Barney's Fifth Marcus

It had been awhile. A very long time. I thought I was getting soft as I was getting older. But then it all came rushing back to me today, and it felt great. It was almost like the feeling never left, yet at the same time the absence made it's return all the sweeter. I was back to hating rich people.

I had to go into Beverly Hills for work. The 90210 is one of the most obnoxious parts of L.A. and the Wilshire-and-Rodeo section may be the rotten core. It's a highly congested neighborhood made all the more maddening by gawking tourists and dumbass rich old drivers who either refuse to make that right-hand turn or cut you off doing so. Then of course there's the liberal dosage of rude jerks you get in wealthy neighborhoods.

Not only was I forced to go to Beverly Hills - to the Wilshire-Rodeo section - but I was going specifically to Nieman Marcus. And Barney's New York. And Saks Fifth Avenue.

The men's and women's stores.

I was returning clothes for the wardrobe department. In an earlier post I mentioned how I get overwhelmed in malls. How I get freaked out when I have to go into American Eagle or the Gap or, God forbid, Bloomingdale's. But Barney's? Saks? Jesus, this could only end badly.

First of all, it took me twenty-three minutes of circling the stores like a moth does a streetlamp before I found a parking lot that wasn't full. So I got pissed off at some annoying bitch who stopped in the middle of the cross walk, blocking me for awhike as she looked for her cell phone, and then was forced to drive past her three more times as I looked for parking and she chatted on the sidewalk. I finally found a garage that accepted parking validation from Saks.

My return to the Saks women's store went fine. Then back to the car for the Barney's stuff. Then into Barney's. Again, no problem. Both places were filled with well-dressed gay men and rich 45-year-old blonde women with fake boobs and a slight buzz from their martini lunch to get them through their meaningless days. Then I went to Nieman Marcus. And the bag broke. And all the clothes spilled out. And they knocked over a make-up stand. Nothing broke, but everything clattered. And all the rich people looked at me in my jeans and t-shirt with armpit stains. A manager came over and cleaned it up. He was very nice, and actually apologized to me for the Nieman's bag that broke and caused me to drop all my shit. See, I was pretty sure he knew I wasn't a real customer, but he couldn't be positive since dressing down is chic in L.A. So he had to be nice just in case. I should have played that angle for my own amusement, but I wanted to get the hell out of there as fast as I could. So I made my return and left.

Then I went to Sak's (the men's store). No escalators. I had 4 heavy bags, all of them long dresses and suits so I had to hold them so my arms were half-raised, like in the middle of a movement I couldn't finish. And my arms were killing. And I waited for the elevator -- any 1 of the 3 would do. And waited. And waited. And it finally came. And it went down. And no one got on. And we went back up. To the first floor where I started. And the door opened and no one got on. And we went to the second floor. Where who got on? Right -- no one. And then finally to the third floor. Apparently at Sak's the elevators stop at all the floors, but they only ding! at the floor whose button is pressed. So finally I made the return. And I went back down, stopping at each and every floor. And by now I'm cussing under my breath (shit, fuck, ass bitch, damn, piss, dick) and I step off the elevator and head for the door.

And realize I forgot to get my parking validated.

So back up I went, checking in on each floor again, got the parking validated, and back down. And now when the elevator stopped at the second floor I lost it and hit the wall. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of this plastic, obnoxious, overbearing urine-soaked (well, not so much urine-soaked) hell-hole.

And then a gorgeous, down-to-earth-yet-really-fucking-hot brunette of unidentified exotic origin (Latina? Indian? Spanish? Italian?) got on.

And I didn't want to leave Beverly Hills. Ever.