‘Breakfast’ in Paris-- Six Feet UnderPart of: LA , Literati , Television
Brunch: Marmitron salad and chocolate souffle from Le Marmitron.
P.S. Happy Passover!!!
The LA Weekly party for Bruce Eric Kaplan’s comic book—I should go. I wanted to meet Bruce. He is the co-executive producer and a writer for “Six Feet Under.” The traffic to Los Feliz was going to suck no matter what time I left. I didn’t make the L.A. Innuendo party last week because it was in the Valley at the same time, 7-9 p.m on a Friday. I read my invite again.
Please join the L.A. Weekly and Simon & Schuster in celebrating the publication of Weekly and New Yorker cartoonist Bruce Eric Kaplan's This Is a Bad Time: A Collection of Cartoons. Bruce, who is also a staff writer for Six Feet Under, will be on hand to sign books.Bruce, who is also a staff writer for Six Feet Under, will be on hand to sign books. I called my actress friend to double check on the time to leave.
“Definitely after 7:30 p.m,” she assured me. “Take the 405 to the 101.”
Cool—I had good instincts.
I e-mailed another friend to see if he wanted to go. He’s the perfect party date--a Westsider, and a great person to spend driving time with. He agreed. Good, I wouldn’t have to slit my wrists driving on the loathed 405 alone.
As usual, I couldn’t decide on what to wear. My new hairstylist dyed my hair the darkest brown possible (though I just said I wanted my hair darker). If I wore too much black, I was going to look Goth like Atoosa Rubenstein. I decided on head-to-toe chocolate brown.
We arrived at a fashionably late hour at Michael’s Room @ The Hollywood Hills Café. The first people I saw were Jeff Garlin from “Curb Your Enthusiasm," and Willie Garson from “Sex and the City.” My first instinct was to go say “hi” to them, but I stopped myself. I did not know them.
I basically only watch shows on Showtime, HBO and FOX 11, so these guys were from my elitist television reality. I was already going to make an ass of myself talking to Bruce Eric Kaplan about how much I loved “Six Feet Under” and wasn’t going to buy his cartoon book. I didn’t know any friends of his, so the chance of having a real conversation with him was slim.
I finally met Jonathon Gold—author and longtime food critic for the L.A. Weekly. I was expecting for him to be older and nerdy looking, but he wasn’t. (I almost slipped and described what he looked like.) Now I just needed to meet S.Irene Virbila from the LA Times.
The Weekly’s, Sharan Street, said she checked out my blog for the first time that day. Sharon especially liked the design and my breakfast selections. Then she complimented me on my outfit.
“I got this top in Paris,” I said proudly.
I like having clothes that no one else can buy.
Jonathon asked, “What did you think of breakfast in Paris?”
“I don’t usually like bread in the morning, but having a perfect baguette was an experience...”
I went back to Paris in my head and wished I could erase the memory of my traveling companion. He had only wanted to dine at non-French restaurants. I smirked at the memory.
“What about the croissants?” Jonathon quipped.
I took a breath and gushed, “Amazing….so small and buttery…”
I needed a drink. I was acting like a food geek. Jesus.
I looked at Sharan, “Is it an open bar?”
I rushed over to get my first drink: Absolut Mandarin, soda, and a splash of cranberry juice.
“That will be 7 dollars,” said the bartender.
“But I thought it was an open bar.”
“Only for well drinks.”
I looked at my drink. It looked so good, and I didn’t want well vodka. I contemplated about what to do.
“You can just have it,” the bartender said getting sick of me standing there.
What a sweetie.
I started chatting with an LA Weekly photographer.
“What do you have on your skin? It’s glowing,” he said.
Now that was a compliment, and it wasn’t from a man who wanted to sleep with me.
“Nothing,” I said.
Maybe it was my Stila tinted moisturizer, but I wanted to believe I was just naturally glowing.
In my periphery vision, I spied a guy who looked very much like an ex-boyfriend of mine from years ago. I walked closer and realized the guy had less hair and was sharply dressed.
I finally got around to introducing myself to Bruce Eric Kaplan sans book.
My ex-boyfriend look alike was finishing up with him and was obviously gay.
“Hey, I thought you were my ex-boyfriend,” I admitted.
We got a good laugh out of that one. He was just another attractive gay man.
I turned my attention back to Bruce, “Hi, I just wanted to congratulate you on your book and tell you I love “Six Feet Under.” I hardly watch any TV, but love your show.” (I even wrote one of their writers a fan letter, which I never do.)
“Well, thank you,” Bruce said obviously tired. I’m sure people had been flattering him all night.
A friend who used to work in the literary division of Endeavor had told me a year ago that everyone was writing “Six Feet Under” scripts. It was a huge joke. Someone else told me that most HBO writers were playwrights.
“That guy was one of the writers, Chris,” Bruce said referring to my gay ex-boyfriend.
Of course, my gay ex-boyfriend had the perfect job now. Maybe I should run after him. I seriously contemplated it.