Christmas Spirit

Need to know Who's Who?

Waking up to 10 inches of snow on the ground, I can finally say 'tis the season.

I'm a bit of a traditionalist when it comes to weather. Winter should be cold and full of snow and mulled wine (but like in those old Doris Day movies it shouldn't hamper you from your daily routine), Summer should be full of sun and cold beer (but not 3 showers a day and sweat patches), Autumn should be rich with earthy, warming colours on the trees, hot chocolate and cake (although I don't really like hot chocolate), and Spring full of whatever those flowers are whose smell reminds me of Easter (daffodils, I think) and tea with lemon.

I love Christmas. I love the commerciality of it (sorry). But the slushy movies, the Christmas music, the lights, the food, the atmosphere...it sparks of fun and mischief and excitement. Naturally I mean it speaks of all of those things before you head home to family for the holidays.

This last week I have spent in New York before flying back to Blighty has seemed uncharacteristically un-Christmassy, however.

By rights it should have been the perfect send off week what with events every night.

The Batten was in town with her new bf and it was lovely seeing her and meeting him but somehow our antics tired me out more than usual.

There was Prince CHARming and The Contessa's Xmas party in their fabulous abode. Despite the fact I am mildly annoyed with him for not even remembering I had bought them a wedding present (which presumably explains why I never got a thank you card but not why I never got an invite to the wedding in the first place), it which was great fun and of course the newlyweds looked radiant in both mood and style.

Lots of my favourite people were in attendance including Lord In Law, M. Butterflee and even Miss Jones but in the back of my mind was always the thought that I had to leave to meet Catie Kouric to go to a Toys for Tots party thrown by my de la mer Dealer.

We went to Dealer's party to find all the booze had run out. I forced KROSS Kourt to make it there only to leave before he arrived.

I think by this number of events, drinking to excess followed by a late night snack (invariably a big cheeseburger) had started to take it's toll. Illness prevailed and prevented me from enjoying nights out, or even from wanting to go.

Nevertheless I soldiered on. There was the tennis club holiday party I dragged myself to, hot and sweating with the onset of fever - nice.

There was carol singing at church with Queenie. I had told her I wanted to get in the Christmas spirit with yuletide tunes so she found a place for us to carol sing in a church. I had actually meant I wanted to hear Jingle Bells etc sung by some folks perhaps dressed in holiday attire rather than be one of the singers in church.

Yet, unbeknownst to her, Queenie had managed to get me more in the spirit than she knew. It instantly transported me back to being a very small boy involved in my school's Christmas function at church. Being one of the passage readers and realising, as I started reciting, that everyone there was hanging on my every word and that my delivery even at that tender age was good, was what started me feeling I wanted a job where I could do that all the time (I still live in hope).

I could remember the lights. the candles, the music from all those years ago. Although, in the church on Madison Avenue we started singing O Little Town of Bethlehem and Away in A Manger, I had no idea what was going on. I had no idea the music for those hymns is different in the States than in the UK.

There was Catie Kouric's birthday celebration, which in his inimitable style had three parts to it. I went for part 1 and a bit of 2 but was not quite my normal self to indulge in it full force.

Then there was my annual fancy outing with Lovely Lady MEDley where she picks up the tickets and I the bar tab. One Christmas we went to see Eartha. This year was Michael Feinstein and David Hyde Pierce performing some cabaret at Fensitein's theater. This is old school stuff: a grand piano set in a drawing room with small tables set around to make the setting intimate. We sat at a high table near the wall and enjoyed our Johnnie Walker and Prosecco as the duo sang Mercer, Gershwin and others. Fabulous.

And then I spent the rest of the weekend in bed. I messaged KROSS Kourt:
'It's my last Saturday night of the year in New York and I'm ill at home watching The Golden Girls!' (Luckily, I never get tired of The Golden Girls).

It must be said that even as I lay sputtering in bed my thoughts did not run to whether I had swine flu or should I go to the doctor but how was going to get to Zara to:
'Buy... those nice winter boots....must....find....my size (cough cough)..before it's... too...late.'

But with only Chicktoria Beckham to hear such things it's unlikely that if they were to be final wishes of a sort that they would be fulfilled.

