Massive One at the Marmont. (I wish they all could be Californian hurls)

May I chronicle a forty eight hour bender? Sweet. So it started a couple of nights ago at the Marmont, yeah where Fatty Arbuckle was framed, where the Deppster threw his TV off the balcony, all that. Oh before that, see my brain is fricken pankakes and scrambled eggs - I'll get to them - we went to the Standard, nice, you'd like it. The drummer from Grand Final suggested martinis, I chose the kind where they replace the squirt of juice with congac - if I recall correctly it was called a Hypnotic. We watched a girl just hanging out in a glass box, was dissapointed to find that they can't see you from in there, kind of spoiled the fun. Compared skin regimes with my actor/drummer tourguide. Two sessions of hypnosis later I'm contemplating jumping in the pool - something I haven't done in years - fully clothed. Yeah the Marmont. Was like Surry Hills on a tops night - a bit sticky, especially the prices, but totes bacchanalian parade with heavy lashings of vodka. Around this point I lost a day - but not before discovering The International House of Pankakes - open 24 hours - where I celebrated the American dream of having everything on your plate at once, at whatever hour, with blueberry fricken sauce on it. Found myself at this ace designer's party, once again had pangs of longing for the Hills, trying to focus on a girl called Gina, from the South, who was wearing a white hard-hat and little else. Had the stereotypical fun that can be had with cats who don't know we speak English in Australia. The gin martinis were ridiculously free, as were the vats of vodka and cranberry and buckets of beer one of which I know I knocked into a pool at some point. Bands kept appearing and playing, in hardhats, then vanishing. And hundreds of rooms with no furniture - things started spinning a little B. Easton Ellis. At some point it dawned on me that there were quite a few tarts in hardhats, they were a motif if you will, there were rows of them in fact, on the wall, screaming wear me. The drummer from Grand Final and I didn't need much convincing. Well, weren't we a hit. After filling our pockets with free beer in an extremely Australian way we jumped in that cute guy from Thunderstruck's sixty dollar car and abandoned it somewhere near a place called Velvet something. Jumped onto the tequila with a top chap from Who's Line Is It Anyway? He's been making war veterans, most of them limbless and nineteen, laugh themselves better in their military hospital beds. Vince Vaughn checked me out and couldn't think of a thing to say. The ladies here, very forward. We talked, oh we talked, of bands called Metal Skool and the horrible Pantera thing, and like everyone has a fricken tatoo. The Who's Line guy, Jeff was his name, showed us how to drink a creation designed to hurt on the way down, like really hurt, for exactly five seconds, then an apparent explosion of euphoria and warmth. He was dead on. That young actor from the Tracker had a Spanish friend who was just grabbing chicks and making them listen to him, and they loved it. A bartender named Alex was very generous - then the predictable dejavu of my return to the House of Pankakes. Here the wheels fell squarely off shit. I only recently woke on the kitchen floor of some new friends here in Hollywood, their cat judging me, with a plane to catch, ten bucks, and too much shopping to pack. And of course the blistering thirst for a beer at the Budgie Jar, Oxford Street, Sydney.