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VIP OD'd | page 1, 2
The ambience is pleasant and the food good, but it is served sporadically, a small portion at a time. Matt, who must eat often and in large quantities, is irritated. However, Trey has devised a clever way to pass the time. Sitting behind us are a woman with gigantic breasts, whom Trey dubs Boobtor, and her date, a rather diminutive guy with a large beak, who is termed Nosetron. Thus our entire table engages in commentary on their mock battle for dating supremacy: "Be careful Nosetron, you must not underestimate the powers of Boobtor!" "You're right! But with my nose-ray -- (struggling) I -- might -- be -- able -- to -- defeat -- her!" While Trey and Matt's super-celebrity powers don't get us served any faster, they do afford the guys a brief meeting with Al Pacino and Oliver Stone, who have taken a table in some sort of secret back room of the restaurant. They are in London to promote the release of "Any Given Sunday." I see Stone from a distance and believe all the rumors. Matt and Trey return a little dazed and confused. (I had an opportunity to meet Pacino. I just didn't care. Something is wrong with me.) Of course, a visit to a foreign city wouldn't be complete without a trip to a strip club, so Trey and I cap off the evening at a dive called Sophisticats. It is truly horrible, not least of all because in London the dancers are required by law to stay three feet from you. Las Vegas never seemed so far away. Two and a half hours later, it's morning. I'm showered, dressed and walking up the street toward the BBC. Jennifer and I sip bad coffee as Trey and Matt tear through some radio interviews. Everyone is hurting. On Friday, Jennifer and Matt take the Chunnel train to Paris. Trey and I stay on for a couple of days to hook up with Trey's friend Nick Rhodes, the keyboard player for Duran Duran. On Saturday, Nick calls, fresh in from Milan. He's made reservations at the Ivy. Because I am nervous about meeting Nick, I suggest to Trey a drink for courage. If he is nervous, he doesn't let it show. Stevan joins us just as we're being seated. Nick orders the first of several bottles of Saint Emilion, and it successfully unties the knot in my stomach. By the end of dinner I am able to initiate normal, human conversation with Nick and not feel like an idiot. (Thank God I am a little giddy around Nick. Otherwise, I would have flown home right then.) The rest of that night is kind of a blur. We're at some club called Noble Rot. Then a girl Trey knows shows up, lifts her shirt and orders a round of Absinthe. After that it's only fragments. Nick's devilish grin as he says, "Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder!" Stevan handling a snooty waitress with his typical aplomb. Me arguing with Nick and Stevan that Cezanne is the greatest painter of all while simultaneously threatening to kill anyone who comes close to our table. A truly vicious drink. Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack goes the Chunnel train as it lumbers toward Paris. My stomach is extremely pissed off at me. My head is throbbing. Oh, and I'm facing the wrong way. Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. I brush off what little French I have in the arsenal to thank the driver and tumble into the Hotel George V -- the Four Seasons Paris. Turns out we've come all this way just to be condescended to by the French. (In case you were wondering, it costs about 4000 francs a day to be stared at because you don't tuck in your shirt.) Even a view of the Eiffel Tower framed in my window doesn't erase the fact we're required to wear a suit jacket at every meal except breakfast. So that's the only meal we eat in the hotel, and we all order Breakfast Americain because fuck 'em. At One Aldwych, where they know a thing or two about subtlety, they gave me two fresh pieces of different fruit every day for the five days I was there. At the Hotel George V, they gave me one plate of fruit, which they let decay throughout my visit. I think that says it all. Au revoir. (I guess I should be grateful to Paris for tearing everything down for me, because I learned, or was reminded, that life is in the details. In making these comparisons between London and France,
between one hotel and the other, I realized that I am not necessarily snobby -- although I have my moments -- but I am becoming more and more appreciative of smaller and smaller things. It's a good bet that when I go back to London and/or Paris, I'll be paying for it myself and so flying coach and staying at the Holiday Inn. But I'd rather stay at the Holiday Inn with cool people who are fun to be around than stay at The Palace of Condescension in Paris for free. I'd rather hang out with people like Stevan and Nick, two gentlemen, than with any of the fake hangers-on I met. I'd much rather hang with Matt and Trey when they are farting on Jennifer in the car than when they are -- and by extension, I am -- getting the VIP treatment at some club. Because life is really about being with friends and farting on people.) We're off to New York, as Trey and Matt are getting photographed by Annie Liebovitz. Since there is a schedule, we have to hurry. That means the Concorde. It is in fact quite a small plane. It seats 100, but the accommodations, space-wise, are coachlike. Now, I am not complaining. I simply want you to know what your money is going to get you. Rumor has it the Concorde is going under, because even at $4,500 each way, it isn't covering fuel costs. And that makes sense. Mach 2 puts you in New York from Paris in three hours. That's a lot of gas. Love, David.
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