La La La: An L.A. Experience

I saw the frontman for the Black Crowes getting off a plane from San Francisco, which would be the plane I would take to LA. He had airplane hair and a hot pink sweatshirt. Seemed affable. I'd have said hello, but he was talking to someone from the airline.

I got my own row on the flight; still seemed impossible to get comfortable, even with two pillows and two blankets and two seats. Lots of turbulence and the pilot killing my ears, looking for clear air.

So off the plane at LAX. I pass an outdoor waiting room full of smiling, chatting travelers basking in sunshine. My bag first one off and Dollar shuttle arrives.

They charge me three times the quote at Dollar and give me a hassle about using my middle name and not having ID that shows both names. (Later the cashier at Virgin gives me the same problem, but explains that they check because there are so many scams in L.A.) But Dollar Lady is very nice and expresses awe and envy at how I keep my hair so straight, as she can see by my license that there is a natural curl to it. So she gives me a very bad map and off I go to Santa Monica.

Traffic is unbelievable, but I do find parking. I'm impressed by how well manicured the Santa Monica McDonald's lawn is. Everything at McDonald's is 99 cents or less. The Sears is right out of 1952. The school buses look vintage 50s as well. Beautiful seaside park.

L.A. is underwhelming. It's like a spread-out Brooklyn. Expecting glitz and glamour, I'm seeing Denny's and auto repair shops. Regretting not having gone to Miami.

My hotel, the Standard, is groovy; retro decor. Everyone working there is under 23. My room is not ready yet and there is great unconcern about it. I'm told that the people in my room have not checked out yet. (It is after 2 and checkout is at 10.) There is no effort to check on the progress of the current occupants, nor to upgrade me to another room, and I am dismissed.

I am mystified by the many cafes with outdoor seating hard by the unbelievable traffic. People sit facing the traffic. Perhaps it makes them happy to watch it, knowing they are not sitting in it at the moment. Or maybe they really like the traffic, and never want to be too far from it.

Room is finally ready. Has a balcony with a view, two silver beanbag chairs and a CD player. Have a drink at the pool. An actor recites his resume to me, then performs his poems for me, which are surprisingly good.

Next morning, a bagel in the hotel restaurant disguised as a coffee shop. Pleasantly surprised, as it is a real bagel and I thought they could not be had in L.A. Bonus: they serve Nutella with it.

Drive to South Venice Beach. Pristine beach with a pier. This is south of all the "stuff" in the main section of Venice. It is a different universe; only a mile away. Lots of money; extraordinary beachfront homes. Also, a canal that they traverse with their little rowboats. At the end of the canal, the Venetians have set up a small preserve, hosting all manner of goofy-looking birds. Some are so thin they can only be seen from their side view.

The Starbucks on the main road is the center of excitement in this town. Two round-faced twins in a stroller generate a lot of interest.

Back at the hotel, the troops are moving in. They are setting up for a press junket for the movie Blow. They have so much electronic equipment and other crap they've about blocked the elevator. I ask the PA, "Have you got enough stuff?" They set up Johnny Depp's interview room two doors down from me, and Paul Reubens' around the corner. They post a security guard on my hall; more to secure all their stuff than to secure Johnny Depp. Press conference in the lobby. Jabbering press everywhere.

Poolside, I eavesdrop on namedroppers. Harrison this and Harrison that. Strikes me that in New York money is the topic, while in L.A. celebrity is.

Next morning I walk off breakfast on the Sunset Strip and stop for a coffee. Ask for decaf and they want to take my name. Ask if regular would be any quicker and am told, "No."

I go to pick up Diane at the airport. I'm told her plane left Colorado Springs late and I say, "So what you're telling me is that she'll be in a bad mood." I'm told "Yes." But she's fine, very cute and quite blonde; it's great to see her. We attempt the freeway, but traffic is unbelievable.

Finally back at the hotel, we chat and catch up. Reserve for dinner at Asia de Cuba in the Mondrian, and spend the interim at Bar Marmont. The crossdressed host is very tall, decked out as a 50s Hollywood glamourpuss. Chinese ginger candies at the bar make one guy cry as he chomps down a whole one. "Just like a guy," I tell him as I take a nibble. Tangy. The trendy blonde next to us is Laura and she's Scottish. She walks to the Mondrian with us, as she's heading to their Skybar, but she's concerned she won't get in. I'm thinking?if they don't let leggy trendy blondes in, who do they let in?

