sake. But instead thereâs a roiling pit in my stomach that feels like I havenât eaten for a week.
âOkay, turtledoves,â I say. âIâll leave you to it.â
I pick up the tray of skewered vegetables and shoulder my canvas knife bag on top of my purse and my laptop bag, which I donât need for Scoutâs party, but Iâm afraid to be away from my technology for three minutes in case one of the Kardashians breaks a nail.
âSlow down!â Megan calls from under JJâs torso. âHeâs coming, heâs coming.â
âGood bounceback,â I say.
Neither of them responds. Actors are such a crappy audience. Well, if they wonât laugh at my bawdy humor, I wonât wait. Instead, I ratchet down the four stories to the street in our old rattletrap elevator. One thing about having a rent-controlled apartment in Santa Monica is that the common spaces look like youâre living in a pre-glasnost Soviet tenement. Prices and prizes. For the record, I would have taken the stairs if I hadnât been so loaded down with party crap, because our elevator is just waiting for its moment of fame on the eleven oâclock news:
And, in other news, a woman perished today in Santa Monica after being trapped in the elevator in the One Life building for three days with only hummus and kalamata olives for sustenance. Her neighbors described her as âYou mean that girl with the frozen yogurt?â Now hereâs Fritz with the weather.
On the other hand, the stairs are worn and slippery from years of use, so if you catch one wrong, it propels you downward like a waterslide.
By the time I reach the lobby, JJ is already leaning against the row of dilapidated mailboxes. He looks like heâs just been air-dropped in from another planet, heâs so resplendent amid the faded linoleum and plastic plants. As I step off the elevator, juggling my trays and bags, he trots forward to help. He seems to have forgotten his shirt, which is kind of surprising, though Iâm not about to complain. His body is perfection, but heâs not the kind of guy whose pecs are better-looking than his face. (You know the kind Iâm talking about. Any excuse to strip down and flex.)
He grabs two trays and I follow him through the lobby. There are muscles in his back that Iâve never seen before. I mean on anyone. Thatâs why I look so closely. Scientific interest.
Baja Santa Monica is pretty much a paparazzi-free zone. Rent-controlled apartments and tiny beach bungalows arenât exactly a hotbed of celebrity activity. But get a half mile to the south, on Abbott Kinney Boulevard, and itâs a different story. There the paparazzi lurk in blacked-out SUVs, scanning the doorways of Gjelina and Shima and the Tasting Kitchen for their prey, or they sit across the street from the Farmacy in hopes of catching a celebrity buying his own weed.
When Lindsay Lohan was renting a house on Venice Boulevard, the sidewalk in front of the Brigâwhich is normally a low-key, albeit hipstery, local barâlooked like lunchtime at the Ivy. It really fucked up my late-night visits to the Kogi truck, which was tragic because they have the best Korean short-rib tacos with kimchi on the planet. And theyâre only two bucks apiece, which is the best deal youâll get for anything on Abbott Kinney, anytime, ever.
Anyway, our street is hardly a celebrity hotbed, with its hippie grocer and fratty Irish pub, which is why Iâm completely surprised when a sweaty Persian dude with a backward ball cap steps into my path and starts clicking away. His camera has a lens so huge it could capture the license plates of the cars in the parking lot three blocks away, and itâs pretty clear from the hardware that JJ is not his original target. He was probably hoping to get a shot of some fading B-lister heading into Planet Blue a block up the street. Stumbling into the scenario of JJ Kelly,
âOkay, turtledoves,â I say. âIâll leave you to it.â
I pick up the tray of skewered vegetables and shoulder my canvas knife bag on top of my purse and my laptop bag, which I donât need for Scoutâs party, but Iâm afraid to be away from my technology for three minutes in case one of the Kardashians breaks a nail.
âSlow down!â Megan calls from under JJâs torso. âHeâs coming, heâs coming.â
âGood bounceback,â I say.
Neither of them responds. Actors are such a crappy audience. Well, if they wonât laugh at my bawdy humor, I wonât wait. Instead, I ratchet down the four stories to the street in our old rattletrap elevator. One thing about having a rent-controlled apartment in Santa Monica is that the common spaces look like youâre living in a pre-glasnost Soviet tenement. Prices and prizes. For the record, I would have taken the stairs if I hadnât been so loaded down with party crap, because our elevator is just waiting for its moment of fame on the eleven oâclock news:
And, in other news, a woman perished today in Santa Monica after being trapped in the elevator in the One Life building for three days with only hummus and kalamata olives for sustenance. Her neighbors described her as âYou mean that girl with the frozen yogurt?â Now hereâs Fritz with the weather.
On the other hand, the stairs are worn and slippery from years of use, so if you catch one wrong, it propels you downward like a waterslide.
By the time I reach the lobby, JJ is already leaning against the row of dilapidated mailboxes. He looks like heâs just been air-dropped in from another planet, heâs so resplendent amid the faded linoleum and plastic plants. As I step off the elevator, juggling my trays and bags, he trots forward to help. He seems to have forgotten his shirt, which is kind of surprising, though Iâm not about to complain. His body is perfection, but heâs not the kind of guy whose pecs are better-looking than his face. (You know the kind Iâm talking about. Any excuse to strip down and flex.)
He grabs two trays and I follow him through the lobby. There are muscles in his back that Iâve never seen before. I mean on anyone. Thatâs why I look so closely. Scientific interest.
Baja Santa Monica is pretty much a paparazzi-free zone. Rent-controlled apartments and tiny beach bungalows arenât exactly a hotbed of celebrity activity. But get a half mile to the south, on Abbott Kinney Boulevard, and itâs a different story. There the paparazzi lurk in blacked-out SUVs, scanning the doorways of Gjelina and Shima and the Tasting Kitchen for their prey, or they sit across the street from the Farmacy in hopes of catching a celebrity buying his own weed.
When Lindsay Lohan was renting a house on Venice Boulevard, the sidewalk in front of the Brigâwhich is normally a low-key, albeit hipstery, local barâlooked like lunchtime at the Ivy. It really fucked up my late-night visits to the Kogi truck, which was tragic because they have the best Korean short-rib tacos with kimchi on the planet. And theyâre only two bucks apiece, which is the best deal youâll get for anything on Abbott Kinney, anytime, ever.
Anyway, our street is hardly a celebrity hotbed, with its hippie grocer and fratty Irish pub, which is why Iâm completely surprised when a sweaty Persian dude with a backward ball cap steps into my path and starts clicking away. His camera has a lens so huge it could capture the license plates of the cars in the parking lot three blocks away, and itâs pretty clear from the hardware that JJ is not his original target. He was probably hoping to get a shot of some fading B-lister heading into Planet Blue a block up the street. Stumbling into the scenario of JJ Kelly,
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