Now, this was not my first encounter with star power at the gym. Several months earlier, I had seen David Hasselhoff in all of his glory, sort of. I was heading out to the balcony for a stretch in the fresh air when I ran smack into a view of some guy’s ass as he leaned over the railing, chirping into a cellphone. Not unlike a Randy Johnson brush-back pitch, his jeans were riding unfathomably high and deep. They formed, in fact, an unspeakable crevice, shadowy and strange enough to possess a magnetic power all its own. I didn’t mean to look at his ass, I had no choice. My eyes were literally sucked in.

Thank God he turned around. The spell was broken, only to be replaced by my incredulity at discovering the identity of the possessor of said crevice. Then, before I could get a handle on the situation, he was gone, and I was left with only a vague, nauseated, empty feeling.

Experience has taught me that star sightings, like jetliner accidents, happen in threes. Now that the Messrs. Hasselhoff and Richards had been spotted, I wondered who would be next. So, armed with Walkman and towel, I hit the stairs with a little spring in my step. I had decided, you see (it’s my fantasy world, after all), that the third star I saw at the gym would be a young, beautiful, single woman wearing a form-fitting workout number. She would be at the top of those stairs on that very same day, and she would be really glad to see me.

But I was wrong.

I set the pace on the treadmill a little higher than usual in order to get the whole thing over with. It didn’t help; I just sucked wind all the harder. Then, just as my anguish plumbed new depths, she plopped herself down on the stationary bike right in front of me — Stevie Nicks!

OK, Stevie Nicks was not exactly who I had in mind, but still, I found myself wanting to buckle down for Stevie. After all, she had given me “Landslide,” so she deserved better than to have to suffer through the pitiful sound of my gasping. So I started humming “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around” and ran like a man.

Is that ludicrous enough for you? I’ve done worse. Case in point: Bernie Taupin’s birthday party. Matt, Trey and I had met Bernie, who is Elton John’s lyricist, at a recording studio when he and Elton were recording a song for “South Park’s Chef Aid” album. This was just what I tried to remind Bernie of as I shook his hand at the party in the packed Sunset Room, with the music blaring. He immediately cut me off by introducing me to his daughter and her friend. As a guest of a guest at this hoedown, Taupin does not care about me, nor should he. I am an idiot. But part of me wants to connect with him, hang out, be cool, have a story to tell. It’s just that my story sucks.

To make matters worse, I run into Davey Johnstone, who has been playing guitar for Elton for about 30 years. We had met at the same recording studio, and again backstage at a concert he and Elton played at the Anaheim Pond two years ago. So, of course, I try to remind Davey that we’ve met, because I don’t learn. He cuts me off by introducing me to his girlfriend. Trey and I stand with them for a few awkward moments before I get up the courage to ask Davey what he’s up to these days. He tells me he’s been teaching guitar. This response opens the door for me to say perhaps the stupidest thing I have ever said.

“Do you find it rewarding?”

I can’t really blame Davey for the look he gave me. Finally, he laughed, said “Yeah” and walked away.

What I had meant to add to the end of the sentence was “… or do you want to get back to touring?” which would have made it a different question entirely.

I was feeling pretty stupid when I climbed back into the trusty A4. The fact that Trey was following his own Scotch-fueled agenda suggested he had not witnessed the gaffe. He slid the Kottonmouth Kings into the CD player, rolled down the front windows and cranked the volume, eager to see the looks on all the stodgy old faces as we pulled away. The ubiquitous glares of condescension boosted my spirits, and by the time we hit Sunset, I was pounding on the dash screaming “Bump! Bump-bump! That’s the sound of the ’50s while they’re hittin’ in my trunk!” Whether Trey saw me bonk with Davey or not, my boy always looks out for me.

Love,

David.

That’s how the evening went. You never knew what was coming next. And after several carafes of vino, my eyes were even less attuned to the world around me. No matter, it made the magic much better.

After a sit-down dinner and magic show, we were led off to see several other performers. First was Sophie the fire-eater. Dressed in what would best be described as a Roman bikini, she did much to boost our morale. But then she accidentally spit her flame goo onto Kyle.

