Ain't Hardly Busy t'All

Not so, I'm afraid. I'm Busy Phillips. I'm Gary Busy. I'm friggin' Brook Busy-Hunt.

Los Angeles was blinding paved splendour, as always. Pitched some TV, talked to the Supreme Man of the Microcosm, canoodled with the appropriate parties, drank/ogled a Mastro's Cosmo full of ghostly dry ice (what will those Beverly Hills barkeeps think of next?) attended about 20 meetings, hit every studio in Burbank and ate at In-and-Out Burger on Sunset, which is always full of black supermodels. Bootyful storks in Dior sunglasses.

Also hung out at the offices of Jason Reitman, who I trust is gonna make us a really dope movie. He gets it. Now let's take this party to Vancouver!

Okay, so then last week, Jonny and I went to Vegas, where I was to be the keynote speaker at a big gentlemen's club convention. I gave a 20-minute address on Wednesday, wearing a revealing schoolgirl costume for levity. Public speaking ain't my forte, but I got through it somehow. Put it this way: I generated 20 minutes of material. I don't think I come off so hot in person (hell, I probaby don't come off so hot in print) but I did try! And I was rewarded with three 106-degree days in the Labyrinthine Republic of Ding-Ding-Ding. Jonny and I stayed at Mandalay Bay, which is one of those big marbled monstrosities that has the frigid, menacing opulence of a Super Mario Brothers castle. (I didn't encounter Bowser, though it wouldn't surprise me if Sha Na Na played the Rio.)

106 degrees, for real. Normally, swimming in a pool feels refreshing. In Vegas in August, it feels more like a survival measure, like you're regulating your body temperature in a mandatory cooling tank. If you live there, you should be able to put a pool in your yard and have it covered by your health insurance. That's how hot it is.

The best part of my trip was seeing my friend Patrick perform in Mamma Mia! and grabbing drinks afterward. Pat was always scary-talented when we were teens, and now he's totally superhuman. I so rarely get to reconnect with my angels from the Yak Spackle era, and when I do it is so friggin' lovely.

Now, it's Monday. And I have to move on WEDNESDAY. MORNING.

Oh, cruel Odin's day! I'm only 1/4 packed!

I have two days to get all my shit boxed up! Did I mention we haven't sold our old house yet?

I feel like we've already moved twice this year. Dig this: Six months ago, when we had work done on the basement, we had to move everything out of the lower level. Couches, boxes, TV, books, DVDs, the works. It was a major pain--like, I had to hire guys to help-- and we never bothered to move any of it back in from the garage. Then two months ago, when we put the house on the market, we had to get it in "showing condition," which meant moving an additional shitload of stuff out of the house, painting the walls, disinfecting our habitat and de-cluttering every day. Now, we're down to the final stage of moving, but I have more shit than I anticipated. Moving sucks, big or small, and I'd have much rather finished this whole arduous job in one blast, rather than three petty steps.

Also, we still haven't sold this house. Know anyone who wants to rent-to-own a charming Rambler?