Okay, I'm going to lay the spin down for you.
The red eye? Not the cousin for you. Sure, it might sound all movie starish to say, Darling, I'm exhausted - I just came in off the red eye, but that's about its only benefit.
Last night when it was time for me to take my sporty red Alero back to the folks at National, I turned into Cryin' Adams. All I wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep and get up in the morning and travel like a normal person.
And it's one thing to fly overnight when you have another country and vacation adventures awaiting you on the other side, it's another thing all together when you're going home and the only thing awaiting you is a car with crazy, squeaky brakes and a dirty house and your job.
So it takes me a day to get back into my thing and live like a human who doesn't feel like she needs to be eating lunch at 4 p.m., because really her body finally got adjusted that actually being 1 in the afternoon.
So. Los Angeles. I either love to hate it or hate to love it. I haven't quite decided yet.
I stayed at the trendy, yet affordable, Standard Hotel, as it's my company's preferred place of lodging in L.A. It's full of beautiful people being beautiful and not doing anything.
This was confirmed by the gorgeous creatures they call Valets.
I'm convinced no one in that city works. I was driving down Melrose on Friday afternoon and not only was the traffic heavy as expected, but the sidewalks and shops were packed. Y'all, Johnny Rockets. Johnny Wanna be '50s Diner That's in Every Mall in America Rockets was jammed. Johnny Rockets! We're not talking Baja Fresh or the Coffee Bean here.
So I did my work thing and hung out with friends - the joy of traveling for work. On Friday night, M, his girlfriend, and another friend of mine met for dinner at Gladstone's in Malibu. It's when you're sitting there, under heat lamps, staring at the ocean, right on the PCH and the sun is setting, that you shake your head in amazement that people actually live here. That this is normal and real and their life. Not a three day weekend or family vacation.
On Saturday we hung out in Huntington Beach. We're waiting at Jamba Juice for our Orange Mango Madness and I got totally caught up in the lives of this group of 13 year old girls. They were barefoot, with their little bikini tops, towels wrapped around their nonexistent hips or denim shorts unbuttoned and rolled down, and they were flirting and smiling at boys with braces. What kind of life must they live? To have the ocean, the beach, the sun, the dream right there all the time?
It's hard to wrap my head around.
That night we ate at the rock and roll Thai place, and picked up a 12 of Miller Lite at the 7-11. We sat on the balcony of my hotel room and watched the traffic on Sunset. You can't really people watch as everyone drives, so we car watched. We got crazy drunk on our cheap beer and then went downstairs to mingle. (When a Bud Light is $6.50 at the bar, it's wise to get your drink on in other ways.)
I always think I'm going to like Red Bull and vodka, but when it comes down to it, I really don't. So we stood out by the pool, next to some mid-level band that we didn't recognize. Only they looked like rock stars and they were talking about their "show," and as I still have yet to see a celebrity, we decided they were pseudo famous. It worked for me.
Actually, we were pretending they were Train.
In college I was the entertainment editor for the paper, which meant I got to go to free concerts and I got promo packets and all those other fun perks. In the spring on '98, Train was headlining the Aware tour. They'd had mild success with "Meet Virginia" and they seemed poised for take off. So after their show I interviewed them and that was pretty much it. They were nice guys, and all that other down-to-earth rock star mumbo jumbo. Except the bald guitar player asked me to go back to their room and party with them. I was like "At the Hampton Inn? I don't think so."
So now that they're everywhere, every rock star looking jags we saw had to be Train.
The shaggy haired guys at Birds? Train. The weird facial hair guy in the airport? Train.
Oh, and I saw the Scientology Celebrity Center. All the crazy famous Scientologists were all outside eating breakfast in their crazy compound. You have no idea how badly I wanted to stick my head between the bars and ask Dharma for an autograph.
So in sum: The Standard - not really up to the hype, but pretty nonetheless. California kids - lucky little bastards. And mid-level bands? They're all Train.
The notify hates it when I just recap my weekend.