The next act was a snorefest — a guy in a tux made apparently unbroken metal rings attach to and detach from each other. Plus, he didn’t have a hot assistant. The last act, however, did.

Her name was Stacy, but I shall always call her Dream Stacy. Although she never responded (in words) to my shouted proposal of marriage, nor to my cries of warning as she climbed into various contraptions of magical apparatus with the prospect of being cut in half and run through with swords, I would like to believe she was comforted hearing my sweet voice calling from the darkness.

Needless to say, all this magic gave the group a powerful thirst. But before we could reach the Forum bar, we were cornered by Apollo, an employee of the Magical Empire who, although he had the night off, was hanging around at work. Once he found out who we were, he tagged along until after the show and then did some tricks for Pam on her special day.

Well, I had been watching the other magicians closely, and my eyes were quick enough to figure out the tricks. So I thought catching Apollo would be easy, since we were standing in a circle around him. I was wrong. Each new trick baffled us. Finally Pam shouted, “Apollo, stop fucking with my head!”

Trey Parker was also blown away and quietly asked me to get $200 out of his wallet — a tip for Apollo. I took out two Ben Franklins and folded them in my palm. Then Apollo did some amazing trick, and we all howled in disbelief.

“Noooo!” Trey shouted. Then he leaned over to me: “Make it $300!” Another great trick. “Noooo! Make it $400!” And on and on.

Let’s just say Apollo had a pretty good night.

But the chaos had just begun. After retiring to the Forum bar to recover from the mind screwing Apollo had just given us, we slowed things down with a traditional gift exchange. However, a new zenith of mayhem was just around the corner. After the last package was opened, a squeaky little song began to play over the bar’s P.A. system. It started in low, then it started to grow.

It was a birthday song for Pam that Kyle had recorded and sped up so it would sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks. Pam looked around in a daze, not certain what the song was or where it was coming from, but certain from the looks on all the faces around her that shit was about to go down.

Pam scanned the room, nervously anticipating whatever it was we had up our sleeves. Then she caught sight of it, and her head fell off. From behind the bar came a dancing midget in a panda suit whom Trey had flown in from Los Angeles. Everyone but Pam knew it was coming, but no one could believe it when it actually happened. Around and around the Panda bear danced as Pam held her head in disbelief.

Well, that’s where we all figured the night would peak out, and we breathed a collective sigh of relief as we dabbed away the last tears of laughter. However, Mr. Parker was just getting started.

Trey had put away some scotch throughout the evening and was feeling particularly saucy. So when someone from the band performing at the Forum bar jokingly asked if anyone in our group could sing, Trey jumped onstage and whipped out Neil Diamond’s “I Am, I Said.” I laughed so hard I had to turn away, only to see the entire casino floor gathered around the bar to watch.

Love,

David

P.S. I think I got the whole “girl, boy, dating, love, relationship” issue resolved. Trey and I were watching an HBO documentary called “Hookers and Tricks: Trick or Treat,” which detailed the lives of several prostitutes and regular johns. Frankly, it was the last place I expected to find such a nugget of wisdom. But sure enough, a little over halfway through, the filmmaker is in a strip club doing some interviews and asks this big black guy in dreads and overalls, “What’s the difference between love and love?

Without missing a beat, the guy replies: “Love is a motherfucker. But love, that’s butt naked and a cheese sandwich!”

Truer words were never spoken.

At first, you love the Type II girl. You think, “She is the perfect woman. She gives me space; she’s easygoing. I don’t have to call her all the time.” So what do you do? Because she’s so great, you spend more and more time with her, thinking all the while that she knows the score. And does she? You bet your ass she does — better than you. After several weeks of thinking you have beaten the system, she says to you, “It’s about time you took some emotional responsibility.” And you say, “Baby, I thought you didn’t want a boyfriend and all that nonsense.” And she says, “I didn’t, but then we started spending so much time together …”

Gotcha.

So what’s a man to do? Perhaps I could learn a thing or two from Matthew McConaughey.

