I've been slacking; I know. But I have an excuse. I've been across the country, gallivanting in sunny (except when I was there, apparently) California. Here's the recap:
First stop: San Fransisco. My company threw a party at the W Hotel for one of our clients. After the party, the manager of the hotel told us, (and this is a direct quote), "We have never had so many broken glasses. Ever."
The following morning, half-drunk and bleary-eyed, I took the olde-tyme cable car. Yes, that cable car--the one they turn around manually by leaning on it until it begins to lurch clockwise. During the ride, I did not see the house from the show "Full House." Yes, I looked.
As I rode the "subway" out to the burbs, it struck me how unimaginably windy the tracks were. They weave in and out of people's back yards like the Colorado River. It's called eminent domain; knock some goddamn houses down.
My friend and I plop down at a bar. We order sangria. More specifically, we order two GIGANTIC pitchers of sangria. Despite our aptitude for guzzling alcohol, the old female bartender swiftly emasculates us by reminding us we're drinking wine.
I hop a plane to LA. For some inexplicable reason it is colder than San Fransisco. (Okay, not inexplicable; I'm sure it has something to do with cumulus clouds, or moisture, or El Nino, but to me, LA is south, it should be warmer.)
I eat Chinese food at a place called "Mao's" in Hollywood. No one seems to mind that the restaurant is littered with pictures of the Chairman in crazy Hitler power poses. Or that the waitress is a hipster with red hair and a lip ring. Or--and this is the worst part--that the duck sauce is brown and tastes like Pete Sampras' feet.
At a gay bar in West Hollywood some guy introduces himself to me three times. Each time he uses the exact same opening line. The third time, after I tell him he's already done this twice, he looks embarrassed, and tells me, "I'm really bad at this," to which I reply, "I'm straight." That's when he stopped introducing himself.
At some point in the night, my friend is roofied. We discovered this when he decides to urinate in a can and take a nap in the bathroom in the fetal position. Not that I'm suggesting he should have slept in a can and urinated in the bathroom. But still, something was amiss.
Back to NY on Virgin America. I'm sure you've heard the stories: mood lighting, lounge music, sassy flight attendants, leather chairs. You may not have heard about the in-flight chat feature, though, which is easily the best part. I tried to stike up a conversation with an old lady in first class who looked like Cruella de Vil; she ignored me.
Now I'm back. And it's like 80 degrees in NYC. Go figure.