After a sunset drink round the campfire of our Mullholand hillside home, we stopped by a director friends producers daughters friends parents house. The idea was to stop for a quick drink and then move on to Venice where the real Cinco de mayo party was to take place. We were greeted by two young women who offered us a drink from the bottle of ready made margarita we brought with us. We were all (yours truly with friends Bonnie, Lottie, Christian and Andreas) weary from the night before and needed a "pick-me-upper" badly.
The house belonged to british set designer chief Nigel and his wife who were away in "Europe" on business. Every single one of the labyrinth of sitting areas and bedrooms we walked through on our way to the terrace was decorated with tastefully patinated Eames chairs and PH lamps alongside framed pencil sketches of Gotham city like urban exteriors and pictures of north african supermodels with chicken feet. We ended up on a terrace overlooking the city where we smoked menthol cigarettes and sipped "nice brand" tequila with our delightful new friends. Venice was forgotten and the only homage to Cinco de Mayo was a plastic jar of spicy Guacamole from Whole Foods on the chromed bar. As the lights of la Cienega Boulevard far below blended gradually into a cloud of yellow light, we discussed british television drama Downton Abbey ("the costumes are hands down - kick ass - fantastic"), the proper use of the phrase "going to town on something" and how a piñata on the show "Busted on the job" was used for other than its intended purposes. We ordered take out and I fell a sleep on the couch after a dead end debate on Murphys law. At eleven, we headed back home. I slept the sleep of the dead. I didn´t dream.
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