one of my least favorite places to be

is the mall. malls freak me out, man--thousands of consumers with shopping bags in one hand and a cinnabon in the other, mobs of adolescent boys gazing and hollering at anything in tight jeans and a tube top, the artificial light and lack of any view of the outside world--i hate it all. i do a decent job of avoiding them altogether; my three year record of not stepping into a shopping mall was broken late last year when that fake supermodel luca pinifarina tried to get me to buy a 700 luis vitton bag for his fiance, with whom he was allegedly going to marry the next day in milan, which was part of his predicament, you see. i intended to never post this story (i alluded to it earlier) because a) it's fucking long and b) it reveals just how much of a fucking doormat i can be; but what the hell. this one is called, "one time i followed a fake italian supermodel into the beverly center and watched him try on louis vitton belts that were supposedly for his fiance on whom he cheated with a mexican whore, part 1 of 2."

i was driving home after a late lunch downtown when an unmarked chrysler 300 pulls up next to me at a red light. the window rolls down and this man asks for directions to lax in a heavy italian accent. i give him straightforward directions, but he seems genuinely confused by the english language. i pull over into the residential neighborhood and motion for him to do the same. i usually don't mind helping strangers in need, but now i know better. i figured this would be my good deed of the day. i get out of my car and hand him a wendy's napkin upon which i drew a map to the airport from hollywood. he is very gracious and tells me what a lifesaver i am. he extends his hand and introduces himself as luca; initially i was amused at how pathetic his handshake was, but then remembered that they don't shake hands in europe. luca gets out of the car and immediately i think to myself, "this guy could totally be danny bonaduce's brother. yeah, danny bonaduce's younger, thinner, eurotrashy brother." the outrageous outfit--skintight calvin klein t-shirt tucked into baggy jeans with the designer's name emblazoned down the front side of the pant leg--makes sense after he explains that he is an armani model from italy who just did a few fashion shows in beverly hills. he needs to get back to the airport because he is getting married the next day in his hometown of milan; he pulls out a silver razr phone and shows me a photo of his fiance. "she's gorgeous, you're a lucky man," i lie. i wish him the best on his big day and say goodbye.

but before i could make it back to my car he says, "tony, please accept this gift." he opens the backseat of his car and pulls out a beige leather vest, which he informs me is the latest from the armani fall collection, AND, get this, is seen on the likes of ricky martin. "ricky marteeen!" he exclaims, as if i weren't sufficiently enthused the first time i heard the name of the latin lyricist. but that's not it. luca asks, "do you have a lighter?" without question i hand him one, which he lights and proceeds to touch the flame to the vest. at this point i should have realized, okay. an italian armani model just offered me a leather vest which he is attempting to set on fire. i should leave before this gets weird. as i was having one of life's what-the-fuck-is-going-on moments, some kids on scooters and skateboards roll down the street and stop to see what the fuss is all about. seeing as a), the vest was sized XXL and wouldn't be flattering to my fourteen year old girl frame, and b) that i never cared for hideous, albeit fireproof, leather accessories, i decline the gift. stupid me, i know. disappointed that some david blaine shit did not go down, the roller gang turned around and returned from whence they came, presumably to enjoy whatever remained of their weekend.