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Posts Tagged ‘Hollywood’
Continued from The Cocktail Party Pt 4 (Angels and Demons)
Like a mad man, I navigate my way through the ugly, unkempt streets of hell-hole Hollywood, which inexorably and thankfully give way to the tidy, manicured bungalows of West Hollywood before finally ending my journey in the spacious and immaculately clean boulevards of 90210 Nirvana. My angel Gretchen had thoughtfully notified the hotel’s staff of my impending arrival and due to my ‘fragility’ was to be treated with the utmost kindness and civility. As I pull my politically correct, environmentally sensitive Toyota Prius up to the pearly gates of Heaven, the mono chromatically outfitted valet opens my door, greets me by name, and expertly whisks my ridiculously impractical overnight bag from the trunk. He catches me slightly off guard, when he stops me, takes my sweaty hand into his, holds it firmly, and while looking directly into my weary, bloodshot eyes says with real authority, “Welcome home Mr. Abrams, we’re so pleased to have you back with us again.”
I stand there dumbfounded. I don’t move – I don’t speak. I stare dumbly into the face of St. Peter the valet and realize with profound relief that I’ve been called home to sweet Jesus. Like the biblical Abraham of yore who agonizes whether to sacrifice his only begotten son for the lord he reveres, I am forced to endure that hideous, thankless life in Los Feliz so that I may earn my rightful place among the angels. I nearly weep as I pass through the pearly gates and begin my American Express paid ascent into Heaven.
I am escorted to my large airy room by a gorgeous, young angel whose beatific smile and ingratiating manner dazzles me. I can only nod and grin stupidly as he runs through the endless list of services Heaven provides 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I hand him $20 for his cuteness, and lasciviously assure him there’s PLENTY more where that came from! I then spitefully turn off my cell phone, place my hotel house phone on DO NOT DISTURB and collapse on the pristine, cloud-like bed. Like a much older, much queerer version of Eloise at The Plaza, I giddily call room service. My food magically appears on a sparkling silver tray and as I greedily wolf it down – I can only pity my spoiled, drunk husband George grilling veggie burgers on MY expensive barbecue, and our parasitic, ungrateful son carelessly splashing around and enjoying himself in MY heated pool. Stuffed, I finish my first dinner in Heaven and am happily lulled to sleep with the comforting thought of angels weeping when George and Ethan are cast out of the Los Angeles Garden of Eden I have wrought and forced to dwell in some ghastly and rundown Echo Park or Washington Heights duplex.
The next morning, I wake refreshed and clad in the luxurious white robe and slippers provided to me by the L’Hermitage angels make my way to the rooftop pool for a spot of breakfast. As I’ve woken early, I am alone on the roof save for a tall, thin man magisterially reclining on a lounge chair reading a newspaper. A small dog sits patiently on the lounge next to him and a single, male attendant stands directly behind him unmoving. As the tall, elegant man on the lounge lowers his paper to regard me, I recognize him instantly and gasp, as he is the talented but erasable actor James Woods, sworn enemy to my husband George and the bane of his miserable existence years ago!
(To Be Continued)
Have you ever been out to dinner with some obnoxious asshole who sneers at the hired help that he just doesn’t ‘do’ domestic wines? This thumping bore turns up his nose at any classic vintage California has to offer and INSISTS that he be shown a list of ’real’ wines – the wines of ‘mother’ France. This guy is so affected and pretentious that you don’t know whether to sample the wines the hapless waiter brings to this douche, or punch him in the head. Well, if you’ve ever had the pleasure of dining with me, you know that I AM THAT GUY. I’m such a whiny (no pun intended) spirits snob, that I’ve reduced every sommelier in Hollywood to either tears or fits of rage so intense that security is called and I’m permanently ’86′d’ from darkening their doorstep.
I hate to admit it, but I have a substance abuse problem. My bourgeoisie, Francophile snobbery causes me to possess a personality devoid of any real substance, hence I abuse everyone. There, I’ve said it. I’m told that admitting one has an additiction problem is the first step in overcoming one’s addiction.
This past summer, I had the good fortune to dump…I mean…deliver my child to the good people at Camp Walt Whitman overnight camp and make my pilgrimage to the promised land. No, not that promised land, the other ‘real’ promised land, France. The Air France jet that carried me was cramped, the service appalling and the food inedible. It was EVERYTHING one hopes for when starting one’s journey to the land of milk, honey, and Louis Vuitton. I arrived in Paris dirty, tired and incredibly hostile – had my accent been a touch better, you would have no doubt mistaken me for a native!
I wandered around Paris for the next three days enjoying the favorable exchange rate by eating everything in sight and drinking whatever cheap, Chateau -whatever wine those French bastards put in front of me. One night during my pilgrimage, I sat in a dreamy Parisian bistro getting massively fucked up when my son’s sleepover camp had the bad taste to interrupt my drunken carousing by texting me that he required some kind of footwear called ‘cleats’ for the myriad of sports foisted upon him during the course of his internment, uh…I mean, vacation. Naturally, I hadn’t the foggiest notion of my son’s foot size nor where such athletic footwear could be found. In my drunkenness, my gaze wandered from the bewildering get-your-son-some cleats text to the large bottle of unopened champagne that sweated tantalizingly on the table before me. Suddenly, my mission was clear.
(To Be Continued)
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