Angry Little Men

My third cocktail party of the week was held at the Elevate Lounge, 21 floors above downtown.  Despite my intention to lay off drinking until next week's Stair Climb, there was an open bar.  But it wasn't until I stood there talking about scotch with a client that I absolutely had to have some.  And damn, was it good.

It also completely squelched my fatigue.  I've been feeling like hell lately.  Maybe because I was at THREE parties in the last 7 days.  All work-related.  My life is hard.

One glass of scotch, 5 glasses of water.  One of which the bartender accidently spilled on me.  Thank god I wasn't wearing white.  Then we started making jokes about getting wet.  It was funny.  He's a good bartender.  Except for the "accidental" dropsies.

I'd go back to if the valet wasn't such an jerk.  Look, I can park my own car.  And I usually will, unless there is absolutely no parking around.  But the entrance to the club's building is down an alley, across from an empty parking structure.  You think I can't find my own space 20 feet from the door?  Why should I have to pay someone 7 bucks to do it for me?  Unfortunately, the answer is yes.  They won't let you self-park.  And the guy is always rude to me.  So I refuse to tip him.  It almost makes me never want to go back.

It's really too bad.  Because that bartender was really cool.

In the Cut

There is a reason that doctors do not operate on themselves.  As our dear friend Dr. Freshblade will tell you: Anaesthesia is the half asleep watching the half awake being half murdered by the half witted.

If that doesn't scare the bejesus out of you, I don't know what will.
 
All this to say that I shouldn't have attempted hair surgery on myself last night.  Because now I left certain parts too short and will have to wait for them to grow back out and/or fuse with nearby curls.
 
Luckily they are long enough still to tie back in a ponytail, where all manner of sins and mistakes can hide.
 
I've told you before, but it bears repeating: my life is hard.

Blame those Damn Commercials

"Hello, I'm a Mac. And I'm a PC."

I might be crossing over. Computer issues are driving me insane, and the longer I deal with Vista, the worse it gets.

Vista is seriously awful. Give me back my XP.

So...I'm considering getting a Mac. I hate Mac Sympathizers, they're just so damn self-righteous...and it might also make me partially white. But I already own an iPod. Would a MacBook be that much more of a stretch?

I have to decide kind of immediately though. Because I need to upgrade to CS3, which the college kids get an 80% discount on, but that means committing to one platform over the other.

Decisions, decisions. My life is hard.

Lights, Camera, Exasperation

One of the more heinous inconveniences of living in the entertainment capital of the world is the neverending filming that is done smack in my way. When I was just a co-ed, we were constantly under seige by film crews on UCLA's campus. I can't tell you how many times I was late to class because of some bullshit shoot.

That scene in How High when the car runs into the statue and the head falls off? I was on my way to the library that day. But I couldn't cross the quad because of the damn shoot.

I swear, my life is hard.

It hasn't gotten any easier out here in the real world. Just this last Friday, as I was trying to maneuver around the Dodger game traffic, I passed two separate shoots. Coned off lanes, detours right and left, a tight police presence redirecting traffic, all causing me longer delays. Argh.

We get it a LOT downtown too. Almost every single car commercial advertised in California originated on Bunker Hill. That magical white tunnel that stars in almost every single vehicle ad recently? Like the most recent Cadillac ones: that tunnel is directly outside my office. Guess how often I'm impeded by that crap?

And tonight I get home and find a lovely notice on my front door telling me that parking on our street is going to be compromised for the next few days. Because something called "Mostly Ghostly" is filming in the neighborhood.

DAMMIT.

Thankfully, this sounds like more like a kids film than a cops and robbers flick. That's what they were filming last time. It was fun waking up to the sounds of gunshots in the middle of the night. Like living in the ghetto.

Oh joy.

