With 14 solid years under my belt as an entertainment publicist extraordinaire, I have only just discovered the secret to PR success.

Truth be told! I'll denounce it -- Lesson 101 in the art of perfect business communication and flawless social networking courtesy of Mona Elyafi.  Here it is:  the # 1 key-factor to being an accomplished successful publicist solely relies on one single crucial element: coffee.

In light of the fact that 90 percent of my client meetings, business transactions and strategic brainstorming sessions are conducted at coffee shops -- or "cafes" as I fancy calling them -- it is my contention that a thorough geographical knowledge of all the caffeine houses conveniently infesting the city is paramount to the prosperity of my professional status and overall reputation.

No need to give me a frown as a nonverbal implication of doubt, I am totally serious. Despite what it may seem, memorizing the directory of Los Angeles' java hangs is a hard skill that requires a monumental level of dedicated cerebral efforts to cultivate.

Consider this: Michelle passionately lives for Peets' coffee; Kristina is a fervent Starbucks aficionado; Emily prefers the coziness of The Lyric Café, while Patricia has taken an addictive liking to Solar Café; meanwhile, Nadine is a bit more flexible in her choices accepting either a Priscilla's or an Aroma Café but strictly vetoing anything outside her "geographically desirable" comfort zone; Marilyn is an absolute Café Marly devotee and has to be accommodated with a straw to sip her caffeine-based delicacy du jour; Francisco is insufferably all about  Stir Crazy; Marlene is a total Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf connoisseur and has, in a very uncanny way, morphed her brain into an ambulant mapquest able to instantly smell a Bean maker anywhere she is. Finally, Lori will agree to meet anywhere so long as the barista has the luxury of spicing up her drip with of a little Baileys' shot -- for extra aroma of course.

And how do I know all this? Because I do need my caffeine fix to not only keep my fuel going but as well to keep up with all my clients' high maintenance caffeinated taste-bud antics.

Knowing about my clientele's brew preferences is not only a sophisticated trait of diplomacy but as well a direct reflection of my sense of PR etiquette and courtesy - it simply tells them: "You are important enough for me to care about your palate." As for me, it basically helps establish a rapport of trust and loyalty to where they feel safe enough to let their collective guards down and confide in: MOI.
This is not to say that I particularly enjoy stepping into the shoes of a shrink - even if temporarily -- but admittedly, the amount of unimportantly important information I get is absolutely priceless.

Let's be real -- where else would I collect such valuable material for my weekly column? Speaking of which, now that the coffee is brewed, how about I spill the beans?  
You certainly didn't think I just penned twenty-some lines rambling about nothing, did you?

This week's aroma is brought to you by the makers of Ex-press-Oh's.
A few days ago I agreed to take an impromptu meeting with Michelle, surprisingly, not at the usual West Hollywood Peets - her preferred choice -- but at the trendy Coffee Bean on Sunset and Fairfax. The flavor of the day did not disappoint at all - a tasty strong dark roast potently scandalous and succulently spicy, appropriately dubbed: "lesbians who continuously keep a whole fleet of Ex's in their lives."

Apparently Michelle was recently having dinner at a Sushi restaurant when she noticed how ironic it was that she was actually eating raw fish with her girlfriend to her left and her girlfriend's ex-girlfriend to her right. I guess the idea of knowing that a decade ago her partner's face was all up in the ex's sushi was too hard to digest. That's what I call a perfect food poisoning scenario.

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There's so much too say about the ex-factor.  While I don't have any discriminatory biases towards lesbians' postpartum separation syndrome, I certainly prefer the drastic, radical approach in the handling of my break-ups.  Just like NO means NO, Ex means "expendable." It's like playing good old Hollywood Squares, when you get the X you get the boot and are definitively crossed out - hasta la vista, buh bye!

Admittedly, I refuse to be tagged with "Lax regulation" in what has become a disciplinary procedure, especially if I'm the one whose ass was lamentably dumped on the curb. What can possibly be gained from a former female lover who is just keeping you in her entourage to sooth her misplaced ego? Because...you know that she knows a little part of your hopelessly drooling miserable self would still keep her on a pedestal.
Excuse me, but I cannot lower myself to becoming anyone's disciple. As for expanding my circle of friends, I'm passed the age of needing to recruit any new members - thanks but no thanks!

All in all, whether you are the dumper or the dumpee, keeping your exes around is like holding on to an old pair of underwear - it's unfashionable, unhygienic and an antiquated tacky accoutrement that serves no utilitarian function whatsoever. Granted, for some it might be sort of a trophy to flaunt their dating aptitude by explicitly saying, "look what I can do."   For me it's definitely an unnecessary appendage -- the extra piece of baggage that goes over the weight limit and always costs you more than your actual airfare.

Do I really have to justify what is obviously THE sweeping conclusion vis a vis lesbians holding court to a vast menagerie of philanderers? Don't be daft! The Ex is really the mole continuously threatening to destabilize the peaceful equilibrium and harmony of your current relationship. The Ex is dangerously synonymous to potential extra-curricular activities - let me remind you that there's an "ex" in "sex."  The ex is the ultimate grammar faux-pas in the vagaries of punctuation - it's the exacerbated exclamation point that whimsically and abusively drops at the most inopportune places permanently leaving you with that indelible imbecilic interrogation point above your head. It's is the EX'cetera that is too ambiguously vague to see and too close to be completely blurry.

Clearly, in Michelle's case, her dining indisposition had everything to do with the "ew" factor - the ultimate pandemic symptomatic bacteria promulgated by the very nauseating presence of the ex.  Evidently, what her stomach was truly protesting was the smelly taste the fishy Sushi left in her mouth.

FYI: next time Michelle, when seeking fast relief for upset stomach and indigestion either bring some cherry flavored Pepto-Bismol or a good pair of boxing gloves.

Personally, I'm a strong advocate of delivering the universal flight attendant safety measures speech; "The emergency exits are located at..." - and I know, you know what I mean.

Let's face it; nothing good comes from living your life in EX'cess.