Jan 25 2010

Shit Gone Wild

Hey Kids.

It’s that time of year again: Pork Sausage’s Birthday or “shit gone wild” as it’s known in my mind.   PS’s b-day is a religion in these parts.  Between surprise trips to Vegas, weekend spa getaways, bottle service, and 8 course tasting dinners PS has had some amazing birthdays….and then she got a proper adult job…and a proper adult life….and we all had to follow suit with this adult charade.  So the parties got more modest and, ahem, classy.

This year I said NO!  No more skewing of shit!  Okay that didn’t come out right, but the gumption for reviving said “shit gone wild” is there!  (Just FYI I’m trying to spice up my vocab. Please bare with me while I work out the kinks).  So, the ladies and I decided to dedicate an entire day to putting the religion back in PS’s parties.  Those ladies are: Me, PS, Whoopers, and introducing Coconuts.  Coconuts is Whoopers twin.  I call her coconuts because of her fantastic rack and tropical tang.  “What tang is that?” you may ask.  That tang is a je ne sais quoi that always makes you feel like you’re on vacation.  Whether it’s her laid back attitude or her ability to make a party out of a freaking light bulb, It’s always a good time with Coconuts*.

Like I said, Whoopers, Coconuts, and I resolve to make PS’s birthday one of crazed extravagance once again.   Problem is we all are conveniently out of a job and can no longer convince our parents to loan us excessive spending money for lavish trips (how we ever did at one point remains an awe-inducing trait that I’m still trying to replicate in life, so frustrating to lose a skill of that magnitude!!!!! Perhaps it was the starving student act.  THE QUEST FOR KNOWLEDGE MUST BE NURISHED!  I should go back to school.)  But I digress.

So on a budget we decide our best bet at optimal shit is to do a “favs” day in LA.  All of P.S.’s favs….within reason (she does have expensive taste sometimes…ahem…Cristal…ahem): fav lunch spot, fav shopping spot, fav activities.  A stroke of brilliance puts us in a taxi cab all day for we may be drunk, but we are NOT irresponsible.  I’m just kidding, we’re horribly irresponsible but not when it comes to operating heavy machinery.   The best way to describe the rest of the day is in itinerary format.  Please read on….

11am: While I prep dinner items and pick up the birthday cake Whoopers and Coconut start getting PS drunk with a bottle of champagne.

12pm: Meet for lunch to fuel up at delish french spot where we proceed to drink 2 bottles of White (I also had a bloody mary…don’t you dare judge me).  Our loud and boisterous girl time imbibing and eating not one, not two, but THREE baskets of cheese bread are observed by nearby diners.  These diners include Chris Robinson from the Black Crows, Brad Garrett, and both of their perspective 22 year old girlfriends.  They finish lunch quite quicker than we do, or so we think.  After Whoopers returns from a jaunt to the john she informs us that she passed both of them at new tables.  They literally asked to move away from us.  At that point, I knew we were on the right track!

2:00pm ish: We finish lunch and traipse through downtown Santa Monica in the rain to a nearby boutique were PS declares she will buy herself a diamond ring for her birthday.  In full support we burst through the doors of Fred Segal, try on several of their finest diamond rings, judge the settings and sparkle with rich bitch snobbery.  THEN some of the alcohol begins to wear off and PS realizes the price tags start at around $50,000.  We subtly, yet confidently,  re-direct ourselves to the 75% off sterling silver jewelry area and then out the door.  But, not before PS manages to meet the head designer of the jewelry department and scold her for not carrying more diamond rings suitable for her delicate fingers! That’ll show ‘em!

3:00 pmish: I selfishly divert everyone to my house to let in the heat repair man.  We drink another bottle of champagnene while he fixes my thermostat.

4:00 pmish: We get our nails done at a nearby nail salon.  Each of us has 2 shoulder massages while they apply color.  Our strange silence indicates a possible hangover.

5:00pmish: We resolve to find PS the perfect birthday suit.  In a frenzy we storm the nearest boutique, occupy every  dressing room, and outfit PS in a new wardrobe that consists of 8 ensembles…5 of which are party dresses.

6:30pm: Needing to re-fuel, we head to a neighborhood wine bar for an Italian wine tasting.  After scaring off other patrons (this is becoming a trend) and befriending the entire wine bar (including the owner), Coconuts begins flirting up a storm with the guy behind the bar.  He looks like John Mayer and she’s obviously trying to get us a heavier handed poor, but her new relationship has hurt her skills a little and despite an excellent effort it doesn’t work.  Taking that as a clue, we purchase two bottles of wine and head to my place.

7:45pm: We arrive at my (new) condo and open the bottles of wine while I drunkenly attempt to make beef wellington.  It sorta works.  We drink another bottle of wine, then another, then another, then sing happy birthday and eat red velvet cake, then pour our hearts out to each other, then open another bottle of wine, then Coconuts exclaims she feels at home in my new place because she “already did a #2 in my bathroom.”  Then I put on Cougartown.  Then everyone goes home.

