When you live in a place like Los Angeles, a wide and lonely place which stretches from landmark to landmark with forgotten fields and dusty gas stations, you start to forget how alluring it can be. You simply ignore the familiar shape of palm trees, and dismiss the constant sunshine as a familiar frivolity which grows tiresome around Thanksgiving. It is the right of the Angeleno to grow impervious to the city's charm but it is also her duty to periodically rediscover it.
The Whimsical Adventures of JB and Her Ragtag Gang
Though there are millions of things to do around Los Angeles, only foreigners to the city discover them as natives' sense of creativity quietly erodes with the unforgiving ebb and flow of time; so we go to bars and drink until we don't feel feelings anymore. This weekend, our first stop was to Father's Office as a motley gang of rascally ragamuffins, begging strangers to look past our tear-soaked eyes and dirty faces and buy us a drink. When that didn't work, we shunned them. It was a slow night, but within the first few hours I had become the recently separated lesser-half of a Siamese Twinset with a glass eye and only a third of our shared brain.
The total count of infuriated men who walked away shamefully as their Ed Hardy shirts shifted uncomfortably in the face of rejection came to nine. Nine poor souls were unfortunate enough to think that a group of social, fun-loving, and apparently drunk girls would be receptive to their advances.
Though each of them had their own distinguishing characteristics (a sad bearded fellow sitting at the bar since 5:00pm desperately calling out for a willing pair of breasts and fluttering eyelashes, or the drunk whose bloodshot eyes searched us for either a cigarette or a few kind words), none was more memorable than the Flirtatious Astronaut.
"You guysss workfur NASA?" he boldly put forth.
"You work for NASA?" Katie replied in earnest.
"Nnno. Do YOU workfur NASA? B'cuz...you could be the starrrs and I couldbe the Big Dippuurr."
Promptly, a Wall of Shun was presented and we politely asked our new friend to please adhere to it.
While in line for the bathroom, I sidled up to the DJ with the grace of a cat with three legs, and made a simple request for anything Michael Jackson. A knowing glance and a sincere nod gave the night a hopeful air. Three minutes later, PYT started to play and about 4 minutes after that, half the bar was crowded around the booth as a six-song tribute to Michael and his lesser brothers played. "Remember the Time" is particularly good. At one point, an imposing Redwood of a man approached me with the DJ's iPhone and asked me to look at the picture on it. There, a young Michael Jackson, age 13, sat next to another boy who was unmistakably the friendly DJ. I bowed at his feet, and after a rousing routine set to "The Way You Make Me Feel", I scampered off into the night as my gang and I hopped aboard a moving freight train toward a late night diner. The eggs were delicious and the company irreplaceable.
I Left My Heart In Santa Monica
Aside from a slight mental breakdown at a family celebration (which is the expected result of too much tequila, pulsing heat, and an entire family that doesn't take kindly to teasing about hardship) the hours of the weekend crawled along, sticky with sand and sunscreen and warm contentment. The sun shone on us for the next few days, and as the nights fluttered on with the impermanence of youth, we toasted to the fickle city that won our hearts with its fleeting romance and its tangerine sunsets which cool with the unforgiving nature of a lover who will forever elude your grasp. Los Angeles, I'm yours.
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