The one after I got shot...

I haven't moved into my new home yet... you know, the place where I got shot. The Palazzo. Now. The Palazzo. They're being awful. So so so unhelpful. I drove back there and no one even knew I'd been shot. The manager didn't know. The security didn't know. I went back there to find out what was going on. I have to say I was a bit shaky but... well... what to do eh? Just move on with your life.

Still no drugs. I don't know what to do. I have a bullet in my back still as I don't know if I can get it out with my insurance. Thing is. I'm not a bloody rapper. I don't need metal in me to be someone... I want it out. OUT I tell you. But I have no idea what to do.

Lisa in London came up with some nicknames for me in the meantime: Jew-Pac, 50 Shekel, Jam Master J-Date, Ol' Dirty Bagel. Hmmm. Again. I'm not a rapper. I don't need a bullet floating around in my back to make it in my crew. But, I appreciate the names and start calling myself Jew-Pac. It's sort of catching on.

I bumped into my 'friend', who was horrific. I think he thinks I've done this all for attention. yep. Like I went out in West Hollywood to just get shot. Sure. That's normal. Jesus. He told me I wasn't in 'the solution' and got really angry with me. I burst into tears. I'm in a lot of pain and have this thing in my back... Thing. You know. Bullet. One of them. Thankfully my friend's friend Lisa gave me her doctor's number. I went back to Judy's and called the Doctor who put me in touch with the surgeon. His name? A piece of genius this... Dr Moses... Fallas. Only I could get a Fallas as a doctor.

Then it's on the phone to the insurance company in England again to sort this all out and get it all approved. We arrange surgery, I get some vicodin and... I'm booked in for surgery the following day.

Vicodin. Incidentally. Shit. I thought it would be more fun. I want some more. Good thing I gave the packet to someone else to dispense really. But... seriously. I thought they would do more... Very disappointed.

SURGERY

This is my first general anaesthetic. I'm going to go under for two hours but first... the insurance isn't coming through. This is a disaster. I have to pay. It's thousands. I argue and argue and argue. Finally. They agree. My operation is in half an hour. Just as I'm getting changed and prepped... it's the blackberry.

Mr X.

Mr X is not happy.

"Noam... your work has been slipping this week. Why isn't my heater fixed in the pool? What's going on NOAM? This isn't good enough."

Yep. He's really not happy.

I try and explain. You know. I've been shot. IBS as it must be called from now on. But he's not interested. He's got his shit. "Where's the meeting tomorrow?" I don't know. I'm getting whoozy. "What's going on Noam?" I really don't know. I feel like passing out. I'm pretty sure he knew I was getting surgery today but he's convinced I was shot with a BB gun and think I'm being a pussy. Well, it wasn't with a BB gun and the police are investigating this for attempted murder... I'm a little freaked out.

He gets off the phone and I call someone else and cry. The doctors are trying to remove my blackberry from my hand but I won't let it go. I call Ms J, who works for Mr X's brother and Ms S, the housekeeper, and as them to have a quiet word... I'm just a bit under the weather at the moment. You know. I've been shot. IBS. IBS.

I call Christian, the pool guy, about the heater. Again. He says he'll deal with it. I'm grateful. And now... the doctor has removed my blackberry... they're trying to put me under now. I'm freaking out... But the blackberry... the blackberry...

I don't remember much more.

A few hours later

I'm coming round now. That was good. I just passed out.

I have more stitches now. And no bullet. The police took that for evidence and I have no idea where it's gone. I wanted that bullet. BUT.... nope. It's gone.

Judy comes to pick me up. I'm so whoozy. I don't really know what's going on. I check the blackberry. A missed call from Mr X.

I get given some vicodin a few hours later. That night was a bit of a blur.

The day after the day after I got shot

So... now I'm moving into the place I got shot outside. Good. Great. But... it's my own place for a month. Shame I can't use the gym or anything - what with the old seeping wound and that. Nice.

My friend Dawn meets up with me and takes me to get my nails done. Her treat. Nice. A bit of pampering. Sitting in the chair with the vibrate back thing was probably, in hindsight, a mistake... but ... no stitches burst and my nails look good.

Back home and Roof's round to take the last of his stuff. And... he's gone. I go to bed. I'm due at Mr X's to do some work in the morning. The blackberry's not really stopped. Course not. I mean. Really. Why would it? I've only been shot with a .22. Not a 'proper' gun but... for the record... it was scary. I didn't like it. And the bullet was still metal with a sharpened bit at the end. Hardly something to ignore. It wasn't some kind of pansy pellet. People have been a bit dismissive... they thought I was shot with a shot gun or something. No. Sorry to disappoint. And thank god!

The day after the day after the day after IBS...

I've been running around for Mr X. And... then I get to the Malibu County Market and I got accosted in the carpark by some wannabe. Brilliant.

Now this was ridiculous. I thought I’d burst my stitches while on the drive to Malibu. So… I stopped at the CVS on the PCH by Malibu and bought some plasters. I was taping up the wound and this guy went ‘you got it’. Was he a handsome stud? No. A middle-aged podgy man with a comb over. “Thanks” I replied. Mustering up some dignity despite having displayed my backfat to all and sundry there… He didn’t move away so I gave him my line of the year: “I’ve been shot”. And then told him the story… He was shocked.

He asked me what I was doing in LA. I told him about working for a director. Before you knew it he said: “oh? Really? I have some headshots in the car. Is there a project he’s working on that he’s casting right now.” Dude. Seriously? I just told you I got shot and now you’re pitching your sorry fat arse to me. Fuck. Off. I was stunned. Apparently that’s the way of LA. But. Really? You think you’re going to get a part in a film by talking to a girl in a car park? Fucking loser. I deflected him and got in my car and headed back to LA.

I went to the Grove... and decided to do some shopping. I thought that might cheer me up. I've been feeling a bit, well, down... You know. IBS and all. So I found this dream dress. I mean it's just perfect and I hate shopping. It was reduced from $250 to around $80. Whil I was paying for the dream dress this woman appeared out of no where.

“Do you remember me?” Hard to know really. I meet a lot of people. Turns out she was the nurse that put me under a few days ago at the surgery. Perfect. I showed her my stitches… Poor thing. There she was buying a dress for a party and there was me exposing my back fat. Seems the stitches are healing nicely. Always good to know. Even though they are UGLY...

Back at the ranch, Ms J came round and we came up with a film idea. Good. Finally. Something creative for me to sink my teeth into rather than all the food I've been eating recently. Seriously, giving up smoking as led to a HUGE appetite.

After Ms J left, it was a case of some skyping with Tash in London and then bed. I'm still oozing a bit and can't have a bath yet... Nice.