Another Sunday

Ah yes. Another Sunday morning. Nursing a mild hangover from last night's party- a friend's birthday bash. Brought my own (Guinness) and worked steadily through them. Like a meal in a glass. Quite different to my recent discovery - Canadian whisky. (Not the first thing that pops into your head when you think of big Canadian exports!)

Old friend from South Africa, actor/filmmaker Brendan Pollecutt, celebrated on the roof of his Hollywood pad. Great views of the city, incessant fire engines sirening back and forth, and regular helicopter fly-bys courtesy of the LAPD. LA is a noisy city. As are it's occupants. I used to think that Americans were only loud when they're abroad, but it seems they are loud at home, too. Now I know why. It's the constant rumble of white noise that the city puts out. Like a gigantic tv that's lost the signal, spewing out static 24hrs a day.

That said, it makes for animated conversation. And from the surrounding apartments, it may have looked like a charming game of charades. Up until Vaughn pulled his pants down and Brendan spooned David standing up. But then. alcohol does strange things to straight men. Nothing that a couple of Ibuprofen can't mend. Failing that, there's always a trip to the store for a bottle of Canada's finest...