a few celebs, including Jeremy Piven, who walked in alone, looking like an unshaven vagrant. Of course, he then proceeded to get mauled by a gang of 6 women, and we didn’t see him for the rest of the night. Gosh, I hope he was ok.

All of it was great to observe, but I suspect that you’d get tired of it pretty easily as a local. I had to admit I was feeling the effects of the 6-day bender, and was ready to catch a plane home…although not before we paid a late-night visit to The Body Shop. This was, by my hosts' estimation, Hollywood's premiere strip-club. We entered and sat right at the stage. It was then that I remembered my opinion of strip clubs – they are crap. Pretty as the girls may be, how do you detach yourself from the fact that they only want your money? How does that turn anyone on? Make no mistake - i've dated the odd golddigger, but that's different. At least you can take them out to dinner and pretend to have titilating conversations about the latest InTouch magazine article or how sweet and sour sauce could be simultaneously sweet AND sour. And besides, nothing says "I am aroused, but paying handsomely for it by the hour" like a woman in clear-heeled shoes.

Anyhow, we were in there for 45 minutes, and I’m pretty sure I did a good job of convincing the half-dozen strippers who kept propositioning me for lapdances that I was a closeted homosexual. But we finally bailed, got home, and passed out. I woke up 2 hours later, ditched the Hairdresser Special, boarded the plane and closed my eyes until we touched down in La Belle Province. Maybe it was all just a dream??


FS

This week in culture: The Getty Museum (sandwiched between much mirth and hilarity in the City Of Angels)

So this is Part Two of Dan’s Early Winter Getaway. The day before New Year’s Eve, I flew into LAX from Denver. After a week of epic riding, heavy eating, and minimal revelry, I was ready to cut loose. I can't explain why, but as soon as I saw Mike’s familiar old blue Cherokee cruise to a stop at the pick-up point of LAX, I knew this would be a good week. I was in LA to visit two college friends; Mike, an advertising copywriter living in Hermosa Beach, and Cameron, a film and tv producer living in Venice. I hadn’t seen either of them in quite a while, and I was looking forward to catching up with the boys and doing what liberal arts college graduates do best; drink ourselves into oblivion.

We dropped my bags off at Mike’s pad in Hermosa, a laid-back, beachside community 15 minutes south of LA, and immediately headed to Blue 32, a local lounge, to rejoice in a pool of willing blondes and plentiful booze. It was an epic first night. Special thanks to Leo, Mike’s nextdoor neighbor and a bartender at the establishment, for the endless supply of “180 bombs”, a seriously potent concoction that tasted like a mixture of gin and pure cat urine, but the drinks had the desired effect, as I had forgotten my middle name by the third sip.

The next day was spent, of course, nursing a spectacular hangover which I thought, if only fleetingly, could be cured by a 9am surf session, as encouraged by my gracious hosts. I could not have been more wrong. It is amazing how little your muscles will cooperate with you when you have nothing but blended whiskey surging through your body. I may as well have been trying to surf on a prison-issue foam mattress, because nothing was going to happen that morning – let alone feats of acrobatic fancy in the Pacific Ocean. Having said that, I could get used to living 3 minutes by foot from the beach, especially, as I write this, when the local temperature in Montreal is hovering around an ass-chapping -20 Celsius. But I digress.

So after spending the day recovering, we readied ourselves for The Big Event: The Model Mansion New Year’s Eve bash, and it was about as decadent a soiree as one could have hoped for. This was an invite-only party set at a gorgeous manse in the Hollywood hills. Getting there was a serious headache, as you had to wait in various lines to validate your invitation and wait for buses to whisk you to the secret location. But it was absolutely worth it. The place was crawling with unbelievably gorgeous women or, as Cameron, the great womanizer (surely, why else does one become a Hollywood producer?), would insist on calling them, “Turkeys ripe for the stuffing”. Sorry, his expression, not mine. In any event, the night was brilliant, and I’ll leave it at that. Celebrity sightings? Ian Ziering from 90210. Obviously, this sighting requires no further comment.