You see, we had a little going-away party for one of the editors for “South Park.” His name is Gian, and he loves Hooters. In fact, he loves Hooters so much that although he is not a small man, he custom-made himself a disturbingly form-fitting Hooters girl outfit for Halloween. So, in Gian’s honor, we had the Hooters girls in their skimpy outfits come to the office with a bunch of chicken wings, and it all made for a swell goodbye.

Of the three Hooters girls working the party, two were cute and the third was hot (hotchkey is the preferred term). So who should Trey have under his arm at a party later that evening but hotchkey Hooters girl No. 3. And there they are, chilling on the sofa, when who should come strolling by but Mr. Nude Bongos himself, McConaughey. Well, he spots the little hotchkey, stops, turns to face her. He steps in front of her to be certain she is paying attention to him. She and Trey look up. Then Mr. M. pulls what I can only imagine is his patented move: Without saying a word, he cocks his head suggestively, then runs his hands through the air down either side of his body as would a model presenting the dress she has on. That’s it. He simply believes the silent presentation of his Matthew McConaughey self can lure her away. Well, wise, young hotchkey is not having any of it. With a look of disbelief at the utter lameness of what I shall henceforth call the Matthew McConaughey maneuver (3M), she turns back to Trey, and they immediately pick up their conversation where it had left off. Then, as a dejected M.M. walks away Trey shouts, “You’re all washed up, Matthew McConaughey!”

And he’s really short.

Ask yourself, how can a man ever read a woman? A man who thinks he can is a man who knows nothing.

— Robert Evans, “The Kid Stays in the Picture”

Here we go. Here’s some advice on women I can sink my teeth into. Either way, I don’t know anything, so the pressure’s off. And who better to get it from than the Hollywood bad boy himself, Robert Evans. (Evans, in case you don’t know, ran production at Paramount Pictures for many years and produced, among other things, “The Godfather” and “Chinatown.”) This guy’s autobiography is gripping, and his exploits make McConaughey’s naked bongo incident seem like afternoon tea.

On the other hand, he hit 4 for 4 in divorce court.

So maybe he’s not the guy one should look to for advice on relationships, either. However, if you want to know something about Hollywood and the way things work, read his book. Better yet, listen to the tapes. Evans’ voice will haunt you in your sleep. I got the tapes last week as a gift from “South Park” writer Pam Brady. (We call her Pam Gravy ’cause she goes good with everything.) Within two days I was on the phone with her, demanding a copy of the unabridged book, which I couldn’t find in any local bookstores and didn’t want to wait for on order.

Did she have an in? You bet she did. A few months back she and a friend had approached Evans with the idea of doing a documentary about his life. Well, from all indications in the writing, Evans is a pretty reclusive guy. But he can smell talent a mile away. In one story, he tells of looking at some film of an actor his head of talent was trying to persuade him to cast in “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.” But Evans didn’t bite on the lead guy. He wanted to meet the unknown kid in the background who didn’t even have a line. Just the smile. The kid’s name? Jack Nicholson.

So, as hesitant as Evans may have been about a documentary, Pam must have buried the needle on his talent detector. She’s funnier than any woman I know. And equally sweet. And crafty. And she rides a Vespa scooter. So it was no surprise that when I met Pam at Factor’s Famous Deli for a writers meeting last Friday, a fresh copy of the book was sitting in my place at the table.

“After you read it I’ll get him to sign it for you.” I love you, Pam Gravy!

It really is who you know. But the happy who-you-know stories are rare. It’s a small town. Play it out and eventually some who-you-know will lead around to someone-who-doesn’t-like-you. A friend of mine signed with a new agency and started taking meetings all over Hollywood. She was pitching her latest project to a producer and went on to explain how it would be different from all the bullshit movies that fell into the same genre. She tore into one movie in particular, performing a step-by-step evisceration of the film.

The producer’s wife had written it.

Luckily, he appreciated her sense of honesty.

