The First U.S. Open Polo Championship is played in Van Courtlandt Park
along the edge of the Bronx in New York City, the Wanderers defeating the Freebooters.
The tournament would evolve into the most prestigious polo tournament in the United States and eventually move to Welllington, "an equestrian suburb" in Palm Beach County, Florida, which in 1904 was still alligator-infested swampland.
Gentle Reader, yesterday was a very busy day. BD very graciously took us to lunch at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel where the valets -- who I assume are hired at least in part because of how good they look in pink polo shirts -- make more money than you and I do and get to run back and forth all day and night which is wonderful exercize parking and fetching vehicles which cost more than the average American single-family home, at least back in the days when the Average American family was still making the mortgage payments, before the foreclosure.
You may be surprised, but this was my first visit to the "Pink Hotel" and I am told that nothing has been changed in the famous decor -- palm frond wallpaper, green and white striped ceilings -- it's everything you've heard, my possum, and I can promise you, the Polo Lounge is a lovely place to dine. BD let me sit where I could see who was coming in so I could warn him, but not in an obvious way, and I was allowed to order anything I wanted except the caviar which, at $170.00 for a lunch serving even I found a little grand!
Now remember, L.A. is a town where you can actually be waited on by someone who used to own a house in the hills and drive a Ferrari (before his series got cancelled or his "friend" threw him out) -- so right before that magic moment when everyone begins to look vaguely famous and even the waiter starts to resemble a recurring character on a TV series from last season, "Someone Famous" was indeed ushered to a table under one of the trees across the way.
BD could tell by the strained and studied lack of expression on my face and the sudden reach for sunglasses that A Person Of Interest had arrived. He put his Prada frames on in anticpation and leaned across the table toward me. "Who is it," he hissed.
"I can't remember his name," I replied through gritted teeth.
Making a reference to the deleterious effects of Aspertame on the brain (my brain, more specifically), BD casually shifted in his seat. "Damn," he whispered, turning back again quickly. "He caught me looking right at him."
"But who..." I urged.
"I can't remember either," he answered sharply.
The famous McCarthy Salad and Foie Gras arrived shortly thereafter and jogged our memories. Almost simultaneously.
"Kiss," I blurted out.
"Gene Simmons," BD said, again more specifically.
Yes, the exceedingly wealthy founder of the band known for white-face make-up and sticking their tongues out, the star of a reality show, and the former Chaim Witz of Haifa Israel who emigrated to this country in 1957 was sitting across the garden courtyard at the Polo Lounge, having lunch.
Not of course Jean Simmons, the lovely English actress, which some people would confuse him with later when I told them who we'd seen.
Later, in fact, was at a Mixer for elligible bachelors at Chocolat (formerly Moustache) on Melrose, which BD and I attended last evening, hoping to meet other like-minded gentlemen with similar tastes who were, loosely speaking, single and who had torn themselves away from ManHunt long enough to leave the house and interact over hors d'oeuvres and cocktails. I met my dentist and got caught up, which seems to be my fate at these things -- the last time it was my optometrist. Additionally, both BD and I managed to avoid a couple of insane people we already knew from brief and unsettling encounters in the past, and in the end wound up talking NOT (a) to the god with the nametag Luca with biceps like pigs swallowed by boa constrictors, nor (b) Sebastian, the Tahitian boy with sleepy eyes but (c) to an I.T. guy and his buddy who worked for a heterosexually-oriented publication. Then we slipped away, congratulating ourselves on showing up in the flesh, and remarking that the food couldn't come close to the quality we had enjoyed at the Polo Lounge, but then, we hadn't expected it to.
And another busy day in Los Angeles drew to a close.
The tournament would evolve into the most prestigious polo tournament in the United States and eventually move to Welllington, "an equestrian suburb" in Palm Beach County, Florida, which in 1904 was still alligator-infested swampland.
