Every time I come to LA, I ask myself the same question: Why doesn’t everyone live here?  I was there for over a week and didn’t see a single rain drop. I was drenched in sun and sunny people. I saw friends and their babies and had long lunches of healthy food and went on hikes and bought a whitening toothpaste. If that’s not paradise, I don’t know what is.

I flew straight to LA from Venice, where I was with Louis Vuitton. It was no easy commute, let me tell you. But oh, was it worth it! After changing into a Gucci floral suit in the confines of a tiny airport toilet, I went straight from the airport to the MOCA gala, which had a fabulous Hans Ulrich show. Robert Pruitt designed bongs because it was 4/20 (don’t worry, Mom, I didn’t partake) and me and Harry Brant tried to climb a giant inflatable panda bear that was a sign for the portable toilets. There was a marching band and then a performance from the Go Go’s. I got home a little worse for wear, with all my luggage, to bunk at my friend Jacqui Getty’s house.

Jacqui is, essentially, the mother hen of all wayward West Coast youths. She is kind and compassionate and hysterical. She also knows how to throw a mean Mexican themed birthday party, which she did for me. (The bar was set high for her, especially after my ‘country bumpkin couture’ birthday party. Did you see the videos from that? Or did you see the sweet Polaroids that Karlie Kloss took for me at the party?) She opened her home – and a bunch of tequila bottles – to the coolest, sweetest, funnest girls on the planet. Even the legendary Linda Ramone came dressed in a red velvet cape, Cavalli tiara, and she gave me a birthday present I always wanted: Beverly Hills Hotel pajamas. My worst best friend Kelly Sawyer brought a cake with the best worst picture of me on it. I can’t thank Jacqui enough for that party.

The day after my birthday party I did something that would become an often event for me in LA: I changed my flight. I was having too much fun. Besides, Armani was having a party on Thursday. (I later changed my flight for another friend’s birthday, and because I wanted one last hike up Runyon Canyon. What? It was the weekend.) And who wants to miss an Armani party? It was in celebration of Sean Penn’s relief efforts in Haiti, and the actor made a speech that was touching – and probably horrifying for his publicist. He praised Hugo Chavez and made jokes about being a single man. His best line: Actors in Hollywood know how to get narcotics, but not in bulk.

The next night was a dinner for the photographer Brian Bowen-Smith that Marc Jacobs hosted. My friend Selma Blair’s face was on the T-shirt, which the waiters were all wearing. Somehow, I came home with three of them. The Los Angeles excitement didn’t end there: The following day, my friend Milla did a bar-b-que where I ate my body weight in kebabs and that night was Jessica Alba’s birthday party. A fellow Taurus. Is it just me, or is there a disproportionate amount of birthdays this time of year? What was happening nine months ago? Summer loving?

Like all passionate love affairs, however, this one too came to an end. Toward the end of the week, the LA veneer started to wear thin. I got lost in the underground garage of CAA’s Death Star of a building. On my way to the Paramount Lot for Armani’s cocktail party there was so much traffic I thought I was going to explode into a puddle of anxiety. (I hate when little old ladies walking down the street faster are going faster than you are in a car.) And after a week, I was tired of having kale salads for dinner at 7pm and being the only one who ordered dessert while everyone else was talking about stem cell facials. Though, to be fair, I will say that the lady who told me about them – and you know who you are – did have fabulously taunt skin.

I flew back to New York to a grey sky and grey days. And just as soon as I thought I was over LA, I missed again. Which only means I need to find a new excuse to go back. Anyone have any birthdays coming up?

Captions, from top: Me with a bevy of birthday babes, including Kiki D, Kelly, Nicole, Jessica, Rachel and Lauren; the worst best cake ever; Terry and China at MOCA; Harry and a panda; Cyrpien on a refridgerator; me with my favorite English flowers, Poppy and Lily; Milla and some bubbly; Nicole’s fake ‘I like you’ face; Linda and JD; Dianna and Byrdie; PC and JT (they like initials); Alessandra; kisses for Mario and RJ; the outdoor dinner table; Patrik with two Getty’s, Rosetta and Jacqui; Joy and Sam Ronson; Dianna and me; Gela and John Taylor; Noah Mills, the most handsome handy man that ever existed; Sam giving me a kiss, much to the surprise of Kelly and Jessica; the one and only Kiki D; Natalie and my wife Gia; a group shot of boys being boys; an ‘I’m a Little Teapot’ inspired selfie at Runyon Canyon; Liz and Alex Olsen, the supremo skater, at the Armani event; Sean Penn and Josh; Fergie, Rachel and me at dinner; Frankie and Miley at Marc’s dinner; Selma and Selma’s face; Milla, a BBQ hostess with the mostest; my college friend Dagny is all grown up with her hubby Cory and baby Hazel; me and Hazie; Tara and Amanda at Milla’s BBQ; Kelly and Hilary in the lawn; last call, literally, at Jess’ birthday