Last night the wife and I went on a blind date of sorts. We went out to dinner with some fellow bloggers. Luckily we all wore pink flowers in our hair so as to recognize the others. All except L.A. Daddy that is, he wore a big glittery hat, and L.A. Mommy, she wore a smile. Karl didn’t wear a flower either. He wore boxers. Hilly wore a splash of vomit and a bit of snark. Tricia wore a sweater, and I wore too many beers, but I was thinking about pink flowers all night. Nobody ever wears the flowers.
We went to dinner at El Coyote, home of the hip, the famous, and the Sharon Tate special. As usual, we were the hippest and most famous people there. It was a festival of conversation, drinks and food. We were an island among the constant flow of a pretty sea and waves of exposed flesh. It was Saturday night in Hollywood. It was good.
We then made the 2 minute trek to The Grove, which by the way is on The Grove Drive, for more drinks. This involved choices of an hour wait, “stomaching up to the bar” or throwing down a sixer in the parking garage. Instead, we found some comfy seats on a balcony and ordered another round. Or two.
Of course we discussed blogging and the upcoming LA Blogger Party. That wasn’t all though. We also talked about busted cans of biscuits, hot dog necks, Vasquez Rock (which I tried to explain by making a model with my fingers- and it worked), and you. The L.A.’s really relished the moment.
It was a lot of fun. Basically I was really loud and spoke about myself all night. I’m an ass like that. Seemed like everyone else enjoyed themselves too, and really that’s all that matters, even more than the flowers.