The next morning I decided to play Johnny Tourist and pick up my rental car, because in LA you must drive. Everywhere. Need a jug of milk from the local store? See you in a couple of hours. The place gives new meaning to the concept of urban sprawl. So I hitched a ride to the airport car rental agency and picked up my ride, a car that seemed like it was marketed directly at hairdressers. That’s right, I rented a 2006 Ford Mustang convertible - but sans the manly v-8 engine and saddled with an automatic tranmission. They may as well have installed a climate-controlled jar in the glove box in which to store your balls…but whatever, I wanted a convertible and that’s what I got. I guess I can be thankful that it came in black and not the dreaded Seafoam or Canary Yellow these things are usually painted. Also, there are few nicer drives than cruising up and down the Pacific Coast Highway with the top down. And yes, I had Bon Jovi's "Dead Or Alive" blasting on the radio during said drive - hey, sorry for partying.

(more to follow tomorrow)

This week in culture: fuck it, I’m not even trying for a segue – I saw OJ simpson on vacation…

Mmm, this was a longer delay in updating el blog than I had anticipated, and so to my growing fanbase, I say only this: “Sorry for partying”. Yeah, new expression I picked up over the holidays from my brothers in LA. Used in the right context, it is fantastic verbiage. It basically means: “I am sorry for having disappointed you with my actions, but you should know that mine was not aberrant behaviour; it is simply how I roll, and my attitude has manifested itself into this here episode where our paths have crossed, moreover I would encourage you to try to shape your life and attitude around my personality, as others agree it is magnetic and, frankly, attractive as all get-up.” So again, sorry for partying. Use it when you get into a fender bender and you are at fault. Use it when you accidentally spill a bit of beer on the shoulder of a lassie at a bar. Hell, use it when you go with your instincts and break into an air-guitar solo whilst sitting in your family’s pew during holiday services at synagogue. It’s just how you roll. Sorry for partying.

But Happy New Year, folks. I’ve had about 3 weeks off this thing, and a lot has happened. I took some great vacation time and reconnected with long-distance family and friends. I spent the first week skiing with family in Vail, Colo----wait a second, before I continue down this prosaic road, know this: I saw O.J. Simpson. I’m going to skip a paragraph to underline the gravity and veracity of this event. See you in a couple of lines…

Holy fucking shit did I ever see O.J. He was big and wearing all black (turtleneck and slacks, no balaclava). He’s a large fellow with hands like meat hooks. And he killed people, did you know that? We were at a restaurant, waiting to be seated, when Orinthal James lurched towards the exit, from which I was only 2 meters. I always envisioned he would be terribly shy and unobtrusive in public, trying to maintain a low profile. Not so much. He was loud and boisterous, bellowing something out to one of his friends that sounded like, “I know you’re trying to pretend you can’t hear me, but I know you heard what I just said!”. What the fuck? Ask yourself: when was the last time you faced a cold-blooded murderer? It is creepy beyond belief.

So that was at a ski resort in Colorado. I was out there for six days, 2 of which had me skiing deep powder, which, after intimate lady-time moments, is my favourite thing to do. I like it because it feels like surfing, but easier, it always reminds me of my happiest ski days in Whistler, B.C., and it's a great ego booster because, despite my not possessing the greatest athletic instincts, I'm really good at it. The rest of ski vacation was spent with my Dad and sis, eating fancy meals, early bedtimes, and full ski days. All in all, it was about as enjoyable as detox can get. Highlights were: the powder, the great food, and successfully tolerating my father's second wife (they divorced in 2003) who was, as luck would have it, staying in the same resort town with friends of hers. She and I had never gotten along, and I dreaded meeting up with her for the inevitable "courtesy dinner", replete with delicious venison steak and feigned civility. I was on vacation, after all, and felt that this was an unnecessary exercise. But the good news was that I had a great time, as she didn't speak much at dinner, or the subsequent day she joined us to ski. She had also aged terribly, despite New York's finest plastic surgeons, had a funny haircut, and she had taken to wearing bright designer ski wear that had her looking less like her self-proclaimed "ski bunny" (at 59, this term is wholly inappropriate) and more like a semi-professional rodeo clown. So all was well that ended well.


FS