It Ain't Me, Babe

I'm still in Los Angeles recovering from a party last night in the Hollywood Hills that seemed to be directed by David Lynch to the soundtrack of Bob Dylan's song "It Ain't Me Babe." While I have been having a great time on the West Coast, last night's party has left me feeling emotionally confused, uptight and a self-righteous genius. In theory, the party scene should have been exhilarating. The house was located next to the famous Hollywood sign and had a remarkable view. The host was some British set designer and the crowd was a mixed bag of wannabes, artsy types, drug addicts and poorly dressed women. I had a least 10 people tell me that they had a deal "in development" or that they "directed" a short film that I never heard of. I also had a lot of people offer me drugs that I never heard of and ask me for my card when I said that I lived in New York. Some dude told me that he actually wrote the movie "Crash" but that he didn't get credit for it but that he considers the Oscar all his. One fucked up guy wearing a pin-stripe suit with no shirt came up to me and asked me my name. I told him and then politely asked his name. He responded, "Toilet" and I didn't know what to say, so I just went all Robert Blake on him and responded, "I'm in your house." Some old woman over the age of 65 told me that you should never start taking drugs until you are after the age of 60. Then she hugged me. I don't like being touched my strangers. Part of the theme of the party surrounded a "drum circle" where drugged out people banged on bongos around a fire pit until 4AM. Perhaps I'm a sophisticated New Yorker, but let me tell you, drum circles suck and are the most pretentious stupid party gimmick ever. The worst part is that I was there with a date who completely abandoned me upon arriving leaving me cold and bored and left to my own devices. I did, however, learn that if I lived here, I would have no trouble picking up men as the boys out west are very easy but I'm classy so I asked my date to take me home, and he refused saying that he was having fun and that he wanted to stay. I responded that I was cold and bored and tired and didn't appreciate being tortured. He finally looked me in the eye very seriously and said, "You just don't get it." And today, I'm quite relieved that I don't get "it" and frankly, I never will.