Gentle Reader, yesterday was a very busy day. BD very graciously took us to lunch at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel where the valets -- who I assume are hired at least in part because of how good they look in pink polo shirts -- make more money than you and I do and get to run back and forth all day and night which is wonderful exercize parking and fetching vehicles which cost more than the average American single-family home, at least back in the days when the Average American family was still making the mortgage payments, before the foreclosure.
You may be surprised, but this was my first visit to the "Pink Hotel" and I am told that nothing has been changed in the famous decor -- palm frond wallpaper, green and white striped ceilings -- it's everything you've heard, my possum, and I can promise you, the Polo Lounge is a lovely place to dine. BD let me sit where I could see who was coming in so I could warn him, but not in an obvious way, and I was allowed to order anything I wanted except the caviar which, at $170.00 for a lunch serving even I found a little grand!
Now remember, L.A. is a town where you can actually be waited on by someone who used to own a house in the hills and drive a Ferrari (before his series got cancelled or his "friend" threw him out) -- so right before that magic moment when everyone begins to look vaguely famous and even the waiter starts to resemble a recurring character on a TV series from last season, "Someone Famous" was indeed ushered to a table under one of the trees across the way.
BD could tell by the strained and studied lack of expression on my face and the sudden reach for sunglasses that A Person Of Interest had arrived. He put his Prada frames on in anticpation and leaned across the table toward me. "Who is it," he hissed.
"I can't remember his name," I replied through gritted teeth.
Making a reference to the deleterious effects of Aspertame on the brain (my brain, more specifically), BD casually shifted in his seat. "Damn," he whispered, turning back again quickly. "He caught me looking right at him."
"But who..." I urged.
"I can't remember either," he answered sharply.
The famous McCarthy Salad and Foie Gras arrived shortly thereafter and jogged our memories. Almost simultaneously.
"Kiss," I blurted out.
"Gene Simmons," BD said, again more specifically.
Yes, the exceedingly wealthy founder of the band known for white-face make-up and sticking their tongues out, the star of a reality show, and the former Chaim Witz of Haifa Israel who emigrated to this country in 1957 was sitting across the garden courtyard at the Polo Lounge, having lunch.
Not of course Jean Simmons, the lovely English actress, which some people would confuse him with later when I told them who we'd seen.
Later, in fact, was at a Mixer for elligible bachelors at Chocolat (formerly Moustache) on Melrose, which BD and I attended last evening, hoping to meet other like-minded gentlemen with similar tastes who were, loosely speaking, single and who had torn themselves away from ManHunt long enough to leave the house and interact over hors d'oeuvres and cocktails. I met my dentist and got caught up, which seems to be my fate at these things -- the last time it was my optometrist. Additionally, both BD and I managed to avoid a couple of insane people we already knew from brief and unsettling encounters in the past, and in the end wound up talking NOT (a) to the god with the nametag Luca with biceps like pigs swallowed by boa constrictors, nor (b) Sebastian, the Tahitian boy with sleepy eyes but (c) to an I.T. guy and his buddy who worked for a heterosexually-oriented publication. Then we slipped away, congratulating ourselves on showing up in the flesh, and remarking that the food couldn't come close to the quality we had enjoyed at the Polo Lounge, but then, we hadn't expected it to.
And another busy day in Los Angeles drew to a close.
darling - how super - the BH Hotel.
I sometimes went to their breakfast "joint" in the lower levels when I wanted to pay a lot for corned beef hash (excellent protein) with valet parking.
I say "joint" (just like Rob Lowe did in "About Last Night" when trying to impress Demi on the kind of establishment he wanted to own) because it was designed so celebs could pretend they were in a parallel uinverse, still eating in the type of diner they once worked in back home but now could sit at the counter with other celebs (and pharma-magnates at the hotel for their annual off-site in ill advised white shorts)
have a beautiful thursday - the temperature has FINALLY dropped in NYC as we welcome fall.