Morpheus And I Go Through Lindsay’s Bags

You can go months without seeing a celebrity in this town. Then suddenly they are coming out of the woodwork and literally throwing themselves at me, desperate to get written up on my humble blog. It’s a little demeaning I think.

Anyway, there is a mate of mine Nick, who I was the best man for a couple of years back, who is cruising through LA on his way to a commercials shoot. I always get a little excited when Nick comes to town, of all the people I know, I often feel like this city would be his natural environment. So much so that in his pre-wedding days, Scott and I had given him a t-shirt that said, “I’m a director, chicks dig me.” The guy exudes this wonderful, “seen it all and still like it” worldliness as he checks out the planet behind excellent shades and an enviable collection of denim.

So of course when Nick hits the town, there is only one place to stay; The Chateau Marmont. For those not familiar, this is the kind of epicenter of trans-generational Hollywood cool. Yes, there are always the places that come along to steal the limelight for a moment, but it all comes back to the Marmont. John Belushi OD’ed here, Sam Rockwell is often at the bar, Meryl Streep stays here when she flies in for the Oscars and it’s the place for actors to hole up while the house in the hills is being renovated, or they are dodging the cops and speaking to the world through their publicists.

Nick, naturally, is to be found here when he is in town. And I love it because it gives me an excuse to actually be here. With KITT, my trusty steed, valeted, I ascend the carpeted stairs into the inner sanctum.

You pray for something to happen in a place like this, I mean who wants to come and just walk to the elevator and go up. Boring.

And happen it does. It just so happens that Nick’s trip co-incides with one of Lindsay Lohan’s Marmont shut-ins. She favors this place as her home away from rehab and is apparently behind on the rent and being tossed out that morning. So as I try to make my way to the elevator I am met with 18 or so bags strewn across the lobby. It’s not a big lobby, so this means that a Louis Vuitton barricade has been stretched across the floor like a crime scene.

Then it hits me just how sad this is. I mean really, what the hell happened to this girl? Why am I sitting here looking at her belongings as she’s being tossed out with probably no place to go. But like a rubber necker at a freeway pile-up, I can’t help myself and I scan the room, hoping that she will be there somewhere behind a veil of Chanel sunglass.

Then I notice to my right that someone else is having a problem trying to traverse the luggage line. I turn to see Lawrence Fishburne wondering what the best way is around this problem.

He looks at me as though I may have found a gap. I immediately want to take the blue pill, see how far the rabbit hole goes, fight the machines, wear gay/skinhead/Sinead O’Conner gear from the 90’s… But I recover in time to offer him this.

I motion to the bags with both hands and go, “Pfff…”. And to my surprise he does exactly the same. And we look at each other as though this is just a naturally occurring, annoying phenomenon of living in a big city.

Pushing my luck I even offer a, “Right?” and bravely step over the pile. He follows suit and while I pray with every fibre of my being that he will get in the elevator with me and I can pretend that we’re going to see the Oracle, he takes the stairs.

But he did follow my lead with the bags, so I think that makes me “The One”, at least for this afternoon, as poor Lindsay gets unplugged from the Matrix.

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