Here is a small glimpse into the weirdest night of my life. My friend would rather I not plaster her face all over the internet (which I totally understand and respect) so I came up with the next best option and photoshopped some of the One Direction boys over her using this stupid app my friend told me about.
It's been a while since I had a really weird night out. I mean, I've been out and stuff, but sometimes it's just a normal night, other times it's a shit show. That's LA for you. Unpredictable. My friend and I decided to go out and had planned on a fun, but low key night at The Federal Bar in North Hollywood. We figured we would dance and have a nice little GNO (that stands for gurls night out, if you're completely clueless.) We showed up at The Federal pretty early...too early. Apparently there's no one there at 10pm on a Friday night. Which is annoying, because like, what else are you doing on a Friday night? It's the weekend. Live a little people. Anyways, it was dead and the only people who were there were kind of old (which generally doesn't happen) but I kind of like it not so crowded. It gives me a huge dance floor all to myself to allow me to dance like a loser and embarrass myself in front of, well, no one really. It's a win-win situation if you ask me. But my friend wasn't having it, and I have to admit, as much as I enjoy a somewhat empty room, she did have a point. It was kind of lame so we decided to leave. It was only 10:30pm by that point and the night was still young.
We decided to stop by this club in Hollywood called OHM becasue I had a friend who was already there and he had invited us to stop by. Let me back up a minute. I convinced my friend to stop by Johnny Rockets before we went to OHM so I could eat my body weight in french fries and chicken strips. A decision I do not regret to this day. The inside of OHM is actually quite cool, but it's on the 3rd level of the Hollywood & Highland mall, which is....weird. I mean a club, in a mall? It's all kinds of awkward. We arrive to find the same thing, it was empty. "Where the hell are all the people?!?! It's Friday night for crying out loud!" I scream in my friends ear. "Coachella. That's where" she says. "Damn you Coachella!" I curse out loud. We make our way through the small crowd, only be surrounded by 2 random guys dressed in ridiculous outfits. One went behind me and the other behind my friend and tried to dance with us. Just as they were attempting to grind on us, I looked at them and said, "I don't think so" and they walked away. I look to my friend and said "Well we just got grinded on by 2 Lil' Wayne wannabes." Do you see what we have to deal with when we go out in public? We take some obnoxious blonde girl pictures and decide to leave because it was now 11:30pm and the place was clearly not happening that night.
"Let's go to Bootsy Bellows!" I exclaim. I had heard really great things about that place and it's very "in" right now. Whatever that means. Bootsy Bellows is owned by David Arquette. I know I found it weird at first too, but I mean, what the hell else has he done lately? Nothing. We make our way to West Hollywood and show up in front of a pitch black building with a velvet rope, 2 bouncers in suits, and absolutely no line. "Ugh this is not a good sign" my friend groans. The intimidating men look at our ID's and let us in. We enter into yet another pitch black room, with 4 different doors. "WHICH ONE DO WE CHOOSE?!" I yell at my friend in a panic. If you know me at all, you will know that I can't always make decisions under pressure. I have commitment issues, but only when it's dumb ass things that don't matter. Like picking an Instagram filter. I will literally sit there for 20 minutes and weigh the pros and cons of each filter. "Well this one highlights my cheekbones, but this one makes my hair look light and shiny, and this one makes my eye makeup look amazing." I know, it's absurd. But apparently when it comes to life altering decisions, I can make those in a heartbeat. Pack up and move to LA, without a plan? Sure! Why not? I'm ass backwards sometimes. My friend tells me to calm down and steps up to the plate making an executive decision. "This one" she says bravely.
We walk through the door into a small (much smaller than I had expected) but packed room, with gorgeous chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, white leather booths lining the wall, and some kind of purple strobe light flashing and people going crazy on the dance floor. We were pleased with this as everywhere else we had been previously, was dead.
