Barefoot Contessa

Jordan and Jackie were up for a night with the boys so they grabbed their gays and headed out on the town. Johnny and The Contessa were a couple of fierce bitches, I mean shit gurl, we don't even call The Contessa by his real name he just has a title THAT's how fucking fierce he is (he also makes a mean truffle demi-glaze). They hit WeHo as per usz, this time exploring the many lovely qualities Motherload bar has to offer. If you're not familiar, think Claim Jumper, but with capris. The 1890 themed bar made Jordan realize that the gays really do have more of an appreciation for history, architecture, art, etc than the rest of society; that was until she spotted two guys going at it up against the faux gold mine in the back to the smooth rhythms of a Hot n' Cold remix. At that point she was quickly jolted back to reality (she will never think of gold pans the same way again).
Anyway, back at the ranch, they moseyed on up to the bar and when Jackie spotted the Goose it was over. Girl got faded in about 2.2 and quickly made friends with a nice shirtless fella as she danced atop the pool table. Johnny would soon join her up there and become one of the shirtless himself. Homeboy used to be a little chunky and has recently developed a slimmed-down, sculpted bod that he can't help but flaunt any chance he gets. The major drama continued when we turned and saw The Contessa's 40+ year old sugar daddy enter the bar. The Contessa had attempted to ditch him that night, ignoring his phone calls and texts, but apparently that pig can sniff out The Contessa's truffle scent from a mile away. A major fight ensued and soon the kid gloves came off. Sugar daddy insulted The Contessa's cooking abilities *oh-no-he-di'int-face*and Contessa not so kindly pointed out how sugar daddy's penchant for diamond encrusted Ed Hardy wear was so last year and way too Jon Gosselin for his taste. After all The Contessa's name was not Kate and in no situation was he allowed (either by science or his personal trainer) to give birth to his own personal basketball team worth of children. The argument got heated - sugar daddy stole The Contessa's shoe and in return, he threw the key to his Prius back in sugar daddy's face; it was after this exchange that a tranny, dressed as a saloon girl, stepped in to break things up. The Contessa's sugar daddy was escorted out and we continued doing what we do - even one shoe down. With the mention of last call we headed down for a quick stop at after hours at Club Pavil (Pavillions grocery to all you laymen). Their late night munchies collection is to die for. After our fill of Club Pavil we walked our fabulous asses back up Santa Monica boulevard towards Johnny' place. Just another typical night in WeHo.

Van-guard your alchi

Let this be a lesson to you kiddies. A lesson in drinking. A lesson in sex. Now we all know some of my friends aren't the prudest of sorts (no judgment), but no one deserves to get the ziyan b'eiyan (all my Hebrew-speaking tribe members out there know what I'm sayin'). For those of you who are not familiar, the ziyan b'eiyan is the dreaded result of an unfortunate sexual encounter - often the kind that requires a shot in the ass, or a good saline cleansing of one's particular orifice to heal. My friend Jackie was the most recent recipient of the Z-B, and was determined not to let that horrible bit of news ruin her day. She snapped herself back into a good mood in the only truly respectable fashion - she drank her way there. From breakfast with mimosas, to lunch with mojitos (Betty Ford don't stop me now!), to snack time with margs, Jackie was more chipper than Suze Orman on Lexapro at a Katy Perry concert. The drinking continued on into dinner - and when I say dinner I really mean two sticks of celery and a Jell-o Pudding cup - so by the time 2am rolled around and we hit after hours at Vanguard, Jackie was more than good to go *schwasted-out-of-her-face-face*. The DJ was a friend of mine so we had access to his VIP and special stash of complimentary alchi, which of course, we were more than happy to help him drink. I mean two Costco size Grey Geese, a bottle of Petron, and one of Jack weren't going to drink themselves now were they?
We got our groove on a bit amidst all the candy ravers hopped up on ungodly quantities of the green glow particle (glow sticks were so last year. have you ever seen a green Greedy smurf?). After I had a ring pop lovingly shoved in my mouth by a friendly but spaced out fellow party-goer, I decided it was time to move my party off the dance floor. My friend's DJ set had come to an end and the next young hotshot DJ was now spinning; and he too was betrothed a complimentary stash of alchi. Perhaps Jackie just neglected to notice that my friend was no longer DJ-ing or she was just sooo drunk she thought the booze tray in front of her was her own personal platter of alchi, but she ripped into said DJ's bottle of Goose like it was water and the dance floor she just crossed was the desert. Before we knew it the establishment's manager was prying the bottle out of Jackie's hand and attempting to escort her out. Jackie slapped the woman and proceeded to yell, "Bitch, don't take my alcohol." Sweetie, we ain't in Weho anymore, you can't go round slappin' trannies. And with that we were chased out of Vanguard and quickly stumbled into the thick, smokey, ash-laiden Hollywood air *coughface*. Jackie's ziyan b'eiyan was certainly a distant memory come morning with her head perched over the porcelain.

Till our next tragic encounter....

Risky Business

It's a tale as old as the Hatfield & the McCoys, Capulets & Montagues - it's Hipsters vs. Prepsters. This rivalry came to a head at a recent shindig we threw. Our party was a riskier gamble than we had initially assessed. With Jordan all up in L.A.'s hipster scene and Emmerson sufficiently implanted in the upscale bonds of the prepsters, we figured the party was going to be an interesting ground for experimental social bonding. Sure the hipsters might slyly nod to the prepsters when it comes to fashion (I mean come on, there's no doubt who pioneered the Sperry topsider look), but when it comes to philosophies on life these two couldn't be more like oil and water.

The intermingling started out rather calm, both groups coexisted, although calculated geographical positions were taken by party-goers of opposing sides. But soon, weekly hygiene habits and the validity of musical elitist overtures were questioned and all hell broke loose. The scene played out like some trippy, plaid and khaki-laced version of West Side Story. Hipsters on the north wall, prepsters on the south. The two groups slowly migrating across the living room toward one another with a quieted fervor reserved for slow motion scenes in a Tarantino flick (I haven't seen so many skinny jeans marching since the great exodus from the Anorexia ward of '03). If only the snapping and singing had been replaced by sporadic outbursts into emotional poetry or some random number generation of APRs and ROIs I could have died and gone to heaven. But alas not all fantasies can come true...when the neo jets and sharks met, mid-living room, PH and Toby, repsectively, the leaders of each clan, stood penny loafer to chuck taylor. The other guests held their collective breath as the anticipation of what was next was barely tolerable. Violence? Ascots and fedoras furiously flying across the room? Silence and an intense stare down between the two leaders is what actually ensued.... followed by some of PH's covert coveting of Toby's ecru colored cardigan *jealousface*. After remembering that both the hipster and the prepster are pacifists and frankly kinda whimpy, the two clans backed down and agreed to disagree for the evening; at least enough to mutually enjoy the tasty veggies and hummus dip.