New year new start right? Wrong. Same old dating disaster stories that honestly give the famed four females from Manhattan a run for their money. So in an effort to meet new people, I agree to go out with this guy who would totally be my type (if I really had one) preppy, motivated, loves classic rock, should have just gone ahead and wrote future Mr. SweetLo. This of course was my train of thought before “the incident,” as I like to refer to it. Now most girls’ dating horror stories consist of skirt in underwear, spilling cocktail on white couture, tripping and falling in front of the mass population of Los Scandalous. But me? No, I like to be different! So we go to this place where fried food and arcade games circa 1980 came a dime a dozen. In a post food, post-drink haze of flirtation, we decided to compete in a little rousing round of air hockey. Well my train of thought was still on track until I successfully blocked the little dangerous disc, sent it back his way, with a trail of blood across the table. Now, my train of thought had officially gone off track and crashed. There were no survivors. Now leave it to me to turn West Hollywood into a South Central-style murder scene. All I needed was to be wearing either red or blue and my gang affiliation wouldn’t be questioned due to my bloody street cred. So while I was in questioning (from former Mr. Perfect) as to how I managed to sever my hand on a plastic disc, I told him I was just talented. Well, twenty-ten is officially off to one hell of a start. Can’t wait for my next misadventure on the search for mister right….now.
After a recent West Hollywood trip that went awry, and looked more like a scene from MTV’s Jersey Shore, I’ve been trying to keep it less club happy and more late-night low-key. Why anyone would want to fake tan enough to resemble an oompa loompa is beyond me, but then again, I’m so pale I could be a member of the famed fangtastic Cullen clan. It’s one thing to go and have a good time, but it’s quite another to go out and not remember if you had a good time, what you may or may not have said to cause your friend to stop talking to you, and if you do or do not need to get a prescription for Plan B today. If that’s what you’re looking for, just set your DVR to watch the next episode of “what not to do when out,” care of the east coast kids who should be auditioning for the next Axe Hair Crisis Relief commercial. Hollyweird is simply a cesspool for drunken debauchery, and tres fun in moderation, but only to find Mr. Right Now, not Mr. Right. So pack up that wristlet for a night on the town with caution, because True Life: I need a nice dude is not in the works just yet (but should be). So maintain your manners while walking the boulevard and kick the California calorie count to the curb prior to pre-gaming those cocktails, before you end up on the next episode of Intervention. See you over the hill again soon. The aforementioned rules and restrictions applicable to all 364 nights a year except the Schmooz-A-Palooza, because whatever happens on Sunset stays there…Santa’s too busy to tell on us.
This past Monday night, I ventured past the hills and into West Hollywood for what I thought would be just another night out of drinking and dancing. When I got to Apple lounge, I inadvertently found myself in the middle of matzo ball madness, and it seems I should have brought a passport in order to gain admittance to this direct import from the Holy land. It was insanity as soon as I walked through the door. Between the jewtastic mob of people and the various exclamations of Hebrew phrases, I was considering adding rosetta stone to my next birthday wishlist. I had several encounters with people from my past right there in my present and I instantaneously had flash backs to the Schmooz-A-Palooza, where a girl can’t walk 10 feet before running into some former friend, bringing the six degrees of Jewish separation to life in a whole new way. Israeli music was mixed in to mingle with whatever has recently dropped on Power 106, and the dancefloor was like a mob scene that could rival Times Square on any given New Year’s Eve. All in all, the entire evening offered a much needed break for jaded young Hollywood enthusiasts and this alternative form of play was long overdue. In a city where a girl can eat cuisine from various continents with all the ease and grace of a seasoned celebrity posessing unlimited funds, she should be able to party like one. My late night IHOP (international house of partying) escapade was a success and had me lusting for another out of country experience. Yesterday Israeli Insanity, today California casual, tomorrow Cancun!