Once upon a midnight dreary, those in possession of various area codes left their nine-to-five fabulosity behind and headed to Hollyweird, better known as the belly of the beast. Saturday night’s a veritable playground for those whose appetite is not quite satisfied by continental cuisine, and in pursuit of all things unholy, twenty somethings congregate in carnal couture, consumed with their quest to eat, pray, love. So scandal and its cohort debauchery seep into the city and suddenly L.A. is a feeding ground for the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to be free from weekly restraints, unless said restraints hold the promise of a little pseudo self-indulgence.
My fave nights to prowl around Hollywood with the girls often involve the sheer amusement I get from witnessing the hunt through a cosmopolitan haze. Girls it seems are just as guilty as guys in their sordid methods of getting what they want, even if it’s just a new number to enhance the mundane Monday through Friday scene. The scandalously-clad city of sin becomes this mockumentary from National Geographic and the urban jungle is less forgiving and much more cut-throat than the silly little Sahara scene. Guys lurk by the bar checking out the fresh meat and when the head-to-toe once over officially meets the kissing criteria, they pounce, hoping to go from Jane’s house, to my house, back to his house. It’s a funny thing to watch this guiltiest of pleasures, but those lucky enough to live in the valley of the dolls know it’s eat or be eaten, and girls on the Cali diet are always hungry.
It’s a race to meet Mr. Right, or sometimes – Mr. Right Now, and whether you’re aware or not, the city is swallowing us whole. But hey, something has to keep us on our toes.