And, Apparently, Matt Sorum Is On Drums

And, apparently, Matt Sorum is on drums.

I don’t not believe it because Paris Hilton was here earlier and I guess she’s important, which isn’t to say that I don’t know who Paris Hilton is but is to say that fuck Paris Hilton because she’s a dirty slut and no one likes dirty sluts. I mean, I guess that’s what I’m supposed to say, even though Paris Hilton, as it turns out, is fucking gorgeous in person.

Yeah, I was just as surprised as you are. And that raised the question that is foremost in my mind — or was foremost in my mind, back when Paris Hilton was here because she left this party awhile ago — and that question is this: Even though I have a girlfriend, would I have sex with Paris Hilton? I think the answer, bless my girlfriend’s heart, is yes. First, for the story, and second because even though I don’t like it and you don’t like it, she’s sort of the Marilyn Monroe of our time. If it’s not Lindsay Lohan or Kim Kardashian or Lady Gaga. I mean, don’t kiss and tell and all that but come on, that’s why she’s famous in the first place, isn’t it.

The thing I have to figure out now, though, is where Jordan is. I think he’s upstairs with some girl he didn’t know before we came here tonight, but I can’t be confident because Jordan is drunk and I’m a little drunk and I can’t be sure that Jordan is where I think he is. In fact, Jordan could be on the way to his house in Beverlywood with whichever model it was that he was talking to. Which would leave me in quite the bind because I have no idea where I am other than Bel Air and my phone is dead, probably from its long and fruitless search for service in this receptionless house.

I could do another lap. Maybe Jordan will turn up in the kitchen, or the rec room, or maybe he’s been hiding outside by the fire pit where I talked for 30 minutes with this model (duh) about her favorite book. She said it was Born Standing Up by Steve Martin, which I’ve never read. Good for her, though, first, for having a favorite book and, second, for having a favorite book that was written by a comedian. And further, good for her for knowing who Mitch Hedberg is and who David Cross is and who Bill Hicks is.

The thing about models is that they’re people too. A lot lot lot of them are dull and vapid, but not all of them. Because the other thing about models — besides them being people — is that most models aren’t Models. That is, most of them aren’t going to be on the cover of Vogue. Most of them make about $1000 every couple of weeks, and in some cases, this means that they have time to learn about books and music and movies and life and stuff.

But then that model’s boyfriend came and sat on her lap and even though I have the aforementioned girlfriend I was a little angry because who the fuck has a ponytail AND a goatee and, further, who the fuck dates that guy, especially when you’re taller than that guy AND he has a ponytail AND a goatee. But whatever. Sure, I’ll follow you inside and watch the guy who owns this house play with his band.

The guy whose house it is is some kind of heir to some kind of fortune. My source (Jordan, back when I knew where he was) told me that it’s agricultural-based, and that the rest of this guy’s siblings are dead and man would that suck, almost as much as being granted wealth by dint of your genetics as opposed to by dint of your work ethic. But I guess even work ethic is passed down to you on some level, a little like money.

Jordan told me, while we stood in this guy’s driveway waiting for confirmation of our invitation, that the guy was strange but Jordan says that about lots of people. Anyway, Jordan was right. Once we got inside, and sometime after I noticed that two-thirds of the crowd was female and that half of that crowd (that’s one-third of the total crowd, thank you, fourth-grade fractions) had to be models, and here we are back to the model thing and you’re going to think that I have some fascination with models, but models are tall and pretty and, well, if you’re going to pick a group of people to be interested in, it’s not a bad one, but anyway, once we got inside I said thanks to this guy for inviting me, even though he hadn’t really invited me. And he said Sure man and looked past me like people do in Los Angeles, but that’s cool because even though I’d like to get into the INNER CIRCLE so I can be invited to more parties like this one, I’m just not the sort who can schmooze well enough to hold this guy’s attention.

You’re probably wondering why I would even think of stooping so low as schmoozing with this guy because, yeah, there’s a part of me that hates these people and this party. But there’s a bigger part of me that fucking loves it here. I mean, there’s a pool table and a swimming pool and a hot tub and a waterfall and anyone who says they wouldn’t want to be here is lying in the same way that some guy who says he wouldn’t make it with Paris Hilton is probably lying.