Well, I’ve gotten away from my original topic a bit. Or maybe not. Hollywood is a strange town. Trying to have a relationship out here is difficult because the whole place pulses with an anticipation of what’s coming next, not what’s happening in the moment. By the time the Oscars air, those films have been wrapped for a year. Everyone is on to the next thing. After watching Matt and Trey go around and around with Paramount producer Scott Rudin for months, it was difficult to get my head around the fact that, by the time the “South Park” movie premiered, Scott was already halfway through producing “Sleepy Hollow” (and certainly had several other projects in the works).

Maybe I just need to slow down a bit.

Trey’s neighbor on Kauai, Kenny, and his wife moved there in 1970, lived in a tent under the bridge down the street for two months. Then they roofed a house for $2,000, bought a speedboat and began giving water-skiing lessons on the river. Thirty years later, they live in the same house, do the same thing every day, and they’re as happy as clams.

Sounds pretty good. I don’t mind camping, I’ve roofed a couple of houses and, with a little practice, I bet I could teach someone something about wakeboarding.

Nah. Who am I kidding? Gotta go, go, go.

Perhaps what Foucault says about sex could also be said about a relationship in Hollywood. Or a movie. It is always better tomorrow.

Love,

David.

So it’s June 1998. My buddy Eric and I have both registered our cars, but have put off dealing with the driver’s license — mainly because of the test. By all accounts, it’s tricky. Not “two trains leave Chicago traveling in opposite directions” tricky but, rather, “Can you park your car at a white curb if you’re a veterinarian carrying a dying raccoon?” tricky. You can get only three wrong. And who wants to study? I mean, I’ve been driving for 13 years by this point. However, if we get pulled over with California tags and out-of-state licenses — so busted. (I have three friends who are police officers. They have assured me that this is a particular pleasure.)

So, after steeling ourselves for the worst (luckily, you get to fail the written test twice before having to call it quits and return to fight another day), Eric and I hit the DMV. I hand over my New York driver’s license. The woman types in my name and birth date.

“I’m sorry, sir. You have outstanding tickets on your license from the state of New Jersey. You’ll need to get a letter of clearance from them before we can process your California driver’s license.”

None of this is true, of course. But she’s not having any of it.

“Are you sure it’s the same exact name? Same birthday? Same Social Security number? Same address?”

“I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to work it out with New Jersey.”

Little did I know, standing there in the Washington Avenue DMV, that my life was about to change forever.

The biggest mistake you can make at a DMV when you are certain they are wrong is to walk out the door. Of course, they don’t make it easy to stay. Instantly they place the burden of resolving the issue on your shoulders. And so you schlump away with your broken spirit and your meager resources and make a few phone calls. But the whole thing’s incestuous. The New Jersey DMV told me I had to contact New York. New York told me I had to contact New Jersey.

So, naive fool that I was, I returned to the California DMV and told the new woman my whole story all over again, including the parts where neither New Jersey nor New York would help me, and do you know what she said?

“Why don’t you go to New Jersey and resolve it.”

“In person? You mean fly there?”

“Yes.”

Clearly, this woman didn’t want to help me. So I called New Jersey again and made a bit of progress. The DMV there sent me copies of the two tickets on the license. They were for a David Goodman, birth date 3-12-70. That’s me, all right. But then they listed a New Jersey driver’s license number, New Jersey address, New Jersey registration, different car, different license plate number. This was not me.

I returned to the DMV with the printouts of the tickets and explained very slowly and succinctly how, despite the odds, another gentleman and I shared the same name and birth date but clearly not the same driver’s license or driving skills. The woman would not even look at the documents.

“You need a letter of clearance!”

“How can I get a letter of clearance from a state where I don’t hold a driver’s license?!”

“Figure it out!”

I was furious. “You mean to tell me, if two people have the same name and same birthday and one happens to be a crappy driver, the other one has to suffer for all eternity?!”

She nodded.

OK, I know I should have gone to a supervisor. I know I should have stayed and yelled and screamed until someone helped me. But I am lazy and don’t thoroughly enjoy confrontation.

