- 1:29 p.m.

So the museum was a big bag of, as they say, toss. But walking along Hollywood Blvd gave me a vaguely charming surreal buzz, or at least it would have done if it weren't for the plethora of Charlie Chaplin impersonators trying to work their bendy-caned way into your spare change.

It's very cloudy here. I feel quite cheated. Though as suspected, every other person on the street is on the verge of an amusingly psychotic outburst, and the buses are like mobile lunatic asylums (asyli?).

Thankfully I had the none-more-suave, charming and downright amazing Nictate to inject some much needed class into the proceedings, and after chowing down on complimentary sushi (I outdo even my own lofty blagging expectations sometimes) we sipped cocktails at The Dresden to the liliting jazz stylings of Marty and Elayne from "Swingers", then hepping it up at The Derby, where serious young men in fedoras and bee-hived girls put you to swing-themed shame with excessively impressive public displays of rhythm. I think I need spend my life sipping "Cactus Punch" in cocktail lounges with company that's cooler than strawberry icecream on a summer's afternoon.