OpinionIsTas.com
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opinionistas.com
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Boyfriend is in L.A. on business, and I’ve caught a last minute flight to join him for a few days of palm-treed, expense-accounted glory. Unlike Santa Monica, basically just South Beach and Park Slope thrown in a Cuisinart, L.A. proper has a unique self-obsession that New Yorkers can instantly identify with. After bidding Boyfriend farewell as he drives off to juggle egos that make the greatest law firm narcissists sound like candidates for the next Dalai Lama, I head to the pool with laptop in tow, preparing to get some work done.
Wading through jiggly bleached blondes with rawhide tans, I find a chair and settle in as a beefy attendant with Jason Priestly hair trots over with a towel. A gorgeous waitress in a sarong and baby tee glides over and asks if I’d like a drink. Glad I’m wearing sunglasses, I stare enviously at her exposed abs, defined to the point of concave. A Bloody Mary, please, plus about six months of personal training sessions.
In the chaises beside me sit two men sipping thick green concoctions, immersed in conversation. Both wear small, rectangular sunglasses and loose linen shirts over fitted black slacks, their pockets bulging with Blackberries and Treos, the ubiquitous tan gleaming from their arms and cheeks. One tells the other that he loved the script, but has some questions. With a New Yorker’s ease in close physical proximity, I fall into practiced eavesdropping.
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