Back Door Man

I made a deal with the girls that I would be their concierge/butler/errand-boy/masseuse/bartender/stylist/grooming technician for the duration of their stay if they would cover my expenses...they all chipped in.

Sweet Virginia

Bonjour everybody!

Richie has had to take a little break due to exhaustion (just like Lady Gaga) from all the hard work he’s been putting in with those pesky primaries, so he asked me if I’d step in for a day or so…so here I am!
Also, I wanted to share a picture of me and Lindsay Lohan at Coachella this year. As I mentioned in my last post, I’ve been in Palm Springs for the last few weeks, and it seems that when one party ends, the next one begins. It all started with the Dinah Shore weekend which was delightful, and then there was the White Party, which was all men…the men were all so nice and well groomed. They’ve been nothing but hospitable. And then there was Coachella, which was MIND BLOWING!

LA Woman

Mrs. Scrapple-Crabbottom, her daughter Virginia, and her daughter’s friend Michelle, all returned to Long Boat Key via private jet from the Palm Springs International Airport the Monday after the Dinah Shore weekend. I was exhausted and as a kind gesture Mrs. Scrapple-Crabbottom paid for the room for an additional night to give me a chance to recuperate. She also left behind Chumley's suitcase of clothes, a few hundred in walking around money, and a bus ticket back to Los Angeles.

Anyone For Tennis?

Mary Scrapple married up. Her mother was a waitress at Dotson’s Café and her father played two-bit Honky-tonks, banged hillbilly whores, and chased the fame and fortune dragon. Chumley Crabbottom (of the Nashville Crabbottoms) was home from college for the summer, out to score some local-yokel strange at the County Fair. Their destinies collided in the line at the funnel cake stand; ten minutes later they were a pile of fried dough, humping flesh and powdered sugar, behind the tilt-a-whirl.

“I love you!” he grunted.
“Me too…” she moaned, her ankles by her ears.

Little Red Rooster

From Union Station, Palm Springs is a mere 2 ½ hours and $30 bucks away. The drone of the diesel lulled me to sleep before we even got out of downtown Los Angeles. The old Mexican woman seated next to me was kind enough to lend a shoulder and a blanket and I slept all the way to the 111 turnoff that takes you into the heart of Palm Springs. I made it worth the driver’s while to make an unplanned stop…just long enough for me to jump out.

Stray Cat Blues

I was startled from my dream by the pounding on the door. I felt like Capt. Willard lying on sweat- soaked sheets in some Hanoi hotel. In my dream, I was back at the old Club with Richie and we were already 38 hours into our regular Monday night poker game. I had just arranged for some fresh, squeezed orange juice and a double order of eggs Benedict to be delivered to the table in an attempt to regain my strength and focus. I love those tiny little Tabasco bottles they have at the Club, the single serving size that looks like it belongs in a doll house. (I like the little booze bottles, too.) Anyway, I was all in, including the Jag, when I awoke.

Worthy Does Santa Monica

My adaptation to the Southern California lifestyle has been relatively easy, but not without a few bumps and scrapes. I was able to find work as a trench digger for a plumber, but had to quit because there were too many rules. For instance, did you know that it is considered unacceptable to fraternize with the home-for-winter-break daughter of the homeowner while she sunbathes poolside, take her for a drive up the coast in her father’s 1997 911 Porsche Turbo, and then empty the liquor cabinet of the 18-year-old Scotch? That is, unless you’re recognized by the Lord or Lady of the Manor as the valet attendant from the restaurant they frequent with their “Business Associate”.