Craziness P-ersonified

I was all set to bitch about my 12 hour day--after I'd sworn off 12 hour days this year! But really it's just due to the fact that my life is so hard, I spent 3 hours at Simon LA over at the Sofitel Hotel. Which, by the way, is not as fancy a hotel as it wants to pretend it is. Expensive and trendy? Okay. But fancy? Fuck no. I'll go to the Bel Aire Hotel or the Beverly Hilton for "fancy," you overpriced, arrogant and quite dumpy hotel!

Back to my point: 12 hours!

Then I came home and Little Bull--winner of our last contest--had written about yesterday's glorious game and I just think that Eli Manning is the cutest little mouth breather on the planet, and I'd really love to have his babies if I could be guaranteed they wouldn't come out retarded, but I'll settle for just his jersey because this has officially become a run-on sentence and my brain has exploded.

But none of that is important because through LB I found us another blog that will definitely make you squirt coke through your nose, which burns like a bitch because coke should only go UP your nose, not OUT it, and there I go with another run on sentence.

Want to guess what drugs I'm on? Did I mention they serve cotton candy at Simon LA? Do you know that cotton candy is PURE FUCKING SUGAR and I'm still bouncing off the walls even though my lunch meeting ended 4 hours ago?

Go read My Crazy Roommate. It's really that good. Like a Super Bowl upset!

Confidential to Jack: I interpreted your text message to mean you would have taken the safe bet. Didn't your mama teach you to believe in the underdog? For shame!

Russian Holidays

Did you miss the opportunity to take Wednesday off just so you could make babies? I did, and god knows I could have used it. The sex, sure, but mainly the day off.

Except I'm not Russian, so it didn't apply. However, I do have vacation time banked up, so I can basically make Conception Day any day of the week I want.

I also already own a car and have no desire for babies. Plus my baby-making counterpart works worse hours than I do, so no babies for us.

My life is so very hard.

Photoblogging Friday 6.22.07

I worked way too hard this week. Up at 5 am, zombie-faced through the days...at least most nights I was given free alcohol. My life is really not that difficult. Especially Tuesday night, when I got three of my favorite things (with added bonuses):

- scotch (with a guy)
- steak (with props from the powers that be)
- this view from 300 feet above Los Angeles (with wine):

Sunset over the Santa Monica & Harbor freeways interchange

This is looking west from the penthouse of the AT&T building in downtown LA. Also known as the restaurant Windows, which is about to close on July 1st. It's a damn shame too because while the food is just okay, the view is ridiculous. 360 degrees of the entire city from the 32nd floor. Right above the Convention Center, where I have languished for the last 2 days. Tradeshows suck.

But at least I got this picture.

And scotch. And a story about how a guy agonized over asking a girl out. Told by a bartender who had just figured out that I was the girl in the story.

Did I mention I also love 23 year old bartenders in naughty librarian outfits?

It was a good week.

Party Like It's 1996!

My 10 year high school reunion is next weekend. The Princess and I have opted to go sans male escorts for the opportunity to tag along with the Queen of Suburbia/Krazy Mommy and her husband.

Like a harem. Because a night with my oldest childhood friends is nothing if not a Boobies on Parade event.

I've been excited about this for a really long time. I'm in that -.0007% that actually enjoyed high school. It was so easy! My parents let me get away with all sorts of shit because I brought home the grades. And they had no idea that some of my closest friends were notorious drug addicts since they were so polite when they came over to the house.

Man, those were some good times. And through the magic of Myspace, I've been reliving them for the better part of the last week.

I just want to get dressed up and party! And catch up with everyone I haven't seen since June 1996. Back before I dropped out of the Ivy League, before I lost my kick-ass job, before I wrote a blog all about myself.

I had been putting off buying a dress for the occasion, when I decided to give my existing wardrobe the once over. And there was the perfect burgundy cocktail dress that I had completely forgotten I own. Score! I love shopping in my own closet.

Now I just have to decide which pair of strappy 3-inch stilettos I'm pairing with it.

Oh, my life. So hard!