Adventures in Hollywood

This weekend was an interesting one. A friend was in town so I suppose there was that sort of pressure, in a way, to go big. I told her that I felt like I was a sophomore in college again, like we were roommates again, where we'd be studying and just look at each other from across our hallway and say, "Want a drink?" That sort of nostaligc sense of doing anything just to do it, just because you're alive.

After her plane landed on Friday an old friend of ours came over and the three of us had a bottle of wine. Then we took his banana boat to Santa Monica, laughing the whole way. "Field trip!" he'd shout. We ate greasy quesadillas at the Library Alehouse on Main; He ordered the most strange sounding beer he could find on the menu. We then ended up in Venice at the Other Room, a beer and wine bar where good looking guys hang out at night and the girls seem normal, not so much make up, not so overly done up. We squeezed into a dark corner of the bar where we were lucky enough to find seats because everyone else thought it to be VIP and huddled down for a good conversation. It was at this point that Old Friend started to order cokes instead of beer, and I insisted that he sleep on my couch in the Brentwood Chateau so he ditched the cokes quick. Later, we went to the Brig down the street, braving the cold ocean air for the chance of something new. The red-orange glow of the Brig illuminated the hippies and ex-band members, artists and scarf-clad crowd (although - it's not yet THAT cold in LA) and that's when I was told I was drinking a cup of smiles.

It was "FIELD TRIP!" again at 7 a.m. when we had to drive Old Friend back to his car in Venice. I could see the beach and I saw that it was empty; I told my friend we should go there. We rolled up our pajama pants and let the ocean water hit our toes. We felt lazy as a group of about 100 marathon runners in training passed us, our faces blocked by large sunglasses, messy hair in pony tails. After a full day of shopping we tagged on to a group of girls going to Geisha House in Hollywood. We sat on the cold plastic-ish chairs there, munching on udon noodles, sushi and chicken skewers. A limo picked us up outside Geisha and we blasted music and drank vodka redbulls. The best part of the night was that I didn't plan a thing - the whole evening was out of my hands.

Although I enjoyed the lights of Hollywood and the crazy night, the girls in too-short dresses and the guys who tried way too hard -- I think I'm much more at home in a dive bar with a beer (ok...wine).

Roomie and I cooked the Bird tonight. Test Bird. I had to pull out the disgusting INSIDES - the liver and heart and I-don't-want-to-know-what-else. Gross. She held the slimy thing down in the sink, felt that Bird all over, making sure it was really thawed out. We screamed the whole time, jumping back as though we could get pecked, right then and there in my Brentwood Chateau. I thought to myself how I could never have lived on a farm in a past life, I just know it. We threw any herb that sounded good into a bowl with olive oil and brushed it all over that 9 pounder. And I wondered, then, if I would always remember having my first turkey in my little Brentwood place, with this girl I didn't know just five months ago. My first turkey.

It was really great.