So I started to follow Steve Martin and the Goatee inside but then I got sidetracked by this girl I talked to before Steve Martin. She said that she and her friends were leaving for Voyeur, which is that club that got the RNC in trouble. The news said it was a strip club or a gentleman’s club I guess but that’s not actually true. Mostly, there are girls in cages on the wall and some of those girls don’t have shirts on, but really it’s just an LA nightclub, ridiculous and terrible and wonderful all at the same time. Not that I know this from experience. The closest I ever got to the place was to stand in line outside it while Jordan (always Jordan) tried to get us inside but we had a shitload of dudes and no girls and it was a futile effort in the end.

The girl who’s going to Voyeur said she wanted to give me her number and man oh man did I want to take it because she’s 20 and she’s five-foot-ten and she goes to Loyola Marymount and she says she’s modeling a little but it’s probably going nowhere fast because she’s not that good-looking but goddamn she’s a lot better-looking than the girls I’ve been seeing all winter in Kansas City. We can just be buddies, then, she said, when I told her that I am embroiled in this complicated long-distance relationship (which is true, incidentally, although I may have put a lot of extra emphasis on the complicated because I’m not perfect) and I said okay and typed her number into my phone.

She strolled away and I hung back because we didn’t need to have one of those awkward encounters like you have in the grocery store where you see the same person over and over and finally you break down and say, Bagels, huh? And you share a nervous laugh even while you’re killing yourself inside and she’s rolling her eyes a little.

While I was waiting for the coast to clear, I looked up and damned if I wasn’t standing right under a piñata that had had another piñata strapped onto it. The second piñata was a giant pink penis made out of paper mache, then again, what else would a piñata be made out of, but fine, now it was like I was standing underneath a sprig of porno mistletoe.

When it had been five minutes I skipped down the stairs and grabbed a Tecate and walked past the chairs where Paris was sitting earlier when Jordan said, “Don’t look now but Paris Hilton’s about four feet from you.” And I can’t believe I’m talking about Paris Hilton again but did I mention that she looked like a young Gwyneth Paltrow. A lot of people are hard on Gwyneth Paltrow but I’m not one of those people.

I followed the sound of music to the living room and call me a liar if there wasn’t an entire stage set up, or what looked like a stage anyway. The guy whose house it is was singing and he’s not terrible and even though they’re doing covers and I hate cover bands, whatever, it’s one in the morning and I don’t have anything else to do, especially now that I’ve lost Jordan.

So I take a sip of the Tecate, which is remarkably cold for how long it’s been outside but I guess it’s been in a cooler this whole time, a cooler that, I’m sure, this guy singing had nothing to do with preparing, making this unlike any party I’ve ever thrown. And this girl comes over and says that she doesn’t know where her friend went and we have that in common I guess and then I find out that she’s from Nebraska and she moved out here a month ago and that makes me happy because this is what I like about LA, aside from the models, of course, this feeling of hope that people have. Sure, that hope gets ruined and twisted and bastardized because there are guys like this guy singing Whole Lotta Love and there are girls who will probably blow him later just because he’s rich and he invited them to this party but at least there’s this screenwriter from Nebraska and she makes it okay that I don’t know where Jordan is. So we talk for awhile and even though I’m comforted by having a comrade in arms I’m still worried about how I’m going to get home because, honestly, I’m not entirely sure where Bel Air is in relation to Culver City and even if I did how the hell would I get there. It’s not like I can bum a ride from someone and this area isn’t exactly rife with taxis doing drive-bys but then I guess I could act like I passed out on a couch but that’s not really my style and holy shit how awful would that be in the morning.

And then she leans in and says,

And, apparently, Matt Sorum is on drums.

I turn and I look and the thing is, she’s probably right. Because why wouldn’t the drummer from Guns ‘N Fucking Roses be friends with this guy. Or if not friends, acquaintances or heroin buddies or just mooching off the guy.

And I can’t stop laughing, so much so that I have to go into the other room because I don’t want this guy who’s singing and who’s been kind enough to let me into his home to think that I’m laughing at him. I’m laughing because it doesn’t matter where Jordan is because everything’s going to be alright, not because it actually is but because I got to come to this party and I’ll walk home if I have to because that’s the other thing about LA: it’s weird and fucked up and shallow and sad and depressing sometimes but the thing is, you just never know when you might hear,

And, apparently, Matt Sorum is on drums.

Originally published at www.flipcollective.com on May 17, 2011.