Paid Kiss

Earlier this week I worked on location in a Hollywood hot spot. I spent the morning hanging around Eva Longoria's Beso, soaked with beer and liquor from every night it'd seen before, and full of flashy but mop-able surfaces. How else can you explain dark red snakeprint couch cushions, seemingly leather from far away but as safe from stains as a kindergartner's plastic seat? In the light of day the clear vat of vodka and pineapple, the splashes of light fixtures, the dark floors all seemed like a cheap setup for getting laid; more viable as a television set than a real-life activity: and there I was in the middle of it. Proving my point that in order to get me to go to a nightclub, you have to pay me.