When people get disgusted when I say I live in LA,
I’m always surprised.
I love LA !
And it baffles me.
Well, now, I get it.
Because last night I spent an evening in West Hollywood.
I usually spend time in my neighborhood.
Very different experiences, from the preparation to the execution, the entire evening’s attitude is based upon the night’s location.
Echo Park:
Get off work and cruise to Sabah’s to grab Zissou. Have a glass or smoke a bowl, whatever’s clever. Go home and eat a corn dog. Try on three pairs of jeans but always end up in the ones that have been loved so much they have stretch curdles on the backs of the knees. Try on a couple tops, go with the one that fits best with flats. Touch up my mascara, maybe fluff some powder on my nose. I’m probably either stoned or still drinking wine and my attitude is very much, “I just got off work. I don’t need to fucking impress you, this is who I am after working forty eight hours this week. Take it or leave it. I have a sparkling personality.” And I go to where ever we’re going, usually by foot with my pals. I have a couple five dollar whiskey-&-somethings, see a couple people I know, spot at least three guys I could see myself potentially making out with if they are at least kinda funny / smart. Maybe one of those three talks to me. I’m stoked. We talk about music or movies or some art or whatever and it’s probably kind of interesting. Then go home to eat another corn dog. Wash my face, turn on Seinfeld and go to sleep.
West Hollywood:
I am locked up and in my car as the second turns to closing. I rush home, leaving Zissou with Sabah. I take a sumptuous shower, spending an extra minute on shaving each of my legs and baste myself in lotion upon drying off. I then blow dry my hair and try on six dresses all with three shoe combinations to find which best accentuate the lift of my new-found ass. I search for my eyeliner because I never know where it is because I never use it. I take the time to apply it. I have a vodka Redbull at my vanity with me and we are listening to T.I. Hop over the freeway to the Sunset strip. Getting seated at dinner is a parade. We order $12 fruity cocktails and every appetizer on the menu. Dagger eyes everywhere. Finish dinner, feeling like a a sausage in its casing because I wore the tightest dress I own. Go to a trendy bar. Pay too much for parking. Get asked if I like horses by a bald man with a five inch Rapist goatee who I give the chance to be remotely funny and instead he tells me I am the weird horse girl who grew up on his cul-de-sac. Walk away. Every dude is gay or Armenian. Eventually my friends are requisitioned by a group of grabby “real estate investors” who visit Brazil regularly. Try to get me wasted but I’m the DD (I know, I even surprised myself with that one!) and go find refuge in the bathroom with the fat girl in the black coochie cutter sequined jumpsuit throwing up and the blond aspiring “actress/singer… but i kinda write and would loooove to produce”s posted at the mirror for ten minutes bitching about their twenty five inch waists. Tell my friends we’ve got to skedaddle, get home and fall asleep in the fetal position, shaking from the conglomerates of ego and insecurity- that even surpassed my own- exploding everywhere I went, wondering if I need to bitch about my waist too…
KSDFKJDSHFJKSKDFNSDFUSFSJ !!!
IT’S TOO MUCH !!!
HOW DO THESE PEOPLE NOT GO INSANE ?!
Seriously, just now, just recalling the insanity of the vibes is giving me heart palpitations (it might be the Diet Coke followed by the coffee but who knows).
I think that’s why I only get out there every six months; long enough to forget what a debacle it is and to get optimistic enough to think somehow, this time, it will be different.
But it’s always the same.
I always come home thinking I need a prescription of Paxil.