So next I decided to take the backdoor route. I sent New Jersey a detailed letter filled with various photocopies that combined into a point-by-point refutation of any worthwhile correlation between myself and the defendant. They weren’t buying that day. I sent a second letter two months later. Their letters back were masterpieces of ignorance. Every keystroke of my missive was dedicated to explaining how I was not New Jersey Driver #G8964 etc., but how I was New York Driver #479 etc. At the top of both letters, I put: “David Goodman, re: New Jersey Driver’s License #G8964″ etc. Not even a photocopy of my current, still-valid New York license nor a printout of my (clean) New York driving record for the past four years made a dent.

Fucking furious.

Well, that was it. Fuck them and fuck you, California. I drove on my New York driver’s license and never got pulled over.

And a lot of cool shit happened. I’ve written you about most of it. Met Clint Eastwood. Partied at Penny Marshall’s. And all that time no one knew I was livin’ on the edge. No one knew I was just a few short steps away from the big house. But you know what? No one would have cared. They’re all my friends. They don’t judge me. Unlike the state of California, they accept me with my New York driver’s license. I never have to get a renewal with my friends. No one says, “Sorry, Dave, you can’t come into the party until I see your letter of clearance from New Jersey.”

But all good things must come to an end, especially when the DMV is involved. My New York license was due to expire on March 12, 2000 — I couldn’t blow it off anymore. So I buckled down, gathered my various sheaves of paperwork and went lookin’ for a fight.

But then something magical happened. I handed the woman my license and she said, “Twelve dollars, please.”

What’s this? I couldn’t speak. I wanted to cry. But I didn’t want her to wonder why I was so happy in case that would prompt an investigation. So I calmly wrote her a check for 12 clams, passed the written test and strolled my happy ass out the door.

WOOOOOO!! You cannot imagine the weight that had been lifted. I was so relieved I didn’t have to have it out yet again with the Man. But what had happened? Could it be that the evil cock Goodman born on my birthday had gotten his life together and paid the lousy $50 to reinstate his New Jersey driving privileges? I guess so.

(That’s right. I could have paid the $50 and been done with this whole mess. But you know what? That would have meant they won. And I was never going to let them win.)

So it was off to lovely Europe to celebrate while the DMV witches waved their craggy wands over the lamination machine and made my California driver’s license come true.

But then something else magical happened. Witchy magic. I returned from Europe to a letter containing this exact sentence: “We regret to inform you that the state(s) listed below have reported that your driving privilege is suspended or revoked in their state. As a result, we are unable to issue your driver’s license.” Now, bear in mind, California already had my New York license and had given me a flimsy piece of paper with a barely discernible photocopy of my face in return. It was due to expire at the end of April.

It looked like the DMV was going to have the last laugh. They let me get all excited only to screw me all the harder. I was livid. I was ready to throw myself down and do the time.

Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. The woman I explained the story to took some pity on me, actually looked at my paperwork, saw the discrepancy and said to me, “You need a letter of clearance from New Jersey.”

The counters at the DMV are quite wide, but I felt myself nimble enough to get over it and my hands around her throat with enough time left over to make it worthwhile.

“But,” she said, “you just told me you tried to get a letter of clearance twice before from New Jersey and they were no help, right?”

“Right.”

“Let me see what I can do for you.” A princess. A goddess, this woman.

What she did was get me the phone number of the California problem driver pointer system (916-657-8849, in case you ever need it). That was the best she could do, she said. It was so much more than anyone else had done that I nearly dampened her desk with my tears.

Well, one phone call later and everything was fine. My new driver’s license was on the way. Why so easy? Well, despite my repeatedly asking every cranky, unfriendly, unwilling soul, “Are you sure?” and “Can you double-check?” they all overlooked one small fact: The criminal David Goodman in New Jersey has a different middle name.

Love,

David.

