One small, minuscule thing about LA I like is ‘Agent Provocateur’. What’s even better; spending someone else’s money there. I’ve been on my own this week as my big poppa/sugar daddy/millionaire match/cliché money maker male partner has been busy.


Although he did hire a car for me to hit all the hotspots these last few days in style, Westwood (boring), Malibu (never felt so pale and overfed and I’m a size 2), Rodeo Drive (WASPY dreadful style), Melrose Ave. (Kitchen is so…kitch) and countless night clubs that don’t need to be mentioned. I see now why New Yorkers make fun of this fantastic plastic land.


No one was particularly nice or friendly, except when they saw me exit my limo. Perhaps my shit attitude reflected in my clothes; black leather pants, black blazer over a blood red corset, motorcycle boots, no purse. I hate purses, women get upset when they don’t see other women carrying a purse because they can’t size you up, see how much your worth, if you have a designer or knock off. Pitty. I just let them guess.


The most interesting thing happened when I lunched by myself (which is unheard of I suppose by all the pity glances I got) and was reading when a drunkard at the bar interrupted by peace and quiet by acting like a belligerent fool. As he made his scene, no doubt for our benefit since he was slightly famous (think shit MTV show), I stuck my foot out ever so slightly to catch his shoe as he stormed out of the restaurant. He caught it and slammed down face first into the floor. I turned the page. Alas, my peace and quiet was back.


Hopefully we leave soon.