12:00 am:  I drunk dial Spam.

12:06 am: I hide all my phones so, I won’t drunk dial Spam.

7:00 am: I wake to a blood red mouth (red velvet cake and red wine) and a pounding headache and a basket full of phones that made multiple drunk dials the night before.  I text the ladies and they’re on the same track.  We all feel closer in that way that soldiers do when they return from war.  Everyone had the same experience, but nobody wants to acknowledge or talk about it.

At that time I realized something.  THIS soldiers at war feeling is why we decided to modify the “shit gone wild” years ago.  seemingly harmless days and nights of partying inevitably brought out the beasts and brought on the hangovers…which we are much less capable of handling as adults…or whatever you’d say we are now.  The outing was a success, but I was battle scared…and bloated..

From now on we’ll keep the wild but try to extract the shit.


*Side Note: Coconuts is a little sex kitten btw.  If she hadn’t recently been tied down by her male counterpart, I would still be worried for the general male population…and some of the females.

Jan 13 2010

Babies on a Plane

Hey Kids!

Airports. Funny things. Everywhere you turn in an airport, even the shitty prop plane ones, there’s a bar. I am endlessly fascinated by the relationship between fliers and booze. On a base level, almost everyone becomes an alcoholic when confronted with mortality. Flying can be scary shit and thanks to Mr. Detroit underwear guy, the one possible perk (getting sat next to a mile high partner) seems bleaker than ever. The days of sexy stewardesses and debonair pilots are long gone. Elegant meals have been replaced with a bag of cheese crackers, smoking in the cabin is non grata, and lets face it the seats are getting smaller (or the general population is getting larger which I wouldn’t rule out). The only sane place to seek solace is a frothy brewski.

Funny thing just happened….

As I write this entry I make no joke about it when I say that children are literally flanking me: 360 babies. And then bam! I’m confronted with the nervy parent. The nervy, shitty, my-world-revolves-around-my-kids-and-yours-should-too parent! Oh we all know them. They’re separated from their kid by one aisle seat, not middle seat nooooo, separated by a premium seat. And they give you the, please move so we can be united, guilt trip.

Now, some background on my flying habits and me. I make it a point to fly VIP for as little as possible. Which is why I stay loyal to one airline and their rewards program. First through security, prestige airport lounges, first on the plane, premium seating, free checked bags (never thought that would be a perk) frequent upgrades. So after all this VIP work, if I’m snubbed my righteous aisle seat, I get really pissy.

This woman sitting to my right has the audacity to ask me to move to a middle seat (and a middle seat that doesn’t recline at that) so that I will accommodate her and her spawn. When I initially refuse she makes threats with her lap child (who is well past lap child stage) and goes to get a stewardess. The stewardess all but physically moves me to the torture seat and the nervy shit mom tops it off by shooting ME the stink eye. Now stationed in a middle seat exit row with a chair that doesn’t recline. I vow revenge and begin plotting. As a take off on my original entry, this is what I came up with.

As soon as the drink cart was in full swing I enacted “Operation Brewski”. Operation Brewski went as follows: Buy everyone seated around her and her children as many drinks as they wanted, open bar on the Burrito. Get everyone around the children so snockered that #A We wouldn’t care about her kids and their misanthropic adventures in seat kicking #B We’d reek and be obnoxiously giggly and #C Mother Yahoo would have to live the sense memory of childhood sleepovers with Uncle Micky. Evil, much? Thank you.

It totally worked. When the boozer sitting at the window next to her “Bubby Andy” (at least that’s what she called her devil spawn), went for round 3 she suggested maybe he’d had enough. I blurted out a laugh from behind her and she shot me the stink eye again. At this point I’d finally had enough mini bottles of cabernet to get some courage and said…. “You’re not happy to be sitting next to a guy who likes beer, I’m not happy to be in a middle seat that doesn’t recline, looks like we’re both uncomfortable this flight.”

I bought window guy another beer and eventually passed out in the middle of “Julie and Julia.” Suddenly it felt pretty good from where I was sitting.


Jan 13 2010

The LA Party Scene, Part 2: Scenesters

Hey Kids.

I find myself perched at a corner table in Katsuya full of industry insiders.  One after another they clamor to top each other with knowledge of the trendy sushi menu and high dollar drink orders.  Every guy wears a pressed collared shirt and tailored pinstripe pants that echo “just clocked out of my very important and high powered job,”  while every girl at the table looks like a playboy bunny or an aging Lauren Conrad.  I’m wearing a leather skirt and zipper booties which would seem quite apropos, but my ass keeps sticking to the lucite chair I’m sitting in.  Usually all I need is a wise crack to defuse such discomfort, but this particular night all my self deprecating humor is concentrated on distracting attention from the deflated mosquito bites posing as breasts on my front side.  I’m not so much self-conscience about my small chest, rather just worried I might be mistaken for one of the guys. These girls aren’t fooling around.  Damn.  It’s like they all built in flotation devices just in case 2012 is real.   I’m so uncomfortable that I loose my appetite.  Yeah, it’s serious.

