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
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
posted by filthy soapbox at 10:23 AM
1 Comments:
Senor FS, great blogging. I'm pretty sure your fanbase feels simply inadequate to comment on your posts, but I've tracked over a thousand unique hits to your site. Keep it up. It's gold!
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