We weren't in there more than 30 seconds when this guy, excuse me, extremely short, 4 foot-tall, guy grabs my arm. I look at him, he stands on his tippy toes to reach my ear and says "Would you girls like to come hang out with us at our table? This is kind of embarrassing, but all of our friends are at Coachella and our table is empty." "Sure" I respond for the both of us. Here's the thing, I stopped listening after he said "table" because that table means bottle service, and bottle service means free drinks. Before you start judging me, don't act like you would (or do) turn down free drinks when someone offers them to you. That shit is expensive, and NO ONE actually enjoys paying for them. And considering the fact that I had just spent my entire life savings at Johnny Rockets an hour earlier, I was in no position to deny his friendly offer.
He guides us 10 feet to his table. He looks at me and says, "And this is my friend David. He owns this place." I look up to see David Arquette standing in front of me and I am in complete shock and horror, but not for the reason you're thinking. I'm sure you're thinking I was excited or star struck or whatever to see David 2 feet in front of me. WRONG. Yes he is right in front of me, but as I look up, I am horrified to see he is wearing a tracksuit. He is decked out, head to toe, in a navy blue tracksuit with white stripes down the side...in a club....on a Friday night. I have to be honest with you, I was offended by his choice in clothing. I don't care that he owns the damn place. Tracksuits are never the answer. I can't think of a single situation where it is appropriate to wear a tracksuit. I wish David would have had a little more respect for me and my fellow club patrons, as we are humans, with eyes. It was just wrong.
I managed to pull myself together and tear my eyes away from the dreaded suit. We sit down with the guy and he introduces us to the rest of his friends. I, of course, am stuck with the short guy, while the tall, hot, mysterious tattooed guy instantly gravitates towards my gorgeous friend. "Story of my life" I say to myself. After throwing myself a 4 second pity party I tell myself to stop being a whiney bitch, enjoy this weird opportunity and to have fun. The short guy starts to talk to me, asking me what I do for a living, blah, blah, blaaaaahhhh. He tells me he's from Canada. "Go figure" I say in my head. I knew he wasn't American.
I then hear this strange noise and I look up to see Tacksuit Wearing David, standing on the couch next to me, blowing a trumpet and the crowd goes wild. My friend and I look at each other with the same "WTF?" expressions on our faces. Weird, right? Just when I think things couldn't get any weirder, I see this girl come up to our table and hand David this weird marionette and he couldn't be more pleased. David starts to dance with the marionette, with a childish grin on his face. Just as we are coming to terms with the marionette, another person walks up with that skeleton guy from Nightmare Before Christmas, and a guy brushes past me with an Oscar The Grouch puppet attached to him. Trash can and all. "What the hell? Where are we?" I ask my friend, who is just as baffled as I am. Short guy leans over to me and says, "David loves puppets." "Yeah I got that." I tell him. You know shit is weird, when I am thrown off by it. I love the weirdness in almost every situation. "The weirder the better" has always been one of my life mottos. So you know it's bad when I don't know how to react. It wasn't just the puppets. It was how they were dancing around the club, and how euphoric they made David. His level of sheer happiness was the same as how happy I'd be if Hanson, One Direction, Taylor Swift and Katy Perry all showed up at my door with an unlimited supply of Doritos and surprised me with a private concert in my apartment. I hope you now realize how terrifyingly happy these puppets made him.
After the trumpet, marionette dancing incident, the short guy whispers in my ear "Hey, do you wanna come with me to see the VIP room in the back? We can take a shot of Vodka together." "Ummm. NO." I tell him. "Why not?" he asks about my harsh answer. "Well for many reasons. First of all, I don't take shots. Second of all, I hate Vodka. Even saying the name makes me want to puke. And lastly, why would I go to the back room with you when there is a giant bottle of Grey Goose Vodka right in front of us?" He looks at the table "Ummm, ummm..." he can't think of a legitimate reason. Let's get one thing straight: I am not an idiot. I know when a guy is trying to get a girl alone in a back room, and I hate to break it to you fellas, but that will NEVER happen. Not even in your wildest dreams. And there's no way in hell I'd go somewhere alone with a stranger. A short-ass stranger at that.
