This one time, years ago, I was at one of those frou frou Hollywood clubs. Back when I used to do frou frou Hollywood things. And here we were, just minding our own business. We go outside. And guess who follows us to the patio? Ah, Mister Orlando Bloom. This is true. (*This is pre-Miranda Kerr.)
He invites us to leave Hyde with him and run over to The Chateau for the tail end of The Art of Elysium benefit party that he had taken a hiatus from. S and I look over at each other like, "Really? This is happening right now?" Why not? So we spend the night dancing and having a terrific time.
Until one of my poor, poor girlfriends just could not handle her liquor anymore. She's had too much champagne. We go back to his bungalow to call a taxi and wait for it's arrival. What followed was a shockingly eloquent and insightful conversation with one of Hollywood's then-biggest heartthrobs. Surprisingly sweet, honest, smart and gentleman-like. He takes notice that our friend is sick, offers to take care of her. She declines. But he doesn't seem to be eager to rush back to the party despite the fact that she spends the next forty-five minutes locked in his bathroom doing god-knows-what. Like he didn't mind that it mixed up the evening a little. There's a lot of sleazy actors out there and me and S didn't see an inch of this. We're talking about art, kindness and traveling.
Janel finally comes back from throwing up in Orlando Bloom's toilet and we leave.
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