Our meal at Asia de Cuba is scrumdillyicious. Especially the salad of calamari marinated in something peanutty with chunks of banana. Sooooo good. Diane orders a heavenly concoction called an espresso martini.

Later, at Skybar, we meet some locals. One tends bar across the street. They say, "We've been coming here for five years and this is the first time we've gotten in. How did you guys get in here?" I open Di's jacket to reveal her well-filled-out halter top. "That's how." They take some pix with us on their digital camera. They show us some pix they took earlier and Laura is in them. She spots us and brings me an apple martini. When in L.A.?

We meet an Irish lawyer from San Francisco and then some cute boys from San Diego. The lawyer mutters something about this being "a fucking chess game" as he can't figure out if I'm smitten by him or by Mitch from San Diego. They all come back to the Standard, but the San Diegans have parking problems. The lawyer whips out a $50 to pay for our pie and coffee, but we won't let him.

Next day we check out some vintage shops on Melrose. See lots of velvet Pucci and a gorgeous pink and black Pucci bag, but it is too much bag for me.

Go to Felt for dinner and the place is totally gay. We talk to Chuck and Eric at the bar, both transplants. They are soooo...nice to us. They tell us to eat brunch outside at the Ivy at 1 o'clock for the true L.A. experience. They also decide that I look like Eric's sister, and insist that we both kiss them goodbye when our table is ready.

After-dinner drink at Skybar, but Diane is fading. We meet two Scots who say they're working for the Scientologists. The look on my face must be something, as they spend the next 20 minutes swearing they're not themselves Scientologists. I somehow bump into the cuter one, knocking his drink onto his shoes. Amid protests, I go to the bar to get another. A handsome blond named Rob waylays me: "Well, if you spilled my drink on my shoes, I wouldn't make you replace it." After getting the Scot back his drink, we say goodnight, as Diane is sleepwalking. One Scot shoves the other: "It was the Scientology!"

At the Ivy, everyone knew one another. They stood around drinking gimlets. I saw a man polishing off an impossibly large crab salad, to which I pointed when ordering. We sat next to an actress with a couple of screenwriters who discussed projects and plot points, as the actress attempted to read five pages of treatment in two hours. The writers ignored her completely and she had not much to say to them, except for a two-minute story about how she and her personal trainer got really drunk at a bar and were asked to leave. She was about as perfect-looking as one could be, and the writers?well, you couldn't be much uglier.

That night at Skybar, the doorman once again pretended to check our names off his "guest list" (for the benefit of those waiting to get in?) and once again asked, "Just you two?" I didn't answer, "Just us and our 10 loser friends who are hiding around the corner." More pictures with more guys with digital cameras. We're told Alec Baldwin was at Asia de Cuba the first night we ate there, Ben Stiller had been there while we were eating there this same evening and Ray Liotta had been trying to bum a cigarette in the lobby of our hotel. We must be blind! Or, more likely, extremely self-involved. One local tells us of his celebrity sighting: Kiefer Sutherland arguing with a parking valet, saying, "But I don't have a dollar!"

Next day we take PCH up to Malibu Beach. Glorious. Many black-clad surfers waiting and waiting and waiting for a wave. A seal ambles to and fro, making the surfers look slow and clumsy.

That evening, I ask Diane to order me a Sunset martini poolside while I change. When I get downstairs, the lights go out. A waiter says, "Rolling blackout! Nobody panic!" I had skipped lunch, so I want food with my martini, but they won't serve during the blackout. They pass out different-colored glowsticks?mine's pink. We head to a cafe on the Strip and sit outside. Next to us, an Italian man sketches two faces kissing and uses his espresso to color the eyes. The waiter calls him "The Master." The Master tells us he is giving the sketch to an Irish actor (with whom I'm in love) who is sitting inside the cafe. Well, after a Sunset martini and no lunch, I was unable to stop myself from walking over to him, and he couldn't have been nicer to me. Swoon!

On to karaoke at the Cat Club. They sign me up twice. I was afraid they'd pick what I had to sing, but I got to pick (Go-Go's and Blondie, natch). Lots of young hipsters who could actually sing. At the next table a drummer and a guy from Paramount who admired my glowstick.

You will be shocked to know that we did not attend Skybar this evening.

Last day, up way too early to drop Di at the airport. Traffic was unbelievable. Spent the day seaside, where I saw an array of swooping birds and another cavorting seal. Changed at the airport and finally got to read that huge W I'd been schlepping around, which turned out to have some nice pix of my crush, the Irish actor.