And today? As I write, refreshed from marathon sleep sessions, the snow falls in flurries by my window and it not only feels like Christmas spirit is in the air but when I look back on the whirlwind week packed with festivities I realise it has been there the whole time.

Tonight I go to the New York Gay Men's Chorus with Guncle Norman and his entourage and think I should dig out my fur collared Armani for the occasion. Tomorrow, it's another Toys for Tots party and Tuesday I make my journey back to Blighty where no doubt, in the folds of family, the spirit will continue to pour forth.

And it'll be Johnnie Walker Black label.

Ah, he always was my favourite Christmas spirit.

Where I get mercy f*cked (sort of)

Need to know Who's Who?

I am back to my old ways.

I'm attending as many gym classes as I can in an effort to keep the weight off. Unfortunately, this also means I am back to all my other old ways too.

Dinner = five glasses of wine at three different bars followed by a cheeseburger or Disco fries (my latest discovery! chips covered in two types of cheese and served with cheese sauce and gravy. How have I lived so far without this divine creation).

And, of course, things wouldn't be complete without me being asked to leave a bar would it? I had a rocking night with Southern Belle the other week where after a bar in Tribeca, drinks in her flat, Marquis (avoid) and The Standard bar, she insisted we go to Soho House.

'But I put my membership on hold,' I said.
'I'll get us in,' she assured me.

I discovered that 'getting us in' meant her standing at the reception desk at 3.30am telling me to give the security guard my name and membership number.

He told us to go on up to the bar.
'But I'm not an active member,' I hissed in the lift.
'Well, we're here aren't we?'

Of course the bar was closed because, you know, on a Thursday night no one in New York wants to go out after midnight, do they?

We cursed the House and the bar to the maitre d's disgust and in the lobby were given a finger wagging lecture by the security guard about lying.

I wanted to complete the school scene by saying, 'It wasn't my fault. She made me do it.' But I digress.

As a result of all this, I'm not the gym classes are working. Chicktoria Beckham has joined me in the new regime, although her methods are more in line with her namesake's. I came in exhausted after a spin class whereupon Chicktoria Beckham (purely out of spite, I'm sure) stared at me and then threw up on the living room floor.

Since I have not indulged in such behaviour for many years I can only surmise that she, while sitting in the window sill, learned this from watching the other cats out in the back yard who must suffer from the same mad body image issues as everyone else living in Chelsea.

If I needed further proof that weight loss must include sensible eating I got it the other night. I was heading out to meet my childhood friend, Croc, who was in town for work, when I spied my chocolate suede Cavalli coat in the cupboard.

'Hello, lover,' I said, silkily. 'I haven't had you in a while. Let's do it.'

You know how sometimes you take a lover to bed after you've just split up? Or you sleep with someone who doesn't meet your standards just because? Well, that's called a mercy f*ck, right?

My seductively issued tones to my coat were promptly followed by,
'Harumph. What's this? Can't...do...buttons...up. Huh? What? How?...'

After some persuading I finally managed to get my coat on me. But it clearly wasn't enjoying the experience.

I had just been mercy f*cked by my own piece of outerwear.

I thought only boyfriends made you feel that crap?

Hence, I have decided to get a trainer after Christmas. In the meantime I must spin for my life. And if fitting snugly back into my clothes doesn't provide enough motivation, I'll look to the spin instructor.

I've no idea if he'll provide added inspiration, I just like looking at him; he's gorgeous.

M. Butterflee and the long sofa

Need to know Who's Who?

As luck would have it, I commandeered a lovely sofa from the girl I bought the bookcase from. We have a lot in common and she is hilarious so she must have a blog name since she will be around for a while.

Here shall be known as M. Butterflee. A rising opera star she fled that stifling world for a life in finance akin to Ivana skiing her way out of Czechoslovakia and into the arms of Donald. Well, perhaps it wasn't quite that dramatic but when opera and finance are in the mix I must be allowed some license.

I organised the whole sofa move. Got the mover (not the mad one who talks to himself), sold my sofa to Catie Kouric, organised the pick up time etc etc and got all excited about the prospect of being able to lie full out on my new sofa with Chicktoria Beckham rather than having to fit onto my small one by arranging my limbs in the style of a dead body that has fallen from a roof onto the pavement.

The night before the move I had a sudden thought. What if I couldn't actually get the sofa through my door and down my hallway? I hurriedly emailed M. Butterflee to ask for the measurements and did a bit of measuring in my apartment only to become unconvinced I could make it work.

