I don’t know what Brittany Murphy died from after flying home from a Moscow party. But 12.5 hours in the air from Moscow to Los Angeles is enough to finish anyone off all by itself. We survived. During the flight, it became clear that there’s a huge Armenian community in LA. So naturally, the plane was full of Armenians. Each one was trying to cram something the size of Mount Ararat into their carry-on and bring it into the cabin. There were loads of Armenian grandmas and grandpas who didn’t speak English and were suffering badly because of it. I even had to act as an interpreter for one old man at passport control, where the stern questions nearly gave him a heart attack. So, anyway. Greetings from Hollywood, everyone. It’s a funny feeling, really—living somewhere with the mailing address West Hollywood, Sunset Blvd. It’s like finding yourself inside a TV series. And there’s also a Hand in our room. I even took a picture of it.
The hotel was designed by the famous Philippe Starck, so the hand is probably meant to have some more conceptual significance than just “don’t forget to leave a tip,” but we couldn’t figure out what it was supposed to mean. We’ve gone to sleep, and LJplus will publish this post at 1:30 p.m. Moscow time.
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