I’M READY FOR MY CLOSE-UP!!
So I went to L.A. this weekend, and amazingly enough I wasn’t discovered! I’m sure the stone faced patron that popped in to the Green Room café had much better luck, all the best to you bucko!

I checked into my plush Motel 6 hotel room mid afternoon, and headed out to immerse myself in the celebrity playground. Friday night after a quick dip in the nazi guarded swimming pool and a public fainting spell at Cat & the Fiddle, I was ready to retire! Then at five a.m., just a couple of hours before I was ready to rise and search for Britney Spear’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Gordy decided to stop partying like a rock star and come back to the hotel. In stumbles Gordy, clicking one the bright white light and slurring the mis-heard Lenny Kravitz lyrics, “I’m a stone cold killer”. I denied my little Hannibal Lector wannabe the pleasure of chopping me up with a knife, or even removing a limb, and in mid-rebuttal, he passed out.

That morning I stopped at the visitor’s center and picked up a copy of the local periodical of what’s happening in the city called the L.A. Weekly, grabbed a croissant and chamomile tea, and perused the pages next to a sweet little fountain in the ninety degree morning sun. I strolled up and down Hollywood Blvd. window-shopping in such fine stores as Frederick’s of Hollywood and The Temptress. I spotted Spiderman and X-Man hanging out in from of Mann’s Chinese Theatre. Had I had any cash left I could have had my photo taken with these true to life Super Heroes. Alas I was tapped from breakfast, and I settled for their broken English, classic Saturday morning cartoon tag line, “We like girls”.

Later on that day Gordy, Simon and I drove through the Hollywood Hills looking for Wonderland Ave. (now why didn’t we keep an eye out for rabbit holes) making a brief pit stop so that Gordy could make his mark on Hollywood. Actually, he left his mark on Sunset Blvd. near Le Brea. And he marked the sidewalk. With melon infused vomit. We then took to Melrose Avenue for spending money that we just didn’t have on things that we just didn’t need. Two hours of searching for something funky and cool in commission driven piranha infested boutiques, and we came to the conclusion that the male styles weren’t male enough, and the female styles were cheap; and I don’t mean inexpensive.

After a twelve-hour cat nap Keely was now ready to join us for a tasty meal. We stuffed ourselves with yummy Italian food served to us by the assumed aspiring screenwriter, who coincidentally seemed to share a similar style with our beloved Simon. Keely promptly retired, after all she had been horizontal all day, so the boys and I set out to mingle with the plastic people. We found ourselves in a saloon of sorts, where Wranglers were replaced with Gucci, and the boots were made by Prada. Gordy fulfilled his dream of living like a cowboy by taking the old mechanical bull for a ride. He looked damn good up there too, and we overheard someone confirming it. Unfortunately, Gordy is still singing falsetto and the doctor said the skin on his left knee should grow back within a few days. We turned in early after an amusing walk home, witnessing fashion statements that were more like commands, “Fuck me, Fuck me, Fuck me”, and a parade of luxury cars with intoxicated girls hanging out of sunroofs proclaiming their love for L.A.

Our last day in SoCal was spent in colorful Venice Beach. On our way out of Hollywood, Keely shared her suspicion of the Star Map conspiracy. Her theory is that these hoodlums actually direct you to average people’s homes who are merely dressed as celebrities, hmmmm? Once in Venice we were welcomed with a more familiar atmosphere of the homeless, street performers, sidewalk artists, and tourons. (See Reese’s collection of amalgamated words) We covered the entire strip, popping into the countless t-shirt shops and tattoo shops. Simon tickled my funny bone by pronouncing words much differently than I the Yank would. He ordered his Middle Eastern lunch as a falafel pita with the accent on the first syllable of falafel and short ‘a’s, and a short ‘i’ sound in pita. Soon after Simon’s exquisite artwork purchase and a brief it’s a small world chat about a mutual friend that he and the artist shared from overseas, and we were ever ready to return to Fog City.

Reese’s Top Five from L.A.

5. Simon is completely disgusted by watching someone vomit and day old wet swimming trunks that have been incubating in the sun in the back of the Jeep.

4. Gordy is obsessed with silicon breasts

3. To blend in while in L.A., always have a look on your face as if you’ve just smelled something really foul.

2. There are no grocery stores in L.A.

1. Motel 6 does not offer the following amenities: an iron, an in-room coffee maker, any sort of view, a friendly parking attendant, a pool, an iron, competent reservations staff, complimentary coffee/hot water after 9a.m., mini fridge, microwave, those cute little bottles of hair care and lotion, an iron, continental breakfast, laundry service, shuttle service, porters, a hot tub, room service, or an iron.