Back from The City of (L)A(yme)ngels
Good work fine people of 4Blab in displaying relevant, captivating posts over the past few days. I apologize for my prolonged absence, but when the capital of the worryfree world comes a-callin' for partying it up entertainment style, no man or woman can resist.
And don't think that the partying was limited to merely driving past hotspots The Standard and The Mondrian on the Sunset Strip. Oh no, crank that image in your head up a few notches, and then times it by ten, fuckers, because to that Saturday Night Fiesta Vision you can add driving back to the Beverly Hills Terrace Hotel, climbing into a bed (i know, keep it clean for the kids, but hey, hot is hot) covered in red sheets, flipping on the tele, and falling blissfully asleep by 11pm while Sharon Stone did her thing yet again in a wonderful rerun of Basic Instinct on USA Network. I think I can safely and proudly say: SF Represent, Los Angeles, for The 501er has torn down your house.
While you may think that the afore-mentioned Beverly Terrace is an oasis of debauchery and free cable, make no mistake: there is a price to pay. The price is $80/night, plus several doses of lunacy. After spending an hour walking around Santa Monica Blvd Friday night I walked into the hotel lobby and attempted to speak with the nice russian lady behind the counter. The Beverly Terrace has a strict policy of leaving your room key at the desk upon exit and retrieving it upon return. While I initially enjoyed the routine as it freed space in my pockets for extra pens and rubber bands as well as allowing me to explain my comings-and-goings as if i was a high schooler with a curfew, i quickly realized this system was more than the standard crazy of small-time hotels. Madam Katya indicated with her finger for me to wait while she finished her ongoing phone conversation, which to this point had been a series of "no no"s and "listen to what i told you"s emanating in a thick russian accent from the madam's mouth. After a moment, Madam Katya covered the mouth piece of the receiver and turned to me:
Madame Katya: You know directions around here?
Me: Umm, I just got to LA. I'm staying here.
Madame: Yes yes, Room 204. But you know how to get around?
Me: Not really. I did just walk around a few blocks-
Madame: Good. Here. Tell them how to get here. (Madame hands me the phone, which i put to my ear)
Phone Girl (in loud, irritated voice): I've been driving for over an hour and i still can't find it! What's going on!
Me: Uhh, you're looking for the hotel?
Phone Girl: Of course! Can't you tell me the main road it's near?! (at this point it's obvious she believes me to be an employee)
Me: Well, what street are you on? (I amazingly know where she is because she is on a road i just walked by. She is only a few blocks from the hotel. I proceed to give her directions that i am sure worked very poorly for her. I then give the phone back to the madam)
Madam: (hanging up the phone) Tank you, tank you. This girl, she knows nothing. I have man give her directions 1 hour ago. Same thing as you. She not know driving.
Me: Right, right. So, uhh, could i have my room key?
Madam: Of course. (Gets key. As she gives it to me) You know whose black car is this in front?
Me: No. Sorry.
Madam: It's been there 20 minutes now.
Me: Huh. Okay. Thanks. (No response from the madam as she stares at the car with a scornful gaze)
Scampering back to my room, I briefly wondered why the fuck i would have any clue as to whose car that was. Then i quickly realized that this hotel was run by masterminds with bad english. They probably end up doing no work at all, suckering their guests to help them out with their various problems, be it directions, unclogging a toilet, paying their taxes, whatever. I fully expected to wake up the next morning to be told that there were eggs for breakfast only to then be asked if i knew how to make omelettes, soon finding myself in a chef's hat with whisk in hand asking the sous-chef from room 212 if he knew where the salt was. Genius.
But that was days ago. Last night, to welcome me back to our fine city of the individual anti-aesthetic (otherwise known as putting as much effort into the alterna-look that is supposedly non-LA as LA puts into the LA look), my fine pal nicE took me on a tour of all the fine libation establishments our metropolis has to offer. And what a tour of the Lone Palm it was. After nicE proved the point that the only time head-on visual contact is made in a face-to-face seeting is when one is trying to discern the height of a stranger's cheekbones in a dark bar, I was able to share that IDEA BARRAGE is hard at work in attempting to solidify a past idea for mobility-enabled dating by getting some nerdy nerdheads at MIT to do the dirty work. Kudos to you, IDEA BARRAGE!
