Friday (Been a while since I’ve done one of these)
Dinner at Cha Cha Cha, a Caribbean joint with distressingly unspicy jerk chicken.
Drinks at 4100 Sunset, one of those white bars that attempt to have an Asian theme by sticking a Buddha statue in there.
Both were acceptably cool. But both were located in a part of LA that we don’t venture to much. I’ve been to Shanghai more than I’ve been to this forsaken area. Consequently, people tend to get a bit disoriented when they come around here, because the streets don’t look anything like the streets they’re named after. Sunset doesn’t look like Sunset. Melrose doesn’t look like Melrose. You’ve found yourself in LA’s homely Siamese twin, the grungy one who lives in the basement with her Elvis Costello records. It’s then you realize how fucking huge this city is. I was born and raised here and I’ve yet to set foot in Bellflower.
Drove down to San Diego to crash at Mr. and Mrs. Dentist’s new house. Goddamn it’s enormous. I’d heard it was almost 4000 square feet; but hearing it and seeing it are two different things. For you high school kids who are wondering about careers, if you want to own a shower stall that’s bigger than most people’s bathrooms, consider dentistry. If you can lean back in your chair and then rub your belly and drink coffee simultaneously without seriously burning yourself, consider advertising.
Mr. Dentist converted part of his house into a mini-casino, with craps in one room and blackjack in the other. I ended up playing blackjack, with T being the house. Although Mr. Dentist and I were the only ones out of the ten players who didn’t lose money, T claimed he was down for the day. I demanded my comp breakfast anyway.
Afterward, Chuck got buzzed off cigars and scotch, and kissed T right on the lips. Then he wrestled Geney Boy to the couch and dry humped him. Dude’s been single for only a month and already he’s turned to sexually assaulting his friends. All you single ladies out there in LA, please date this man or I may be the next victim.
About a dozen of us played some football for a couple of hours. Chuck, being hung over and large-breasted, lasted only a few minutes before puking on the sidelines and then took a nap. Another guy got his eye poked, and being an opthamologist, excused himself from the game to perform surgery on himself. And for the second year in a row, T “pulled” his hamstring. Two actor guys did show up to fill in for the injured, but five plays later, one of them split the other guy’s lip open with his shoulder.
Me, I’m still sore from that fucking game. Better than yesterday, when my out-of-shape ass was shuffling around like Ozzy and whimpering “Mother of God” every time I got up from my chair – but still bloody sore. About the only positive thing was that I shed a few pounds, except they were literally shed off my body like a cheese grater. That’s because the field was dry and rocky like sandpaper, so every time one of us dove for the ball, we’d lose several ounces of shredded flesh. Parts of my left leg look like beef jerky. Mmm, jerky…
The Super Bowl was a huge letdown, wasn’t it? A sad flashback to the days when the NFC teams would slaughter the AFC teams, making people wish there were more commercials to watch (That Reebok spot with Tate tackling office workers killed me. Click here to see more.). At least Mr. and Mrs. Dentist had tons of eats and beer. My God, they are the ultimate hosts. And they’ve got a 60” HD screen and loads of fresh towels. I’m thinking of asking them to adopt me so I can move in with them, maybe into their shower stall.
Oh, and thank you Mr. Gannon, for winning my girlfriend $250.
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