Jet Setting. West Coast Style.

My past weekend in Los Angeles:

Friday night
Three glasses of wine
Two orders of take-home sushi
Two back-to-back episodes of Battlestar Galactica

Saturday Night
Two glasses of wine
my eighteenth viewing of “The Color Purple”, followed by a SciFi trainwrek movie: “Volcano: Unleashed”, starring Philip Dunbar. (Add this movie to his stellar list of nothing.)

Sunday Night
Three glasses of wine
A vegetarian fondu party! (I was tempted to dip the neighbor's dingo in the pot of Emmanthaler and gnaw on its haunches.)

If there’s a screening test for state citizenship, methinks that California might vote me off the island.

Death and traffic.

In a follow-up to my last blog, I would like to report that no famous people were spotted. I saw their Bentley limousines trolling through Hollywood, as they sat behind tinted windows, sipping on Chivas and chuckling at star-obsessed fanatics (like ourselves). Well fuck them.

For the dumbass that planned the Century Blvd repaving project, which obviously began the second we exited the 405 and probably ended the minute after my sister officially missed her plane, fuck you.

And finally… for you, Mr. Mall Security Man… that prevented me from entering the Prada store on Rodeo Drive when I refused to throw out my jamba juice lime-sublime smoothie… Fuck you and your wack-ass rent-a-cop power trip.

Famous People or Death

My sister is flying in to LA for a weekend visit. Her only requirement is to see famous people. I am merely a mode of transportation with which to hunt down and stalk aforementioned famous people.
This week, it was announced that Brad Pitt was hospital-ridden with a bout of meningitis. Leave it to him to pick a dramatic brain-swelling disease. Anyway- in response, my sister course-corrected her itinerary for this weekend’s plans to include a Brad Pitt sighting when she sent me this email (verbatim) yesterday:

agenda for tomorrow:
1. take vicodin (recently prescribed for insane neck pain) and wash down with 5 glasses of wine
2. go to hospital and complain of meningitis-like pain
3. wind up in emergency room with stomach being pumped

My sister is not exactly vain. Vanity involves a pair of big-ass sunglasses and a newspaper to hide behind. She's more of a manic obsessive.
It's going to be a fabulous weekend.

Heavier Things

I would like to recount a conversation I had yesterday with a girl who shall remain nameless (GWSRN). Her name has been removed to avoid embarrassment.

GWSRN: Michael, I have an IPOD question.

Michael: Ummm… okay. Shoot.

GWSRN: My ITunes playlists got wiped out on my work laptop. I just downloaded ITunes again and replaced all my old music.

Michael: Uh-huh.

GWSRN: Well, I finally moved all of those songs onto my IPod… and I swear, the IPod is heavier now.

Michael: Heavier? Because you downloaded 300 songs?

GWSRN: Yeah… I mean, that’s a lot of songs. That’s got to weigh something, right?

Please note that the GWSRN does not have blond hair, legally operates a motor vehicle, holds a job, and speaks in full sentences.

Lucky Bastard

I spent the 4th of July weekend in Atlanta with Chris. We had decided to throw a big ole’ bash on Monday, complete with four gallons of mai-tais, a full complement of Barbie plates/napkins and a gigantic American flag tart. If the neighbors had wondered about Chris’ sexual orientation, I think the barbeque provided tacit clarification.
Having been away from Atlanta for over a year, this party was the perfect opportunity to reconnect with a couple of lost friends. I realized just how lost one of them had become when Mark asked who’s apartment we were in and who the hell Chris was. Realizing that he had never met Chris, I mustered up the remaining fibers of sobriety and took the next ten minutes to wax sentimental about the incredibility of the last eight months. It’s been a while since I have actually recounted the course of our relationship. This particular conversation provided one of those random tests that forces you to check your feelings for a moment and objectively analyze whether you’re a blundering moron or a lucky bastard.

I sided with option B) lucky bastard.
Perhaps it was the mai-tais.