I messaged KROSS Court, to ask what he thought and to berate myself for not thinking about this earlier.
'Come on. Who thinks of these things?' he wrote reassuringly.
'My ex would have,' I replied.
'But you had a bad sex life,' came the response.
'True.'
'Well, there you go then.'

The next day on Monday I cancelled the move and made arrangements to see the sofa again that evening to take pictures and measurements.

On that Monday afternoon, I had a debrief meeting with a team I am leading for a new work initiative. One colleague was joining by phone. When the others arrived at my office (one of whom is my lovely friend Queenie), I said,
'Ah good, you're here. Now, I want to buy a sofa that is 90" long, 35" deep and 33" high. My hallway is 88" high and 33" wide. Do you think I will be able to get the new sofa into my apartment?'

Queenie set about scribbling maths workflow on a piece of paper while our colleague pondered the dilemma.

Meanwhile, our remote colleague messaged me to ask if we were still meeting, she was ready for us to call her. 'Yes, yes,' I typed back. 'Just give us 5 minutes or so.'

'It will work,' Queenie said, showing me her triangular diagrams. 'Look, if this is the hypotenuse, then the square root of this angle is 50". Although, it has been a while since Ive done Pythagorean calculations.'

I nodded slowly with my brow furrowed (which I do when I want it to appear I understand what someone is saying).

We dialled our waiting colleague.
'Sorry we're late,' I said, without offering any explanation. 'We have five minutes left to the end of the meeting. Shall we discuss?'

M. Butterflee loved the fact I had outsourced our dilemma to cope with our obvious ineptitude in this area. Although, truth be told, this was tame by comparison to other acts.

I once had a direct report based in Spain ship me a coat from Zara which I couldn't find anywhere in the UK.
'But how will I get it to you?' she asked.
'Send it via internal mail, of course.'

When the coat arrived and I found it to be the wrong one, I was distraught (I lacked maturity about clothing then). If memory serves me correctly I ended up finding the right one on a holiday weekend in Budapest. But I digress.

It's just as well I sought help from others. M. Butterflee had estimated the angle of the top of the back of the sofa to the edge of the arm as 90" - which is the length of it.
'That can't be right, can it?' she asked.

Her BF had told her the measurements weren't altogether important because I'd be pivoting the sofa into my apartment.
'Do you know what he means by that?' M. Butterflee asked me, but all I could think of was that episode of Friends where Chandler and Rachel are helping Ross move a sofa up the stairs and Ross keeps screaming at them to 'Pivot, pivot, PIVOT!!!'
'Not really,' I replied. 'Oh dear, we're a bit Laurel and Hardy, aren't we?'

That evening I went over to take some pics and measurements. We chattered away, engaging in exposition.
'So how did you get into your current job?' she asked.
'Well,' I began, as I sat on the floor unscrewing the feet from the sofa, 'When I was five years old I wanted to be either a tennis player or an actor.'

Ten minutes later I had just got to my first year at university when I had to stop.
'Sorry, what was your original question again?''

She claimed to be interested but she may well have been texting people for help from her spot behind the kitchen counter for all I know.

All ended well, of course. Queenie's Pythagorean calculations proved correct (as if there was any doubt), and, naturally as soon as the sofa was arranged in my abode I wondered if I really like it after all.

Turns out I do, and so does CB.

M. Butterflee and I had decided our new found friendship should be cemented with the firmest, most reliable building blocks: red wine and banter.

Morrell's wine bar, copious amounts of heavy red wine, a cocktail and much interesting and banterous dialogue later, I think we have a good grounding for friendship.

Unless my sofa collapses.

Holiday Spirit

Need to know Who's Who?

Thanksgiving was a low key affair this year which was exactly as I wanted it. Of course there were invites to other dos. Catie Kouric was having his usual potluck affair which was excellent fun last year and my great good friend Mr McDreamy is always telling me I should accompany him and the beautiful Mrs McDreamy to the McDreamy family home for the holidays as he is convinced his father would really like me.

However, I have been spending time making my place somewhere I really enjoy spending time so I wanted to enjoy holidays as they are meant to be enjoyed. Lazing around surrounded by mountains of food and watching bad telly.

