Beverly Hills Witch
(rode my broomstick to London)
Hello, it’s your friendly Beverly Hills Witch, writing from London where I just flew in on my broomstick. Speaking of sorcery, my bags were packed full of protection shields from malevolent energies (it’s chaos out there, especially traveling to/ from Los Angeles.)
Included in my luggage and thankfully not confiscated by customs were:
A large Ziploc bag of ocean salt given to me by a concerned local during a stay at the seriously sinister wellness resort on Lanai owned by billionaire Larry Ellison when I was being harassed by restless spirits. It does resemble cocaine but I left that drug behind in my late teens after many late nights blowing lines at the Tunnel nightclub in NYC.
Two glass bottles of mugwort and rose oil which was grown, harvested and concocted by a fellow good witch back in Hawaii. I didn’t have mugwort in my former medicinal garden in Los Angeles, but it would have been a good addition to my chakra balancing pentagram. Mugwort is considered a “mother” of herbs for its’ multitude uses which, in the magickal realm, include dreamwork, protection, clairvoyance and astral travel.
Several tí leaf leis I made on island as offerings for a research trip in a couple of weeks which will carry me into the vortex of a ghost story I am following. Along with homegrown Hawaiian olena (tumeric) for golden shots of ginger, olena, orange, lemon and coconut water, to fortify immunity.
Plus a few other items I won’t share because every witch keeps a few secrets up her sleeves.
I may share with paid subscribers a bit of why I am overseas for a spell (I adore a double entendre,) in the coming weeks. In the meantime, here’s an L.A vibe check.
I swear, every time I touch down in Los Angeles, I feel a psychic fog descend. It takes every technique I have (meditation, legs up the wall, breath work, cold showers, jiu jitsu, bare feet on earth) to stay grounded. I thought the atmosphere couldn’t get worse but the few remaining old school haunts are disappearing and influencers multiply like gremlins. Erewhon is officially a fucking nightmare. If I see one more person wearing an Alo Yoga onesie with minimal gold jewelry and a full beat making a TikTok of their Hailey Bieber smoothie I’m going to slit my fucking wrists. Please stop wearing so much foundation to the fucking health food store. For FUCKS sake.
This photo I took of an Only Fans™️ influencer’s license plate pretty much sums up the state of Hollywood. The money ain’t in movies, babe, make like Lily Allen and start selling feet pics.
Speaking of feet pics… Things may not be what they used to, but the Beverly Hills Hotel remains more or less the same. Plus they’ve added a coconut mylk matcha latte to their menu. I’m a bougie bitch. Oops, I mean witch. My dad used to take me to the Fountain Coffee Room at the hotel every Saturday after his weekly grooming appointment, where I once got yelled at by his 70 year old manicurist for stealing the Playboy magazine with Madonna on the cover. Smut at the barber shop, those were the days…
I had lunch in at the Fountain Room with my friend Joe Lewis, the prolific producer behind Fleabag, Transparent and most recently, the surfing documentary series 100 Foot Wave, now in it’s third season on HBO. I got a BLT on gluten free toast, in honor of my dad, who made a mean one. We always knew when breakfast was ready before school because the fire alarm would go off while he cooked. I miss his adorable chaos.
I also met up with actress, poker champion, and Real Housewives of Beverly Hills series regular, Jennifer Tilly, in the Polo Lounge to celebrate a friend’s birthday. I updated her on my plan for the Real Housewives™️ to fight Fascism and she spilled the tea on what’s been happening behind the scenes of the latest season.
Most nerve-rackingly (I think I just made up a word) I sat down in a cozy back booth at the Polo Lounge for an interview with New York Times journalist and author
for a profile she wrote on me (!!) for the Times. For the record, I have never considered myself an “It Girl.” I’d rather stay a bit under the radar lest I attract additional stalkers, but I’ll save those stories for paid subscribers who want to hear more about the dark side of growing up behind the golden gates of a Beverly Hills estate.
In any case, I am grateful to Marisa for her lovely piece. To be honest, as a fan of her writing, I was nervous about being profiled, especially when she pulls out her hilariously bitchy tone (on display in her last book, Glossy.) One never wants to be on the receiving end of a takedown, so I’m glad that I didn’t have to add her to my list of haters to thank. She gave me an advance copy of her new book on Jane Birkin, which is out this Fall and rather poignant.
If you are a new subscriber after seeing her New York Times article, welcome! I really appreciate the support of my longtime (and new) subscribers who have made STARF⭐️CKER so fun for me to write and….surprisingly popular…*blushing as I type.*
I took a long walk in Beverly Hills with a friend and went by the house I grew up in, now owned by Taylor Swift. We marveled at the new security measures she’s put in place. In my dad’s time, we didn’t have a working alarm system (!) and you could see straight through the gates to the house. Honestly, we are lucky that no one was ever robbed or murdered. When my grandparents lived there, Charles Manson and his “family” stalked the hills nearby in preparation for their Helter Skelter violent plans. Our house was marked on the “Hollywood Maps to the Stars' Homes,” so buses filled with tourists would regularly drive by the front gates. My dad would warn us not to answer the bell or pick up packages from strangers left outside.
On this trip to LA, my senses were heightened like a fox, having been ensconced in nature without streetlights, traffic, freeways or bougie grocery chains. That said, Hawaii is not without danger. The line between transient spiritual tourists and outlaws is a thin one. Recently I had a scary run in with a man on the run (Hawaii and Mexico tend to draw those types) who crept up on me at a local waterfall. I told my friend and jiu jitsu teacher, Cesalina Gracie about the interaction during a class, and she had me do a series of drills to inhabit verbal boundaries, which was harder than putting her in a triangle chokehold.
Oh, did I mention everyone in LA is on even more designer wellness drugs than when I last wrote about “Hollywood Sobriety?”