(What has happened to me? Have I lost all perspective? What kind of a dick goes on an all-expense-paid, first-class trip to London and Paris and is not fully blown away by it? Yes, I am very grateful. No, I don’t think I deserve it. It’s just that this life has afforded me so many opportunities, each new one makes the last one less distinct. Just when I think things can’t get better, life cranks up a notch. And it seems like it is never going to end. But it has to, right? My favorite — and the least likely — termination scenario involves 10 more years of playtime, another five or so for reflection and mental percolation and then two more to write a novel. More likely, there will be a plane crash.)

We fly out on Virgin Upper Class, which actually positions us, on a Boeing 747-400, farther forward than the cockpit. Right up there in the nose. The seats are gigantic, with automatic leg rests and lumbar supports, and there is enough room for a flight attendant to stand between you and the seat in front of you. There are also complimentary toilet kits and champagne. But what pushes it over the edge for me are the purple sleep suits, complete with booties. I stole the entire outfit.

(Actually, what pushes me over the edge is the peek I sneak at the itinerary. It shows the total cost of airfare: $11,181. But this is not what gets me. It’s that I am not remotely daunted by this amount of money, despite it being the equivalent of several months of my salary.)

We touch down at Heathrow at 11 a.m. Our bodies think it is 2 a.m. This will be a persistent problem.

No matter. Off to the hotel, One Aldwych, right in the thick of things. Trey and Matt each have a suite. Jennifer and I each have our own room. One Aldwych calls itself a modern luxury hotel, and it delivers. The place is crazy good. There are two fresh plums on a small silver tray sitting on the desk in my room. I set my bags down, take off my shoes. My thumb presses the plum gently onto the knife blade, and I spin the whole thing around, pivoting on the pit. With a twist, half the fruit comes away. I think to myself, if the fruit tastes sweet it will be a good trip.

(What am I doing? Why even consider the chance the trip will be bad? It’s an all-expense-paid first-class package to Europe. Why am I pondering a bad outcome?)

As Matt and Trey begin their first afternoon of press, Jennifer and I spend time in One Aldwych’s lobby bar, “one of the best hotel bars in the world.” I read that in some hotel guide, and it’s true. High-ceilinged, classy, well-lighted. Jennifer prudently orders a club soda. By now my body thinks it is 4 a.m. I order a Tanqueray and tonic. A couple of drinks later and we head upstairs to shower in preparation for dinner with some Warner Bros. people.

Right after the meal would be a prudent time to go to bed. Matt and Trey have to do the “Big Breakfast,” a live, high-energy morning show, at 7, which means leaving the hotel at 6. Plus, no one has slept in 23 hours. But, as I said, our hotel has “one of the best hotel bars in the world.” Three hours later we’re standing in that same lobby, showered and dressed, feeling shaky.

George, our driver, is wide awake. Everyone at the “Big Breakfast” is equally zesty. Standing off in a corner, I look out the window. It is still dark out. I check my watch. 7:13. Seems like it should be lighter. I wonder if the windows are tinted for the cameras. I crack the door. Nope, no tint, just another dark and gloomy London morning. Oh well, we’ve been doing our best work at night anyway.

Our friend Stevan arranges for dinner at Nobu, Robert DeNiro’s restaurant in the Metropolitan Hotel. I am feeling ill and consider leaving before the evening starts. Matt offers some advice:

“Stay on the train. You only get hurt getting on and getting off.”

I order two double Macallans. Choo-choo!

The ambience is pleasant and the food good, but it is served sporadically, a small portion at a time. Matt, who must eat often and in large quantities, is irritated. However, Trey has devised a clever way to pass the time. Sitting behind us are a woman with gigantic breasts, whom Trey dubs Boobtor, and her date, a rather diminutive guy with a large beak, who is termed Nosetron. Thus our entire table engages in commentary on their mock battle for dating supremacy:

“Be careful Nosetron, you must not underestimate the powers of Boobtor!”

“You’re right! But with my nose-ray — (struggling) I — might — be — able — to — defeat — her!”

While Trey and Matt’s super-celebrity powers don’t get us served any faster, they do afford the guys a brief meeting with Al Pacino and Oliver Stone, who have taken a table in some sort of secret back room of the restaurant. They are in London to promote the release of “Any Given Sunday.” I see Stone from a distance and believe all the rumors. Matt and Trey return a little dazed and confused.

