The cursed case of the wicked wonders of why we do what we do

Lately I've been a little bummed. I met a girl I ended up liking, and something went wrong and now we don't talk. The not-talking isn't what bugs me, it's why we're not talking. The reason: There is no reason. Very awkward thing. But anyhow, this is a recounting of last weekend's trip that made me realize I'm totally not ready to grow up.

What is it about sporadic ideas that make them sound so appealing? And what is it about going out of town that makes you think, "Gee, I totally have money to spend. I'm just gonna live the good life?" I don't know the answer, but I spent last weekend in the city of lost hopes, moral vacancy and stereotypically blond people. But it wasn't LA per se, it was Hermosa Beach. Auggie lives in Hermosa Beach.

And as a note, I've changed, if only slightly, the names of people involved.

My friend, Papa Bear, called me up Monday and asked if I wanted to drive down with him. I said, "Sure, Papa Bear. Let's rock and roll." (What I said wasn't actually that gay.)

So we left at 8:30 in the p.m. on Thursday night. We didn't arrive to my friend Auggie's house until 4:30 in the a.m. Friday. Papa Bear dropped me there and headed to his girl's house in a land far, far away. When I woke up, about 9:30, everybody I knew was at work. So I did the only logical thing. Took a shower, got myself prettied up, and headed to Sharkeez for a beer. Which turned into a few more. And a shot. After realizing my money was going much too fast, I decided to head back to the crib. On the way there I passed this
and it made me smile. A little further down the strand, just feel from where I was staying, was this charming little watering hole.

And yes, if you're wondering, it did in fact smell like vomit. And yes, if you're wondering, I went inside and had a beer.

This carried on for several hours, until I met up with some old friends for dinner. And then it carried on after dinner. Next thing I know, I'm at some bar, August is buying shots of tequila...then my memory fades for what I can only assume to be about an hour. Cut to next scene, getting out of a cab at somebody's house. everybody else is hammered drunk. I'm not. I tried to go to sleep on the couch but was kept awake by somebody in this picture making the sex with one young lady, totally unafraid to express her pleasure through the art of moans and screams. And occasional thumps on the wall. And more screaming. So after the unanticipated marathon concludes, 5:42 a.m., I fall asleep and am awoken by somebody on the phone at 7:34, also in the a.m.

We go pick up Andy (also in the picture) and head to January's house. By 9 a.m. we crack our first beer and Andy tells us of his adventures. He went home with a zoo keeper. We laughed. Then laughed some more. She allegedly woke him up at 7, decked out in her safari attire. And we laughed some more. Until this weekend, I thought zoo keepers were mythical beings, chained down by their Dr. Doolittle-ish qualities. But they're real. And some have piercings in places that, well, just use your imagination.

So we keep drinking all day (complete waste of life, I know) and decide it a good idea to go out that night. We went to a place called Union Cattle. All I remember was a mechanical bull. I really wanted to ride it, but I couldn't even remember my name. But according to my bank account, I decided to order a few more drinks for myself. By midnight we left the bar, brought home a pizza I don't recall eating, and went to sleep. But not before we played lots of loud music and had an unofficial dance party.

The next day, not much happened. We hung out at Sharkeez again for Sunday Funday. I met these girls: I think their names were Amanda and Kim. If not, I apologize. Oh, and I saw this girl:

And I know what you're thinking. That's gross, right? Yeah. But only in SoCal. Thank you, semi-nude beach-goer.