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)
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)
posted by filthy soapbox at 11:25 AM
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