Yours Truly and I had decided to spend it together. We cooked up a veritable feast of roast chicken (his grandma's secret recipe which as far as I could gather included basting the thing in a tub of butter and canola oil), mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, stuffing and vegetables. By the time the main stuff was ready I simply couldn't be arsed to make any vegetables, however.

There was celery. (Which I had fried and mixed into the stuffing.)

After a day's eating and napping, I spent the rest of the holidays trying to convince myself to be productive while lying on the sofa watching bad movies. There was Ice Spiders about genetically modified, large Arctic spiders who terrorise a team of Olympic skiers. This type of bad film is like eating not very good chips. They may be bad but they are still chips and they have to be REALLY BAD for me to stop eating them. Ice Spiders was the equivalent of REALLY BAD chips and REALLY BAD mayonnaise.

Then there was a slew of Christmas movies on Lifetime or as it's known during the Yuletide season Falalala Lifetime. (I do wonder if the announcers get embarrassed having to constantly say 'Next on Falalala Lifetime!').

These types of Christmas movies are almost always about a person or town that is suffering or has suffered some tragedy which has caused him/her/it to lose his/her/its faith in Christmas. Throw in:

• Either someone equally bereft of Christmas spirit (usually a female workaholic who is unmarried and, therefore, pitied by her family and friends. If this is a man he is usually a widower workaholic with two young kids who only wish he would realise that even tho mummy is gone they are still there) and who when faced with the sad person or town realises Life and Christmas are wonderful and makes the person or town realise it too (if person, she will marry him, if town she will marry the only single man in it who happens to be gorgeous, rich and very Christmassy, if widower he will marry the work colleague who has always loved him from the shadows).
• OR someone who has an overabundance of Christmas spirit (usually a young child who is either dying but ok about it, or is deprived of love and affection) and who through their trial engage in selfless acts that make the town rally together to bring Christmas Spirit home and either find a cure for the sick child, or rekindle the parental relationship of the love deprived child.

All of them are guaranteed to bring a tear to your eye at some point, even though it may the most awful thing you have ever seen (this assumes you have not seen Ice Spiders).

I had coffee with Guncles Norman and Guy in the village - both of whom are looking trimmer and more fresh-faced every time I see them - where we caught up over lattes and cappuccinos while sitting next to Glenn Close whose versatility and talent make her one of my favourite actresses. She looks incredible for sixty something. (Guncle Guy is convinced she has had work done.)

When I told them I had chores in store for the rest of the day, Guncle Norman said to me,
'This may be too personal a question but do you like doing household chores? I mean, you can afford a cleaner.'
'Oh god, I hate cleaning,' I replied. 'I do have a cleaner. By chores I meant walk round the shops, buy a tree that kind of thing.'

I berated myself for not being more productive (while lying on my sofa watching more Lifetime) but when I thought about it, I cooked up a Thanksgiving feast, I caught up with friends I've not seen for a while, I bought a tree, I found and booked a (relatively) cheap flight back to London for Xmas, I secured a few new pieces for my flat and I resisted spending money in the sales (well, one pair of heavily reduced shoes doesn't really count).

So all in all it was actually a rather productive holiday.

Next year, though, I may join Mr and Mrs McDreamy and their cute McDreamy junior and experience a proper family Thanksgiving in another town. And who knows, perhaps I will meet the one (devastatingly handsome and rich) townsman who through some tragedy has stopped believing in the Holiday Spirit and is simply, unknowingly waiting for me to rekindle the love and hope in his heart.

Poor bastard.

The ties that bind

Need to know Who's Who?

My trip to Texas and California was fun and, truth be told, some time in LA had re-energised me somewhat but I'd be lying if I said by the end of it I wasn't aching to get back to New York.

Prior to leaving I had left my flat in a state of disarray. Clothes strewn all over the dining room, bills tossed across the kitchen counter, dirty laundry and half read books on my bedroom floor...a lack of space and storage was starting to get on my nerves.

While in LA, with time to think, I developed a determination about getting things in order in the hope that doing so will help me feel more centered and productive (and perhaps even ensnare an a unsuspecting man).

I noticed this determination abounded with an accompanied feeling of calm ease, of simply 'knowing' that when I decided what was to be done, so it shall be. I think the California attitude and sunshine does that to you. Perhaps it burns out all of your cynicism and lethargy or something.