Now, when I get nervous, I drink.  When I get nervous breakdown, I smoke.  I grabbed the only poser at the table that looked like he was in on the joke and gently requested a stick of tobacco.  No dice, but he was willing to help me track one down.  Which in scenester language is like pulling your seat out or holding the door open.  Ah chivalry.

We went out front and bummed two flavored long stemmed fags off of a euro-trash girl, who eyed me and my boots with firm distaste. Then, after noticing me noticing her noticing me, denied our very existence.   Like she was a celebrity or something.  She wasn’t.

Half a cigarette later, I was ready to go back in (I smoke, but I’m a pussy about it…half a cig gets my head-a-spinnin).  As we mosied up to the table, well I mosied…he did more of a smooth glide, I immediately noticed that every bottle of sake was drained and every piece of overpriced sushi was cleared.  Dinner was over.

And then the bill came.  And THIS is what gets my goat the mostest.  Every baller who ordered the $20 a piece sashimi platter handled the check like it was covered in Swine Flu.   Tossing it like a silky hot potato from douche to douche.  It lands in my lap and I do the math….Um I ate approximately 5 pieces of sushi and had 2 thimbles of sake….  plus a generous tip (obvi) and tax I owe approximately $35.  The girl next to me leans over, sensing my lack of inner-loop awareness, and says “we’re all just splitting it evenly”.  SHWAT?!

The bill was upwards of $1000 and there were approximately 10 of us total. I wasn’t about to shell out a designers t-shirt worth of dough for a piece of black cod.  But, the sense of unity on this decision was overpowering and I didn’t want to be the stand out loser who thought shelling out $100 bucks was a big deal (which it is, isn’t it?).  While everyone else casually tossed some plastic in a pile, I rummaged through freshly outputted ATM bills and painfully extolled three digits worth of dough (no way in hell I was gonna pay interest on this meal).    At this point the “too attractive to be competent” waitress collected the cards with so much hurumph I actually felt sorry for her for being so idiotically beautiful.  It would be a while before she figured this bill out and ran all the cards to success.

Still reeling from the “even split,” I was summoned outside, where a bevy of leased German driving machines purred at the valet stand.  Little luxury chariots waiting to take all of us to Phase II of the evening.

Phase II was a “Hollywood Party” at a “Hollywood Hot-spot.”  Note: the hot-spot is only an effective scenester hang if there is a list of some sort.  After making it through the list entry, we sashayed back to the VIP area.  There I found an increasing amount of threatened girls, all looking each other up and down with the great paradox of  judgement and insecurity.  I told one wild eyed know it all slut who spilt her vodka on me, that she looked like Nancy Pelosi on Spring Break.  Watching her try to process this was hilarious enough, but the topper was when she finally spit out a response:

“Ummm I’m Leila, not Nancy.  I think you have me confused with someone else (giggle giggle gawd).”

As I sipped my drink….I threw in this “I just meant you look like a well placed train wreck.”

“WHAT did you say?” She snapped back with territorial defense.

“WHAT!?  I’m sorry I thought you were someone else.”

So I suck at confrontation, but she had acrylics on and I have a personal motto about cat fights and fake nails.

At that point my home-girl Pork Sausage sauntered up to me, just in time, and joins the WTF moment taking place behind Leila/Nancy’s back.

“Oh I know her!  This is her party” Says Pork Sausage.

“Well I just made a lovely first.” I assured her.

PS insists that a little TLC and inflated compliment will surely clear the air.  So, she approaches Leila with joy and good intentions (that’s PS for you). Leila drains her vodka soda, looks PS up and down, and says…

“Oh, you mush be my present.”

“Pardon me?” PS honestly says this with the manners of British Royalty, minus the British accent.

“You came with the boys right?  They’ve got such a sense of humour, getting me tramps for my birthday. Well enjoy the open bar (giggle giggle gawd)”

“Ummmm no, I used to work with you.  I’m Pork Sausage.  I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.  This is my friend Burrito.”

“We’ve met” she says

“And it was such a pleasure.” I add.  BTW It wasn’t an open bar.  Cheap bitch.

“We’ll okay.  I don’t think I know you, but tell the boys hi (giggle).”

PS looked at me with her “did that just happen?” eye (that’s her right one). I drained my drink and said I had to make a phone call.

Spam was there within 10 minutes to chariot me away in his oh so normal Toyota Corolla (thank God).  Phase III usually consisted of late night clubbing. And if $100 tabs and snooty bobble heads were going to continue to be on the agenda I had to bail. Felt bad for ditching PS, but she had her man there and frankly I think if he hadn’t had a full drink, they would have jumped in the trunk.

I ran out from the club, passing a slew of C-listers hugging the velvet rope that had magically opened for me a mere hour ago.  It all seemed far less important now than sweatpants and a PB and J.  I was broke, hungry, and feeling very self-conscious about my breast size/worth as a human being.  It was then I realized that this cultural trifecta meant I had successfully completed a bonafide scenester evening.   I smiled, and then puked a little in my mouth.