i didn't mean to attend sunset junction last weekend, but on saturday night, my favorite local band, the jail weddings, was playing at el cid, which is one of my favorite bars. i had nothing better to do, so i applied my stila warpaint, attached a flashing red light to my back, and pointed the bottecchia eastward. silver lake ho! i entered el cid through the back alley, avoiding the sunset junction crowd the best i could, and inside i met up with kathy and georgia who were there on my recommendation.
the band's set was delayed (one of the singers was stuck in traffic...go figure), and so kathy, g, and me ventured outside the bar and into the heart of darkness. as we three worked our way through the throngs of shirtless dudes and dewy-faced hipsters, inhaling the carnival smells -- funnel cake and sweat -- a band played on the main stage. i had just mentioned to kathy that the only band i had any interest in seeing on saturday was broken social scene.
"isn't this them?" she asked.
i paused to listen for a few seconds. whatever it was, it sounded terrible.
"i don't think so."
and then as if on cue, they started playing the instantly recognizable, "it's all gonna break."
i was immediately relieved that i did not drop $20 on this shit.
kathy and georgia spent a few minutes agonizing over whether or not to purchase fair food, and if so, of which variety. it would have been a logistical nightmare, involving waiting in at least two lines (one for tickets and then one for grub). fortunately, we were treated to a behind-the-scenes funnel cake-making demonstration, which completely spoiled their appetites, and forced us to contemplate the inevitable skin problems which must plague the makers of funnel cake. so we headed back to el cid where i danced to the jail weddings, and they grew bored and went out onto the patio.
after the show, we escaped through the back of the bar with plans to check out a party. we took the alley and i walked my bike alongside them while we chattered about the night so far and the night to come. it was too late when we realized that the alley had dead-ended and we were trapped in a parking lot. an escape would involve either climbing a fence or going back the way we came. they voted for the fence.
"but i have my bike," i reminded them.
"that's ok. we'll lift it over the fence."
i can't remember the last time i hoisted my bike over a fence, but i was definitely at least 6 inches shorter and wearing far less expensive clothing. it went off without a hitch though, and it's funny how something like scaling a wall with your closest girlfriends and lifting a bicycle over your head can make you feel 11-years-old and giddy with mischief, but it does.
we eventually made it to the party on foot, where we danced in an empty living room and splayed ourselves out in the grassy backyard, and confessed things to each other in the bathroom. i think i drank enough to kill whatever was left of that 11-year-old living inside me. i was reminded of so many summertime backyard parties attended in arizona during college which i don't encounter as frequently here in LA.
shamefully, i was too drunk bike back to hollywood at 2 a.m., and so the benevolent alie swept in, and delivered the derelicts to our respective bunks: micah to angelino heights, georgia to k-town and me to beachwood. and then she trucked it all the way back to eagle rock where the angels must go to sleep once their flask of vanilla vodka is tapped.
in other news, i am going out of town this weekend, though i'm still not sure where. i'm hoping it's san francisco, where i haven't been in a year. there's a slight chance that business might send me to vegas, which wouldn't be the worst thing in the world because it means hanging with my bff amy, who will be in vegas (by way of phoenix) on the same business. it would be my fourth trip to vegas this summer. i haven't been anywhere else. not even to the beach.
ideally, amy would be in SF and we would be riding our bikes through golden gate park, but those days are long gone. in vegas, the only thing we ride are the escalators.
dicky, amy, me in amy's SF apt (R.I.P.), august 2005.