Diary – 29 July 2005

Unlike Randy Newman, I’ve always loved LA in a completely unironic way. I love the climate, the light, the vegetation, the fake breasts, the lot. And the celebrity culture is impossible to get used to: I still get a childish thrill when I pull up to the lights and find myself next to Tom Cruise or Samuel L. Jackson. It’s fun. Puts a spring in your step (if you can have one in a rented Range Rover). We had an Aren’t We Clever To Be Here celebration there a few weeks ago, a party in the penthouse at the infamous Chateau Marmont, and most of the guests (gilt-edged parentheses for Elton John, Daniel Craig, David Furnish, Sam Taylor-Wood, Bret Easton Ellis and the cast of Desperate Housewives) had some sort of irreducible essence. As Bernie Taupin gazed out over sunset-bathed Hollywood, he said, ‘There’s a lot of famous people out there, a lot of dangerous people too — who knows what trouble they’re going to get into tonight?’ Trouble seems serendipitous in this town, and whenever I’ve gone looking for it I have always returned home early, disappointed and sober.