“So yeah, I wear them for like a day or so and then take them off, and put them straight in a ziplock bag.” He says. “For an extra forty bucks I jizz on them.”
I’m drinking wine in someone’s flat. On the shelves are rolls of twenty dollar bills, piles of euros, stacks of change. He is a good looking guy. He’s an Olympian. He’s six foot one. Right now he’s going through a tricky patch. When I express skepticism he goes into his room and emerges with a ziplock bag with pants in it.
“Here, you see. That’s $120 bucks right there in that bag. I leave them in the sun to cook. I like to add value. I could open it if you like.” “NO.”
People in this town find all sorts of ways to make money. It helps me realise how anything can be a commodity if you sell it right. I’m not sure if I’m impressed or horrified. I have more wine, and notice that there are little capsules scattered liberally around the flat with white powder in them. On every surface. “Dude, is that coke?” “Yeah, I like to keep it in sight. It cheers me up.”
This sort of interaction is more commonplace in this town than you might imagine. Perhaps it’s the circles I travel in. I do prefer the company of relatively extreme personalities. And this same guy rents his sofa on Airbnb successfully, all the time, in his crazy boho flat. It’s something to think about. I wouldn’t do the pants thing, rest assured. But the sofa thing? As soon as I get back to London.
This has been such a California day. We went to the beach again, this time with no fog. And almost immediately got both sunburn and sunstroke because there is just no ozone here. In order to try and solve it I went to Fatburger. By the time evening came around I wanted to do something English. Perfect opportunity arose as there are some old drama school people here in town bringing their Rock n Roll Twelfth Night celebration joy joy joy show to the Wallis Annenberg Theatre in Beverley Hills. Filter. TwelfthnNight. I’ve managed to go 11 years and numerous friends without seeing it. Now is my chance. I sit with a huge pile of geriatric millionaires who have come to approve of lovely traditional English Shakespeare. It’s bloody great but it ain’t traditional. It’s a party on a stage. I even get a free slice of pizza. The show has been going for eleven years and it’s the first time I’ve seen it. It’s exactly the sort of thing I like to make, a theatre party where the story is told and the audience is involved. But this audience is a tricky one. One of the actors strips down to his pants and a whole row walks out simultaneously. I’m loving it, but I am friends with the sort of people that sell jizzy pants on the internet.
I’m writing this in the bar after the show as I am late but driving people in exchange for a beer. One of my guys is smoking so I am dashing this out super speed. I’ve hit 500 words so it’s back to the party and I hate to sell you short but this is stream of consciousness and I’m not editing. If anyone wants some Olympic jizzy pants, I now know a guy…
Don’t all shout at once.
(Edit: I did have to edit as Facebook was forcing an update so didn’t post the link properly. Here is a photo of the fluffy pink tiger I won on Santa Monica Pier in my first week. My constant companion.