My list included: join a gym and start a new routine, find a nice dresser for my clothes, find a bookcase, find a date with someone who looks like Matt Bomer from White Collar etc.

On the plane back to JFK I got chatting to a film producer who was flying in to direct a video for a heavy metal band. I pitched him my screenplay (another energised to do on my list) which he didn't exactly fall over himself to buy or even read but he did ask me if I'd be interested in doing some rewrites for a smaller budget film he's working on starring Judge Reinhold. All without knowing whether I have any credentials.

Of course I said I would, and if this had been ten years ago and I'd been in LA I might even have gotten overexcited about this 'possibility', but I was back in New York now and this is a city of empiricists. We're ShowMeTheMoney kind of people.

We decided to share a cab into the city and while I was at the ATM he was commandeered by a black cab guy. I never use those guys but he offered us a cheap deal for two stops and everyone loves a bargain, right?

Ah New York drivers.

They have one hand on the wheel and one on their cell phone, oblivious to the dangerous swerving of the vehicle that occurs as a result. They're operating under their own agenda: blasting air conditioning because that's what they want, taking the cheapest route because that's what they want, changing the route because that's what they want:

'I'm not sitting in this traffic all night,' the driver said when he got off his phone. 'I gotta get to my salsa party. We gotta take the toll. You gotta pay. That ok? You don't mind if I go fast, right? How do I get to West 15th?'

We weren't basking in California sunshine anymore where my friendly taxi driver dutifully waited for me at each gay bar 'just in case I wanted to go somewhere else'.

'Don't go fast. I don't want to get killed on the way home. I already told you the toll is fine. And, west 15th runs west so go up 7th until you can take a left on 15th and go all the way down til I tell you to stop,' I sighed irritably with a 'Why don't you know that?' under my breath.
'And how do I turn the airconditioning off? It's freezing back here.'

The weekend started by catching up over sushi with MonogaMouse who's also been away, and then on to the list.

I found a dresser on craigslist that was essentially free, I just had to pay the guy to deliver it for me. The idea of going to Bushwick to check it out didn't exactly appeal, especially since I wasn't even sure where that was. Then the guy called and offered to pick me up and drive me to Bushwick to check it out and then bring it straight back if I was interested. Easy peasy.

He was kind of odd in that he talked incessantly in a low voice which I could hardly hear. You know in that sort of New-York- has- turned-me-slightly-crazy way. In five minutes I knew he had moved here from Berlin seven years ago, he had two brothers who also lived here, he had a son whose mother was a 'junkie waste of space', he had hurt is back moving a sofabed for another client 'which was all that guy's fault' and that he had come to the conclusion that 'jerking off is better than marriage.'

'Hmmm,' I replied to that last part. 'Sorry, what did you say the dimensions of the dresser were again?'

The next day a bookcase was located in Midtown West. I had exchanged some emails with the girl selling it. You can tell whether you're going to get on with someone by their emails, can't you? When I got there we started chatting, finding common ground.
'Oh you have Middlesex did you like it? You have the most adorable dog.'
'A friend of mine worked for your company.'

And, of course, the most effective binding material of all: reality telly.

'Reality tv really is sooo irresponsible to me,' I harped pretentiously, while New Jersey housewives played in the background. 'I mean, people watch it and think that's an appropriate way to act.'
'Yes,' she agreed, carefully. 'It's awful to think that people aspire to be like the ones on these shows.'
'Oh great!!' I cried, suddenly transfixed. 'This is the part where that woman throws the table over at her own dinner party and calls everyone a whore. It's my favourite bit.'

Over the course of the next few days we've exchanged extremely amusing emails.
'I have a sort of board meeting tonight over dinner,' I wrote. 'Shall I do a New Jersey housewife and throw the table whilst calling everyone a whore?'
'I believe it's pronounced "prostitution whore"?' came the reply. 'Regardless, I think that will go over swimmingly. I usually yell out something similar or throw a glass of water in someone's face during any awkward silence or lull in conversation. Fixes it right up.'

I'm going to have to think of a blog name for this girl.

Gym joined, dresser and bookcase in my apartment, clothes reorganised, papers put away, bedroom tidied meant I only had the date with the Matt Bomer lookalike and my screenplay left on my energised agenda list.