(I had an opportunity to meet Pacino. I just didn’t care. Something is wrong with me.)

Of course, a visit to a foreign city wouldn’t be complete without a trip to a strip club, so Trey and I cap off the evening at a dive called Sophisticats. It is truly horrible, not least of all because in London the dancers are required by law to stay three feet from you. Las Vegas never seemed so far away.

Two and a half hours later, it’s morning. I’m showered, dressed and walking up the street toward the BBC. Jennifer and I sip bad coffee as Trey and Matt tear through some radio interviews. Everyone is hurting.

On Friday, Jennifer and Matt take the Chunnel train to Paris. Trey and I stay on for a couple of days to hook up with Trey’s friend Nick Rhodes, the keyboard player for Duran Duran.

On Saturday, Nick calls, fresh in from Milan. He’s made reservations at the Ivy. Because I am nervous about meeting Nick, I suggest to Trey a drink for courage. If he is nervous, he doesn’t let it show.

Stevan joins us just as we’re being seated. Nick orders the first of several bottles of Saint Emilion, and it successfully unties the knot in my stomach. By the end of dinner I am able to initiate normal, human conversation with Nick and not feel like an idiot.

(Thank God I am a little giddy around Nick. Otherwise, I would have flown home right then.)

The rest of that night is kind of a blur. We’re at some club called Noble Rot. Then a girl Trey knows shows up, lifts her shirt and orders a round of Absinthe. After that it’s only fragments. Nick’s devilish grin as he says, “Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder!” Stevan handling a snooty waitress with his typical aplomb. Me arguing with Nick and Stevan that Cezanne is the greatest painter of all while simultaneously threatening to kill anyone who comes close to our table.

A truly vicious drink.

Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack goes the Chunnel train as it lumbers toward Paris. My stomach is extremely pissed off at me. My head is throbbing. Oh, and I’m facing the wrong way. Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.

I brush off what little French I have in the arsenal to thank the driver and tumble into the Hotel George V — the Four Seasons Paris.

Turns out we’ve come all this way just to be condescended to by the French. (In case you were wondering, it costs about 4000 francs a day to be stared at because you don’t tuck in your shirt.) Even a view of the Eiffel Tower framed in my window doesn’t erase the fact we’re required to wear a suit jacket at every meal except breakfast. So that’s the only meal we eat in the hotel, and we all order Breakfast Americain because fuck ‘em.

At One Aldwych, where they know a thing or two about subtlety, they gave me two fresh pieces of different fruit every day for the five days I was there. At the Hotel George V, they gave me one plate of fruit, which they let decay throughout my visit. I think that says it all.

Au revoir.

(I guess I should be grateful to Paris for tearing everything down for me, because I learned, or was reminded, that life is in the details. In making these comparisons between London and France,
between one hotel and the other, I realized that I am not necessarily snobby — although I have my moments — but I am becoming more and more appreciative of smaller and smaller things. It’s a good bet that when I go back to London and/or Paris, I’ll be paying for it myself and so flying coach and staying at the Holiday Inn. But I’d rather stay at the Holiday Inn with cool people who are fun to be around than stay at The Palace of Condescension in Paris for free. I’d rather hang out with people like Stevan and Nick, two gentlemen, than with any of the fake hangers-on I met. I’d much rather hang with Matt and Trey when they are farting on Jennifer in the car than when they are — and by extension, I am — getting the VIP treatment at some club. Because life is really about being with friends and farting on people.)

We’re off to New York, as Trey and Matt are getting photographed by Annie Liebovitz. Since there is a schedule, we have to hurry. That means the Concorde. It is in fact quite a small plane. It seats 100, but the accommodations, space-wise, are coachlike.

Now, I am not complaining. I simply want you to know what your money is going to get you. Rumor has it the Concorde is going under, because even at $4,500 each way, it isn’t covering fuel costs. And that makes sense. Mach 2 puts you in New York from Paris in three hours. That’s a lot of gas.

Love,

David.