He talks some more and tells me the boring details about his job. He works in real estate, which is the last thing he should have told me. If you want to impress a girl, don't tell her you work in real estate. That is the second most boring, dreadful job out there, insurance is number 1. I would have been more inclined to talk to him if he told me he was a Space Cowboy or something, or maybe he that wrote the lyrics to my favorite song "Ghetto Superstar" anything would have worked, even if it was clearly a bold face lie. I look over at my friend who is enjoying talking to his friend when suddenly i feel like a pinch on my arm. I look back at the guy, "Did you just...." I trail off, thinking I imagined it. I turn back to my freind to whisper something and I feel a sharp pain on my arm. My reflexes kicked in and my arm goes flying and I punch this guy in the nose as I simultaneously scream "What the hell?! DID YOU JUST BITE ME?!?" He looks at me with a guilty expression. "You bit my arm. Twice." I thought I imagined it the first time, but I didn't. This little shit bit my arm. I look at him and say, "I'm not even sorry about punching you in the nose." I don't know what goes on in little Canada land, but you're in America now, and we don't just go around biting people.
In his final attempt to impress me, or to try and make me forget about the biting incident, he looks at his friend who is flirting with my friend and says, "My friend over there is in one of the biggest bands in Canada." My eyes pop out of my head. " OH MY GOSH, SUM 41 IS HERE?!?!" I frantically search the room. He looks at me blankly, not amused, and says "No. They're called Under Webster." I tell him, "Listen dude, I have never heard of them. Webster? I don't even know what that means. I don't know if you're talking about a spider, or a Swiffer, or a dictionary. All I know is that Sum 41 was the shit back in my day, and don't try and argue that with me." He finally comes to the realization that he is not going to impress me and gets up and walks way. "THANK GOD!" I throw my hands up in the air and sigh in relief.
It is in that moment that I am very aware that I am all alone. I lost my friend, the short guy went to go harass some other girl, David Arquette was nowhere to be found, probably making a fool of himself dancing in that awful tracksuit, and I'm sitting here alone, on a couch. Don't get me wrong, I couldn't be more relived that Biggie Biter left me alone finally. But no one wants to be "that person," you know, the one who sits alone while everyone else is having the time of their life. I decide the best thing to do in this situation would be to check my phone and pray to God that someone texted me. Anyone. I don't care if it was my mom, my Grandma, I don't even care if Samberg (my dog) learned how to use a phone with his paw and sent me a selfie. I will literally take anything. I take a moment to collect my thoughts. "Alright God, hear me out" I silently pray. "When I reach into my purse and grab my phone, please let there be a text from someone. I don't care who. Just let there be a text." I thank him, take a deep breath and pull out my phone. "TEXT MESSAGE! YES!" I say out loud, not caring how ridiculous I sounded. I will let you in on a little secret: If you are texting 100 words per minute, it shows that you're important. It says "Oh hey look at me. I have so many friends, that even though I am in this club full of people, I don't even have time to have fun. You guys are dancing, doing your thing, but I have so many messages I have to respond to. They're from my friends and they wanna know what I did today and how my night is going. They wanna know things because I'm so popular and I'm just trying to be a good friend. So I'm just gonna sit here, mind my own business and look really busy and important, while you are doing God knows what on the dance floor and Arm Biting Bobby is giving everyone rabies." And that, my friends, looks better than sitting alone, or getting bit by a petite foreigner. Even if you are just texting your mom, they don't know your life.
