We’re in Southern California meeting with a fascinating mix of online agencies you have never heard of but soon will.
It is 5:58 AM. Having beat back the attempts of indie rocker, Johnny Rome to party all night on the strip, we’re up early to beat the Maseratis to our first vente decaf of the day.
As we shut the door to Room 328 at The Standard, we hear the unmistakeable sound of a security walkie talkie around the corner. Followed by a male voice spelling his last name. "Yes, that’s Rosenwasp. R-O-S-E-N-W-A-S-P." (The name has been changed to protect the idiot.)
Obviously someone has lost their key.
We round the corner to find Mr. Rosenwasp standing bare ass naked, hands over his essentials, next to said security guard. Not only does he not have his key — he has no clothes on, no wallet, no nothing.
Out of the walkie talkie from the front desk. "Can you ask Mr. Rosenwasp to come downstairs and show us his ID."
We get on the elevator. Cut to the lobby.
The front desk sharpies and the New York hotties checking out and the soap star wannabe valet parking dude and the chick in the bikini in the aquarium behind the front desk are rolling with laughter as the walkie talkie spits out amidst a rip of static in Security Guard English at warp volume "I don’t think you understand. Mr. Rosenwasp is naked. He has no ID. He refuses to go to the lobby."
So — a free Digital Axle T-shirt (Packy, can you get on that, please?) to the reader who comes up with the best possible explanation as to why our fellow guest found himself in this predicament so early on this fine LA morning.
We’re off to the pool for some long overdue diligence on the state of the art of plastic surgery and to listen in on pretentious one way cell phone conversations. Perhaps we’ll see what Mr. Rosenwasp looks like with at least some of his clothes on.