So we went to Club LAX for a Tuesday night party sponsored by Sony Playstation (among others) for snowboarding gold medalist, Shaun White. Our friend Donna from Playstation introduced us to him and I asked him to bless the baby boy with “good tricks for life.” He put his hands upon Caro’s belly and made the blessing. He’s been blessed by The Flying Tomato.
In my camera phone picture above, that’s Tony Hawk sitting at a table in the VIP section – in the black part you can’t see. Trust me, he’s there.
Olympic gold. Pretty cool.
[This one's for Jenny back in RVA: "gooooolllddd meeedaaaallllll!!!"]
Tacos. At a car wash. Washed down with a Coca-Cola. Did I mention how much I’m loving life in LA these days? Grabbed a quick lunch after getting a haircut and a shave at Andy’s Barbershop (winner of last year’s LA Weekly award for best straight-edge razor shave in the city). If you check it out, ask for Todd. He’s the barber who has a pencil moustache and looks a little bit like John Waters.
So this is my guilty Friday habit, but what I think is one of the best co-habitating food establishments of all time. A Coffee Bean & Tea and a McDonalds in the same building. I can get a decent coffee and a Sausage Biscuit with Egg in the same location. And sit outside in the sun. In February. And it’s down the street from my house. I love LA.
And I love having willpower and self-control. Because without it I would be a 1,000 lard-ass with a liver like foie gras, because I’d be eating at Mcdonald’s all the time. Some people are addicted to crystal meth. I’m addicted to special sauce on Big Macs.
So here’s the rundown on last night’s LAAAA Leader of the Year award dinner at the very posh Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel last night.
Rick Carpenter, president of DDB Los Angeles, who was kind enough to invite me in the first place, must have some great pull because as you can see, we were right up in front of the podium. And he was the first dude at any table to order up wine, so we were sipping the cabernet when the fools at the cash bar were still trying to get served in the bar mob. Way to go, Rick.
Second, I got a great view of uber-creative director of all time Lee Clow. If you don’t know him, you know his work as he is the creative brain behind some of the most memorable ad campaigns of all time. Like everything Apple ever did, including the 1984 Macintosh launch campaign. So he pops out on stage to honor his executive creative director, Rob Schwartz, with a wicked black surfboard being carried on stage by a blonde with big boobs in a bikini. Tacky and weird, but I don’t know the dude and he seemed okay with it and no one is going to tell Lee Clow not to do what he wants. So there. Speeches dragged on a little long, and as it went on-and-on I realized that the up front seat was preventing me from getting up mid-speech and stealing my way out. Rob thanked everyone for coming and putting up with the crappy chicken, but I actually thought the chicken was pretty fucking good. Oh yeah, Rob Schwartz has done a bunch of stuff like Nissan, and I guess Ball Park Franks, so while Lee droned on I kept singing “they plump when you cook ‘em ball park franks” in my head while looking at the blonde’s boobs. Maybe that’s was meant to be the undermining message; Lee’s a genius, so they say.
Third, I looked damn good in my tux, and I kicked it up a notch by wearing my black-on-black Vans.
Thomas and Alexandre prep for the MAGIC show in Vegas this week. As the preview magazine for the buyers reads, “this detail focussed brand of streetwear has a cult-like following among L.A. hipsters.” The stuff is cool Alex, the bastard, told me I had to buy one of them at Fred Segal (okay, so he needs the sale).
‘yotrythis’ is an anagram, of sorts, of the word ‘history.’ The website is still under construction – or so they say.
Mmm-mmm-mmm. Nothing will get your morning commute off to a great start, like the delicious bodega offering known as the “humberger.” Shot from my car while sitting in traffic trying to get on the 10, La Cienega Boulevard.
This isn’t even where the shit in LA ends up. It’s where the shit starts out. Had to make a trip to the waste processing facility in Sun Valley. Sun Valley sounds pleasant enough, but it’s a massive industrial zone of waste and recycling processing and auto strip shops and junk yards. It took us a while to figure out where the hell to take the truckload of garbage we pulled out of our garage, most of which was from our house’s original owner. The LA Department of Sanitation web site totally blows, and it was an hours worth of web searches, phone calls, and arguing with my wife to figure out where to go, and even there I wasn’t sure of the process. You drive to the facility on a number of side streets, get your vehicle and all the garbage weighed, pay $45 minimum up to the first ton of crap, and then drive right up to a processing yard where you back the pickup right up to a pile of garbage and then just throw your shit onto the pile. It’s then moved to a larger pile, and then eventually gets picked up by giant cranes and is ground up and loaded into trucks and taken to a landfill – God only knows where that is. It was an urban adventure of the sort I’ve never experienced, and one of those things that once you’ve figured it out, is an extremely useful tidbit of information.
I did remember to bring work gloves to unload my trash, but I failed to bring a dust mask. I was the only guy unloading my shit who didn’t have one, which wasn’t a good sign. The mega-pile of shit was being hosed down by a giant crane, but there was still enough dust (and whatever other toxins were likely carried in the air) floating around to dry out my nostrils and throat. I’d never been more eager to take a shower in my entire life.
Poolside at the William Morris Grammys party. All the celebs were at the record label parties, so the only “celeb” I recognized was Charo. That’s right, Charo, who I remember only from the hit tv series The Love Boat. Charo and a whole Mullholland Drive mansion full of beautiful people. They had good miniature cheeseburgers and minature chinese take-out boxes with noodles.
I’m sitting on the bed. Caro is trying on an endless array of clothing and is feeling frustrated that her pregnant body is interfering with her ability to pull of her choice outfits.
It’s an important get-dressed-right evening as we are going to the William Morris Agency post-Grammys party somewhere up in Coldwater Canyon. Caro is friends with an agent who is married to a musician who is the son of a deceased mega-star musician. So we’re invited.
We live in Los Angeles and get to go to all kinds of crazy fun parties, and I know I should be a little grateful for that, but tonight I’m not particularly feeling it, which is pissing Caro off because she’s making an effort to go out and enjoy these things before she’s so pregnant or we have a new baby and we can’t make it to these kinds of events easily. She’s right, so I’m going to stop pouting and put on my nice black shirt, jeans and sharkskin blazer and dammit, I’m going to go rub elbows and have a drink with someone famous. Or I’ll stand in the middle of the crowd speaking to no one – like I usually end up doing – just staring at people and wondering what the hell I’m doing up on in the hills at a Grammy party with a bunch of agents with nice cars and nicer teeth.
I hope they have shrimp. Watching the famous and semi-famous and quasi-famous eat shrimp. . . now that’s good fun.
Fun in Iran in just two words.