I continue my texting party and when I look back up and everyone has made their way back to the table. Sir Bites-A-Lot looks at me and rolls his eyes because I'd rather text then talk to him. Gee, I wonder why? How rude of me. By this time I am completely over this place. It's late, I'm tired, and I'm starting to think I may need to swing by the emergency room on the way home to have my arm checked out and make sure it doesn't have to be amputated. I stand by the bar while my friend goes to the bathroom so we can get da hell outta there. As I'm waiting for her this guy standing next to me starts to make small talk with me. "So, why aren't you at Coachella?" he asks. "Because I listen to One Direction and Ke$ha." I reply flatly. He laughed. I'm still unsure if he thought I was joking, but I have never been more serious about anything in my entire life. My friend joins me and we leave the club, completely exhausted. "This was the weirdest night of my life. And I've experienced some weird shit in my day" I tell her. She laughs and agrees. We talk about a few things that happened that night, mostly trumpet blowing, tracksuit clad, marionette dancing David. We laugh even harder because saying everything out loud made us realize how absolutely ridiculous it sounded. You would think we were making it all up, but it was so odd that you know it's true. It's a weird, weird, Hollywood world I tell you.
The following day my friend and I were texting back and forth recalling the ridiculous events that happened the night before. "How did we end up going from North Hollywood to Hollywood, to West Hollywood all in one night?!" To which she responded with "Stamina."
We decided to stop by this club in Hollywood called OHM becasue I had a friend who was already there and he had invited us to stop by. Let me back up a minute. I convinced my friend to stop by Johnny Rockets before we went to OHM so I could eat my body weight in french fries and chicken strips. A decision I do not regret to this day. The inside of OHM is actually quite cool, but it's on the 3rd level of the Hollywood & Highland mall, which is....weird. I mean a club, in a mall? It's all kinds of awkward. We arrive to find the same thing, it was empty. "Where the hell are all the people?!?! It's Friday night for crying out loud!" I scream in my friends ear. "Coachella. That's where" she says. "Damn you Coachella!" I curse out loud. We make our way through the small crowd, only be surrounded by 2 random guys dressed in ridiculous outfits. One went behind me and the other behind my friend and tried to dance with us. Just as they were attempting to grind on us, I looked at them and said, "I don't think so" and they walked away. I look to my friend and said "Well we just got grinded on by 2 Lil' Wayne wannabes." Do you see what we have to deal with when we go out in public? We take some obnoxious blonde girl pictures and decide to leave because it was now 11:30pm and the place was clearly not happening that night.
"Let's go to Bootsy Bellows!" I exclaim. I had heard really great things about that place and it's very "in" right now. Whatever that means. Bootsy Bellows is owned by David Arquette. I know I found it weird at first too, but I mean, what the hell else has he done lately? Nothing. We make our way to West Hollywood and show up in front of a pitch black building with a velvet rope, 2 bouncers in suits, and absolutely no line. "Ugh this is not a good sign" my friend groans. The intimidating men look at our ID's and let us in. We enter into yet another pitch black room, with 4 different doors. "WHICH ONE DO WE CHOOSE?!" I yell at my friend in a panic. If you know me at all, you will know that I can't always make decisions under pressure. I have commitment issues, but only when it's dumb ass things that don't matter. Like picking an Instagram filter. I will literally sit there for 20 minutes and weigh the pros and cons of each filter. "Well this one highlights my cheekbones, but this one makes my hair look light and shiny, and this one makes my eye makeup look amazing." I know, it's absurd. But apparently when it comes to life altering decisions, I can make those in a heartbeat. Pack up and move to LA, without a plan? Sure! Why not? I'm ass backwards sometimes. My friend tells me to calm down and steps up to the plate making an executive decision. "This one" she says bravely.
We walk through the door into a small (much smaller than I had expected) but packed room, with gorgeous chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, white leather booths lining the wall, and some kind of purple strobe light flashing and people going crazy on the dance floor. We were pleased with this as everywhere else we had been previously, was dead.
