Lazy Thursday

My shoulders feel like they've been worked over with a bat by a finnish woman named helga. Actually, it was a Romanian dude named Miho and he had no bat - just his fingers.
My sis, in her continued quest to make me a meterosexual, went to a spa on Thursday, where I met the aforementioned Miho.
"The World Cup, zee football World Cup . . . you watch?" he asked as his thumbs pushed through my back to my rib cage.
I don't remember what I replied, I think I swore allegiance to Romania, but it seemed to satisfy him, since the pressure dropped to an 8 on the pain scale. But like Lauryn Hill said, why does it feel so good when it hurts so bad?
I made my way to the sauna afterwards, for a good ol manly heat bath with some swarthy un-toweled men of eastern European persuasion. Note to all you out there - take off any jewelry before you go in. My chain turned into a red-hot collar of pain around my neck, and I'm surprised it didn't melt.
Still, I felt refreshed and loose after my spa experience, and might have to make it a monthly - or weekly - trip once I get home.

We picked up some grub after the spa and headed to her friends', CJ and Raphael, house. It was like the game "Pick the Gay Guys House" as we were driving up. We pass by all these houses in their neighborhood with dirt for lawns, cracked windows, and generally ugly patio furniture.
Then, like an oasis in the middle of the desert, this lush, green, piece of paradise appeared; A massive Koi pond, trees, shrubs, flowering vines, secluded little sitting areas, and a massive gate made from two artfully weatherbeaten doors.
This crib was aight.
We stopped by ostensibly just to eat our food, but it somehow turned into an impromptu dinner party. (What? At a gay couple's house? What are the odds?) The next thing I knew, it was 11 p.m, I was stuffed with food, sipping on a vodka tonic, talking about some crazy shit with all these different people I had just met. It was a lot of fun, and was sort of reassuring to know that my sister had some cool ass friends she could hang with. CJ and Raph (who took over the mantle as the reigning genetic freak from Bridget. He's in his 40s but looks younger than me) are, well, indescribably fun. Sam, their boarder, is flamboyant and funny, though I'm not so sure about his hobby - collecting stuffed birds. He had most packed away when I was there, except for a peacock and a FIVE FOOT TALL OSTRICH. It was a little creepy. I kept expecting the thing to try and poke my eyes out (Shudder).
There was George, the model-turned-fashion photographer who hates kids to the point of ... well, that's just between me, him and our drinks. Rita had some messed-up stories, Jen is, ahem, "corresponding" with some girl in Nelson, of all places, and Hannibal is the most polite person I've met in a 30-second span.

I sometimes forget this is LA, or the business they work in. There's lots of celebrity talk, but not in the E! or People Magazine kind of way. It's strictly first-name stuff, and when they tell a story about LFB or Donnie, they're actually talking about these mega-stars that are really good friends. It's kind of surreal, but understandable. It's the same thing in the sports journalism industry, too. I talk and interact with all these superstar sports figures, but rarely get star-struck. They're just athletes, for the most part.
Though I do have to send a shout-out to CJ, who dutifully tried to hook me up with Elgin Baylor's daughter. She was too busy to come because, unlike me, she was watching the Heat tie the NBA Finals series up with Dallas. I hear she's fine, though. We'll save that for another trip ... just kidding, Homey C.

Today we're off to the set of Eddie Murphy's new movie, and then to the premier of Nacho Libre. What would a trip to LA be without a film premiere?

Lata