As if by magic, Lovely Lady MEDley messaged me the next morning insisting I meet with her very attractive and single neighbour and asking when would I be free. I've no idea if he looks like Matt Bomer but I trust her judgement and it's a start isn't it?

While the screenplay is still in progress, in the two days of being back in NYC I incorporated the gym back into my life, organised my space so that it's somewhere I love to be, got annoyed by the taxi drivers, unwittingly discovered intimate information about a stranger, and made a potential new friend as a by product of buying a piece of her furniture.

God I love this city.

La bound - part 3: Endings

Need to know Who's Who?

It's with a sad heart that I report that on the last day of my visit in LA, QKofD called me to inform me that our friend Carl, Emperor Lu's XBF but to whom we remained close, lost his battle with cancer and passed away.

Towards the end he could neither speak nor walk but before it got to that stage he made sure to go to Harley Street and get botoxed so he'd look great going out. God love him.

At forty years of age, this man who had such a love of life, is gone.

When you lose someone you love it simply becomes something you learn to live with. You don't forget that person but you forget the breadth of interactions you had with them. Instead, you remember the way they said certain words, or you pinpoint their expressions during specific situations which brought out their happiest joys or their worst fears, and you picture the love they had in their eyes for you or others they held in their heart. And these things start to form the vision of that person.

At least that is how it is for me when I remember my dad. As I write that word I'm smilingly thinking how funny it is that I miss saying it. Now I no longer have the chance to vocalise those three little letters I realise how much pleasure it used to give me to say the word, although I didn't realise it at the time.

On my last day, my uncle had several medical appointments for treatment of his own cancer which is stable and operable. We planned to have dinner on the grill and enjoy the evening weather.

He returned in the afternoon and we set about cooking together, which is something we always do when I am there.
'Now come and sit down for a minute,' he said. His words and his tone instantly returned me to being a boy in front of my father who wanted to talk to me about my report card, or calmly explain to me why my behaviour had been inappropriate and how I should have acted differently.

'Are you afraid of me?' he asked.
'No! What makes you think that?' I replied laughing.
'[Your aunt] seems to think I'm too hard on you. And I feel like our interactions have been too combative.'

And I felt sad. Because it made me realise that while I viewed our relationship as humourous, banterous, and open, I must come across as argumentative and ungrateful.

I told him that.

'Look, you have to understand, I always look forward to seeing you when you come here,' he said. 'And I don't feel like we really spent much time together.'
'I agree but that's not all my fault.'
'It's not about whose fault it is. I'm telling you how I feel, that's all. You know you can talk to me about anything. I don't want you to not be open with me because I'm hard on you.'
'I argue with you because I feel close to you and feel able to talk to you openly.'

We continued talking while I mashed the potatoes, while he marinated the steak, while we smoked cigars in the back yard and drank whiskey and grilled meat and shrimp.

'You know, your father was my best friend. In college we were all kids but he was different. He'd worked, he had money. He bought a car when he didn't have a licence. He drank whiskey and smoked. I'd never met anyone like him. '

I nodded.

'I know I'm not your father but I feel like that.'

It's difficult for me to have these kinds of conversations. I don't find it easy to remember the full details of my father and our relationship because it painfully reminds me of how much I miss him still.

But sometimes you have to go into the midst of it, don't you?

'You're not my father,' I replied. 'I haven't had a father figure in my life for a long time....but you are that to me.'

He smiled. 'I'm going to check on the food in the oven,' he said.

I smoked my cigar and raised my glass of whiskey to a star in the sky and said a little toast and a prayer for Carl, for my dad, and my uncle.

And then we ate.

LA bound - part 2: HelloKitty

Need to know Who's Who?

When I was in LA strategising my path to stardom (by watching I Love Lucy reruns all morning and then lying by the pool), my partner on this journey was HelloKitty from my acting class. We bonded quickly and became lifelong friends despite only having known each other a few weeks.

Today, we've taken a break from scaling the heights to Hollywood fame. She is a rather brilliant graphic designer, whilst I look after my small cat, Chicktoria Beckham, which takes up practically all of my energy. It's simply exhausting.