We weren't in there more than 30 seconds when this guy, excuse me, extremely short, 4 foot-tall, guy grabs my arm. I look at him, he stands on his tippy toes to reach my ear and says "Would you girls like to come hang out with us at our table? This is kind of embarrassing, but all of our friends are at Coachella and our table is empty." "Sure" I respond for the both of us. Here's the thing, I stopped listening after he said "table" because that table means bottle service, and bottle service means free drinks. Before you start judging me, don't act like you would (or do) turn down free drinks when someone offers them to you. That shit is expensive, and NO ONE actually enjoys paying for them. And considering the fact that I had just spent my entire life savings at Johnny Rockets an hour earlier, I was in no position to deny his friendly offer.
He guides us 10 feet to his table. He looks at me and says, "And this is my friend David. He owns this place." I look up to see David Arquette standing in front of me and I am in complete shock and horror, but not for the reason you're thinking. I'm sure you're thinking I was excited or star struck or whatever to see David 2 feet in front of me. WRONG. Yes he is right in front of me, but as I look up, I am horrified to see he is wearing a tracksuit. He is decked out, head to toe, in a navy blue tracksuit with white stripes down the side...in a club....on a Friday night. I have to be honest with you, I was offended by his choice in clothing. I don't care that he owns the damn place. Tracksuits are never the answer. I can't think of a single situation where it is appropriate to wear a tracksuit. I wish David would have had a little more respect for me and my fellow club patrons, as we are humans, with eyes. It was just wrong.
I managed to pull myself together and tear my eyes away from the dreaded suit. We sit down with the guy and he introduces us to the rest of his friends. I, of course, am stuck with the short guy, while the tall, hot, mysterious tattooed guy instantly gravitates towards my gorgeous friend. "Story of my life" I say to myself. After throwing myself a 4 second pity party I tell myself to stop being a whiney bitch, enjoy this weird opportunity and to have fun. The short guy starts to talk to me, asking me what I do for a living, blah, blah, blaaaaahhhh. He tells me he's from Canada. "Go figure" I say in my head. I knew he wasn't American.
I then hear this strange noise and I look up to see Tacksuit Wearing David, standing on the couch next to me, blowing a trumpet and the crowd goes wild. My friend and I look at each other with the same "WTF?" expressions on our faces. Weird, right? Just when I think things couldn't get any weirder, I see this girl come up to our table and hand David this weird marionette and he couldn't be more pleased. David starts to dance with the marionette, with a childish grin on his face. Just as we are coming to terms with the marionette, another person walks up with that skeleton guy from Nightmare Before Christmas, and a guy brushes past me with an Oscar The Grouch puppet attached to him. Trash can and all. "What the hell? Where are we?" I ask my friend, who is just as baffled as I am. Short guy leans over to me and says, "David loves puppets." "Yeah I got that." I tell him. You know shit is weird, when I am thrown off by it. I love the weirdness in almost every situation. "The weirder the better" has always been one of my life mottos. So you know it's bad when I don't know how to react. It wasn't just the puppets. It was how they were dancing around the club, and how euphoric they made David. His level of sheer happiness was the same as how happy I'd be if Hanson, One Direction, Taylor Swift and Katy Perry all showed up at my door with an unlimited supply of Doritos and surprised me with a private concert in my apartment. I hope you now realize how terrifyingly happy these puppets made him.
After the trumpet, marionette dancing incident, the short guy whispers in my ear "Hey, do you wanna come with me to see the VIP room in the back? We can take a shot of Vodka together." "Ummm. NO." I tell him. "Why not?" he asks about my harsh answer. "Well for many reasons. First of all, I don't take shots. Second of all, I hate Vodka. Even saying the name makes me want to puke. And lastly, why would I go to the back room with you when there is a giant bottle of Grey Goose Vodka right in front of us?" He looks at the table "Ummm, ummm..." he can't think of a legitimate reason. Let's get one thing straight: I am not an idiot. I know when a guy is trying to get a girl alone in a back room, and I hate to break it to you fellas, but that will NEVER happen. Not even in your wildest dreams. And there's no way in hell I'd go somewhere alone with a stranger. A short-ass stranger at that.
