Well, let's start by saying that I am 100% satisfied with my decision NOT to post an entry at 3:30am, wasted.

Last night was the first time in ages I had a "girls' night out." I define this as an event that involves mass quanitities of booze, dancing to at least one new wave song--though some Guns 'n' Roses is an acceptable substitute--and tormenting boys who haven't the slightest clue what they're in for when they strike up a conversation using their time-tested pickup line.

Let's see...where do I start? I'm sure I can cobble together most of the night.

We started at the Roost and The Bigfoot Lodge. Actually, we started at Jen's house with some shots of Wild Turkey, but I'm not counting that. We took a cab (responsible!) to the two bars I mentioned, which I had never been to. I was under the impression that they would be disgusting hipster central. And though they kind of were, it wasn't as bad as I'd expected. Loved the music at Bigfoot Lodge, though I probably loved it because it's your standard drunk-o fare. A little Neil Diamond, a little ACDC, some GNR, and a few 80's favorites. Yes, it's the equivalent of using a whiffle ball bat and tee to get that hit, but it works.

There was booty-shakin'. And a stripper. Yeah, a stripper. In the bar. Jen had been in the bathroom with her and told me when she came out, "There is a girl in there with a mug of coffee, a duffel bag, and a turquoise thong hanging out of her white mini-skirt. She's gotta be a stripper." And she was right. She wasn't a very good stripper though. Until she caught her own reflection in a framed poster on the wall and that really got her going.

We walked back to the Roost and Jen told us a story about her Aunt Phyllis, who shot her husband (Wild Bill) after he beat her up so badly that he decided he should drive her to the hospital. In Jen's words, "She asked him to wait a minute while she went back inside for her 'overnight bag'...by which she meant 'shotgun'." The story goes on, but I don't want to tell it because I really think Jen should write a movie about it.

Outside the Roost, Amanda and I started torturing this boy about his shoes. She asked him what they were, he said F-13s. They were like gray high tops with a velcro closure. Velcro. Even though he was apparently there with a girl, he stayed outside and allowed us to torment him for several minutes. A good sport. So once we were back inside Amanda wrote her number on the back of the receipt from Bigfoot Lodge. Underneath her name and number she wrote, "FOR REAL," and gave it to him.

Then we were done with Los Feliz Boulevard and headed back down to my hood. We got to the Drawing Room (the second worst dive in this whole fucking town, I'm sure) just in time for last call.

One we'd been shoved into the parking lot, along with the remainder of the die-hard boozers, the girls struck up conversations with some of the fellas. I chatted with a couple of the dudes that were around, and one of them started hanging on me. Well, more leaning on me than anything. Although he was good looking, he was dumber than a bag of hair. Maybe it was just the booze, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. In any case, total meathead. So I sort of edged away from him and got to talking with his friends instead, who were a couple of nice guys. They knew the town where I grew up, and we were having an enjoyable conversation when Hairbag came flying out of nowhere and tackled me, actually tackled me to the ground. One minute it was talkie talkie, the next minute I was looking up at the sky. His friend offered me a hand up and apologized profusely. My elbow was scraped and bleeding.

I'm not sure how much longer we stuck around, but that signalled to us that it was time to go. Stumbled the few blocks home safely.

The whole experience made me remember why I don't like meeting boys at bars. But that doesn't mean I'm not down to do it all again next weekend. I just have to remember to bring along some protective padding, just in case.

Note: "Bag of Hair" appears courtesy of Shane Nickerson.