Before heading to LA, she messaged me to ask me what I wanted to do.
'I want to go to Jack-in-the-Box, and In N Out Burger, maybe Supermex, see the Hollywood sign in a rented Mustang convertible like the old days,' I replied.
'We'll sing Alanis Morrissette with the top down so loudly we can't talk,' she responded, referring to how we used to kick it back then.
'And Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something. Have you noticed that as soon as we got really into them they sank into obscurity?' I asked.
'Sounds like two other megastars I know.'

Of course the other agenda item was seeing Marty and Elayne, a Hollywood musical institution, perform at The Dresden Room. They've been performing hilarious and brilliant covers of such classics as Copacabana and, my favourite, Stayin' Alive, 6 days a week for 27 years. When we were there last I actually performed a rendition of Anything Goes to their excellent accompaniment.

HelloKitty sent me a text the day after I arrived: 'We're going to have pancakes in Hollywood and then to see the sign. What else do you want to do?'
'Perhaps get an alibi in case my aunt and uncle meet with a freak accident,' I texted back.

Moments later she was pulling up in the HelloKitty mobile (which in the old days used to be a zippy red sports car with an in car phone that had an actual svelte phone receiver, but today is a kid friendly van thing with a mobile phone holder).

Whenever we see each other, which is not that often, it seems like hardly a day has passed. Except she has two kids now and looks fantastic, and I have my small cat and have filled out a little.

We chatted all the way to Hollywood, catching up over the last 3 years. We ate humongous pancakes - well, she had a few mouthfuls, I ate most of mine (with side orders of sausage and bacon) until she insisted I move away from them because each mouthful was accompanied by me saying, 'I really think I might throw up now.'

We didn't make it to the Hollywood sign and the vintage stores didn't prove to be too successful (honestly, do people really find perfectly preserved Armani jackets at these places for a pittance?) and after a rest, a quick change, and a whiskey with my aunt and uncle, HelloKitty and I were back in Hollywood at The Dresden Room.

It was as I remembered it. I saw the bar where they lovingly made our cocktails by hand. I saw the table we had sat at after acting class, where once with a hot, buff, young guy from our acting class in tow, HelloKitty and I did a shallow take on Elizabeth and Rock betting on who could seduce Jimmy Dean. (Neither of us did or would have of course but we must have made some sort of impression because I don't ever remember him returning to class).

If you've seen the movie Swingers, you'll catch a glimpse of the bar and the ever-present duo Marty and Elayne. It's difficult to describe this lounge act and so I have included a clip here of their famous scene in Swingers performing a snippet of Stayin' Alive. It's in the first 40 seconds so I urge you to watch it.

We sat at a booth drinking the bar's signature Blood and Sand cocktail and Seven and Sevens reminiscing in the old and taking in the new.

The next day my aunt and I went to see This Is It and over lunch the waiter told me about the popular gay bars to go to. At cocktail hour with my aunt and uncle I told them which bars I was going to.
'Why don't you ask our gay neighbour where to go?' my uncle asked.
'I already know where to go.'
'He's right next door. I don't understand why you don't want to ask the gay neighbour. He'll tell you where you can go.'
'I already have a plan,' I laughed. 'And isn't it a bit random to go to your gay neighbour's place and say 'Hi, I'm gay and would like to know where to go to have fun?' And anyway what is his actual name?'
'Do you want me to call him?'
'No. Let's just have another drink.'
'Do you think you'll be back late?' my aunt asked.
'No. Unless I get laid, in which case I'll see you in the morning.'
'Oooh, ok. Well just be careful.'

I stuck with my plan. The first bar, aptly called the Brit, had about 3 patrons. The second, about 5.
'I know it's a Wednesday night but where is everyone?' I asked the bartender.
'At The Silver Fox. But you better hurry, it kind of wraps up at 11.30pm.'
'But it's 10.30pm now,' I sighed.

I hightailed it to The Silver Fox, sang some karaoke, chatted to some nice Californians and had enough Seven and Sevens to make the taxi driver take me to Jack-in-the-Box on the way home.

The next day HelloKitty picked me up after her breakfast meeting.
'I'm feeling a bit Rachel Zoe today,' I said, as I clambered into the HelloKitty mobile. 'As in I'm like literally dying.'

We drove to Belmont Shore, wandered around and drank coffee, neither of us in a fit state to offer sparkling repartee. But with good friends, as with family, you feel comfortable whatever state you're in.