Dress like your mother.

Attended a St. Patrick’s Day party last thursday (yeah, I know) at U.A.S. HQ in the LBC. It was pretty fun and good to hang with the whole squad together again, although I was a little surprised by the considerable fratguy contingent among the guests. Even the gay dude was a bro. There were also a bunch of pretty girls who wouldn’t talk to me.

Everyone was pretty drunk, but none more than this guy, Zack. When I pulled up around 10:30, I could see Zack stumbling around outside near the U.A.S. vehicle bay. It wasn’t long before I had to help him out of the bushes in which he’d prepared a small resting place for the night. I hate being that drunk, so drunk you’re compelled to run around outside and lay in the grass and fashion little habitats for yourself to curl up and die in. Poor fool. But I was still drunk enough to puke bright green rum & coke and fall asleep on the bathroom floor. God, it was so wonderful there. The regenerative properties of a nice, cool bathroom floor are unparalleled, but that treacherous bitch Becca kept waking me up each time I went back to puke. I fell asleep on the living room carpet while Becca watched Pirates of the Caribbean, and when I woke up, she’d finally passed out (she was more than a little wrecked, at one point exclaiming “I don’t know where my face is!”) Having determined for myself that my sobriety levels were within 30% or so of nominal, I quietly escaped from the estrogenical gulag in remarkable batman/ninja-like fashion and successfully negotiated my way back to Hollywood.

I spent the next day feeling like my stomach was a huge rusty bucket filled with green poison with a tiny pin-hole in the bottom and that I’d never feel well again until all of it dripped out. Tylenol® usually does it for my hangovers, but I suspect this one was compounded karmic interest for my having made it home safely and possibly worrying my friends. I did manage to get out for about an hour to celebrate my friend Blake’s birthday at 4100 in Silverlake. I’m not sure if I like that place or not, but I had to go, since I expected Blake to come to my party, and I can’t if I don’t go to his. That would just be rude. I ran into some old friends there and invited them, too. I’ve been inviting people like it’s my fucking job. This thing might get out of hand.

Speaking of my fucking job, it looks like there might be some significant developments in that area in the near future. I’ve several new prospects, all of which are things I would enjoy, but I don’t want to jinx any of them by putting them down in print. Whenever I do something like that, whether it be about a job or a plan or a promise, whatever it is I’ve discussed never comes to pass. I’d like to do everything at once if I can. I’d have so much more to talk about at parties.

Went clubbing last night with Sexfro & $unny, who will be at my party, and Aaron & Nicole, those fucking Judases. Apparently Nicole’s favourite tattoo artist from NYC will be in a San Diego the weekend of my party, and Nicole just has to get inked by this one guy. Presumably, she’s already got a design ready that just about any of the innumerable tattoo artists in our neighborhood could reproduce faithfully, but she is a fickle witch of a girl and is dragging Aaron down there with her. I’m starting to feel like there may not be enough guys at this party, believe it or not.

Anyway, the club was good but S&$ left pretty early, apparently because they’d assumed I’d left when I disappeared for a while. I was actually talking to some cool girlz in a band, so it’s completely understandable that S&$ thought I must have just gone home alone or something. Once again I was quick with the party invitations, writing my e-mail address on a napkin, using the back of the friend-of-the-girl-I-was-interested-in as a makeshift desk. For those of you gasping in horror at the unchivalrousness of this act, you’d do well to remember that chivalry is an inherently sexist concept that serves to perpetuate the wholly inequitable position of women in our society, and really, by using that chick’s back as a writing surface, I stepped up to the plate for change.

And by that point I was pretty sure the girl I liked wasn’t into me anyway, so I didn’t give a fuck.

I think I might have missed the Pink-Dot® guy while I was writing this. Shit.

EDIT: I didn’t! Ha ha.

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