Uh-oh. Here comes another bulleted list. I do love my bullets. Pow, pow! Bang, bang!
- Up earlyish yesterday with books and cocktails under the roller coaster of NY, NY. For some reason, this is the only picture I took in Vegas this weekend:
- Spent the afternoon with changingthesky and Ben killing a few hours between hotel checkout (2p) and flight (7:30p) drinking a great quantity more than was necessary in the little mini-East-Village and eating imported New York pastrami, laughing, and, of course, writing many things down on barnaps, which I'm hoping Hespeth will translate soon as I forget what the hell we talked about.
- Limo to the airport, because we can!
- A series of annoying delays, both in the arrival of the plane and some luggage mishaps in New Orleans, resulting in an overcrowded, smelly flight getting us home around 3:30a.
- No matter how long the day, or what time I arrive, I'm usually so glad to be back in New Orleans that I want to go out. Pamela was working on the set of Dean Koontz's Frankenstein, so I bought her a shot of tequila in the French Quarter and went to the set nearby to see her. She said she'd be fired if she drank, so I sat with her in the balcony of the State Palace Theatre at 4a, sipping Sauza, watching Parker Posey and this really hot Swiss/French guy do endless takes of scene 56.
- They finished the scene around 6:30a. I told Pamela I was going to go home, but she insisted on showing me her wardrobe trailor, introducing me to the really hot Swiss/French guy who was hanging out in there and asking my measurements so she could pilfer clothes for me after the shoot, bless.
- Tried to leave again, but she said, "Wait, come with me," and took me to freakin' Parker Posey's trailor where we discussed New Orleans real estate while I let her poodle lick my face as I tried not to pee my pants. Note: I do not let dogs lick my face, by habit. Pamela took a picture but I'm not posting it because I had been up for 24 hours and looked it, and Parker had been working all night and was half in/half out of make-up and looked it. Can I just say, though, that that woman is every bit as fabulous as I suspected? And I have no idea how anyone could be so overworked (last night of shooting, gone overtime by several hours, dawn rears its ugly head, several more hours of work ahead, certainly not the time to meet a dribbling, idiot fan), and yet she was still the most genuinely charming, easy-going thing on the face of this planet. I tried not to be too much of a dork, but as we rolled around on the floor with the dog, the thought did occur to me to accidentally scratch her arm to gather skin cells under my fingernails so I could clone her later.
- According to Pamela, I walked into Christina Ricci in the parking lot and didn't realize it. Damn, could have cloned another one! Should have scratched the French guy too, while I was at it, labeling each finger with the name of the DNA samples I had collected under each nail.
- Finally came home and cuddled up with Miss Kitty-Wittums-Pooh-Pooh-Head, content with all things in the world precisely as they were.