The other night I was working late here at the high-class L Magazine offices. The phone rang. Normally I ignore the thing, but for some reason, this time I was compelled to pick up. A voice came down the line, from far away, all the way from “Beverly Hills Boulevard, in Beverly Hills, California.” The voice had an Eastern European lilt to it. “Look,” it said, “Your people came around my house and took photographs with models and a Lamborghini and left a big mess, with paper plates and everything. You tell them they have to come back here and clean it up, right now. This is terrible.”
I explained to the voice that we’re in New York. “I KNOW THAT,” it yelled. I then explained that we were a local magazine and that I had no idea what she was talking about. Silence. I suggested that maybe she was thinking about the fashion magazine E-L-L-E, as opposed to us, The L. “Oh. Hmm. Yes. Oh I see. I think… yes. I am sorry.” The voice became very sweet, genuinely apologetic, and I said that everything was ok. Then she called me “darling,” and hung up.
Was it Zsa Zsa? Who are you to tell me it wasn’t?