And now to the most pressing issue of all, what is 5jl?
-smootheRich
And don't think that the partying was limited to merely driving past hotspots The Standard and The Mondrian on the Sunset Strip. Oh no, crank that image in your head up a few notches, and then times it by ten, fuckers, because to that Saturday Night Fiesta Vision you can add driving back to the Beverly Hills Terrace Hotel, climbing into a bed (i know, keep it clean for the kids, but hey, hot is hot) covered in red sheets, flipping on the tele, and falling blissfully asleep by 11pm while Sharon Stone did her thing yet again in a wonderful rerun of Basic Instinct on USA Network. I think I can safely and proudly say: SF Represent, Los Angeles, for The 501er has torn down your house.
While you may think that the afore-mentioned Beverly Terrace is an oasis of debauchery and free cable, make no mistake: there is a price to pay. The price is $80/night, plus several doses of lunacy. After spending an hour walking around Santa Monica Blvd Friday night I walked into the hotel lobby and attempted to speak with the nice russian lady behind the counter. The Beverly Terrace has a strict policy of leaving your room key at the desk upon exit and retrieving it upon return. While I initially enjoyed the routine as it freed space in my pockets for extra pens and rubber bands as well as allowing me to explain my comings-and-goings as if i was a high schooler with a curfew, i quickly realized this system was more than the standard crazy of small-time hotels. Madam Katya indicated with her finger for me to wait while she finished her ongoing phone conversation, which to this point had been a series of "no no"s and "listen to what i told you"s emanating in a thick russian accent from the madam's mouth. After a moment, Madam Katya covered the mouth piece of the receiver and turned to me:
Madame Katya: You know directions around here?
Me: Umm, I just got to LA. I'm staying here.
Madame: Yes yes, Room 204. But you know how to get around?
Me: Not really. I did just walk around a few blocks-
Madame: Good. Here. Tell them how to get here. (Madame hands me the phone, which i put to my ear)
Phone Girl (in loud, irritated voice): I've been driving for over an hour and i still can't find it! What's going on!
Me: Uhh, you're looking for the hotel?
Phone Girl: Of course! Can't you tell me the main road it's near?! (at this point it's obvious she believes me to be an employee)
Me: Well, what street are you on? (I amazingly know where she is because she is on a road i just walked by. She is only a few blocks from the hotel. I proceed to give her directions that i am sure worked very poorly for her. I then give the phone back to the madam)
Madam: (hanging up the phone) Tank you, tank you. This girl, she knows nothing. I have man give her directions 1 hour ago. Same thing as you. She not know driving.
Me: Right, right. So, uhh, could i have my room key?
Madam: Of course. (Gets key. As she gives it to me) You know whose black car is this in front?
Me: No. Sorry.
Madam: It's been there 20 minutes now.
Me: Huh. Okay. Thanks. (No response from the madam as she stares at the car with a scornful gaze)
Scampering back to my room, I briefly wondered why the fuck i would have any clue as to whose car that was. Then i quickly realized that this hotel was run by masterminds with bad english. They probably end up doing no work at all, suckering their guests to help them out with their various problems, be it directions, unclogging a toilet, paying their taxes, whatever. I fully expected to wake up the next morning to be told that there were eggs for breakfast only to then be asked if i knew how to make omelettes, soon finding myself in a chef's hat with whisk in hand asking the sous-chef from room 212 if he knew where the salt was. Genius.
But that was days ago. Last night, to welcome me back to our fine city of the individual anti-aesthetic (otherwise known as putting as much effort into the alterna-look that is supposedly non-LA as LA puts into the LA look), my fine pal nicE took me on a tour of all the fine libation establishments our metropolis has to offer. And what a tour of the Lone Palm it was. After nicE proved the point that the only time head-on visual contact is made in a face-to-face seeting is when one is trying to discern the height of a stranger's cheekbones in a dark bar, I was able to share that IDEA BARRAGE is hard at work in attempting to solidify a past idea for mobility-enabled dating by getting some nerdy nerdheads at MIT to do the dirty work. Kudos to you, IDEA BARRAGE!
And now to the most pressing issue of all, what is 5jl?
-smootheRich