He talks some more and tells me the boring details about his job. He works in real estate, which is the last thing he should have told me. If you want to impress a girl, don't tell her you work in real estate. That is the second most boring, dreadful job out there, insurance is number 1. I would have been more inclined to talk to him if he told me he was a Space Cowboy or something, or maybe he that wrote the lyrics to my favorite song "Ghetto Superstar" anything would have worked, even if it was clearly a bold face lie. I look over at my friend who is enjoying talking to his friend when suddenly i feel like a pinch on my arm. I look back at the guy, "Did you just...." I trail off, thinking I imagined it. I turn back to my freind to whisper something and I feel a sharp pain on my arm. My reflexes kicked in and my arm goes flying and I punch this guy in the nose as I simultaneously scream "What the hell?! DID YOU JUST BITE ME?!?" He looks at me with a guilty expression. "You bit my arm. Twice." I thought I imagined it the first time, but I didn't. This little shit bit my arm. I look at him and say, "I'm not even sorry about punching you in the nose." I don't know what goes on in little Canada land, but you're in America now, and we don't just go around biting people.
In his final attempt to impress me, or to try and make me forget about the biting incident, he looks at his friend who is flirting with my friend and says, "My friend over there is in one of the biggest bands in Canada." My eyes pop out of my head. " OH MY GOSH, SUM 41 IS HERE?!?!" I frantically search the room. He looks at me blankly, not amused, and says "No. They're called Under Webster." I tell him, "Listen dude, I have never heard of them. Webster? I don't even know what that means. I don't know if you're talking about a spider, or a Swiffer, or a dictionary. All I know is that Sum 41 was the shit back in my day, and don't try and argue that with me." He finally comes to the realization that he is not going to impress me and gets up and walks way. "THANK GOD!" I throw my hands up in the air and sigh in relief.
It is in that moment that I am very aware that I am all alone. I lost my friend, the short guy went to go harass some other girl, David Arquette was nowhere to be found, probably making a fool of himself dancing in that awful tracksuit, and I'm sitting here alone, on a couch. Don't get me wrong, I couldn't be more relived that Biggie Biter left me alone finally. But no one wants to be "that person," you know, the one who sits alone while everyone else is having the time of their life. I decide the best thing to do in this situation would be to check my phone and pray to God that someone texted me. Anyone. I don't care if it was my mom, my Grandma, I don't even care if Samberg (my dog) learned how to use a phone with his paw and sent me a selfie. I will literally take anything. I take a moment to collect my thoughts. "Alright God, hear me out" I silently pray. "When I reach into my purse and grab my phone, please let there be a text from someone. I don't care who. Just let there be a text." I thank him, take a deep breath and pull out my phone. "TEXT MESSAGE! YES!" I say out loud, not caring how ridiculous I sounded. I will let you in on a little secret: If you are texting 100 words per minute, it shows that you're important. It says "Oh hey look at me. I have so many friends, that even though I am in this club full of people, I don't even have time to have fun. You guys are dancing, doing your thing, but I have so many messages I have to respond to. They're from my friends and they wanna know what I did today and how my night is going. They wanna know things because I'm so popular and I'm just trying to be a good friend. So I'm just gonna sit here, mind my own business and look really busy and important, while you are doing God knows what on the dance floor and Arm Biting Bobby is giving everyone rabies." And that, my friends, looks better than sitting alone, or getting bit by a petite foreigner. Even if you are just texting your mom, they don't know your life.
I continue my texting party and when I look back up and everyone has made their way back to the table. Sir Bites-A-Lot looks at me and rolls his eyes because I'd rather text then talk to him. Gee, I wonder why? How rude of me. By this time I am completely over this place. It's late, I'm tired, and I'm starting to think I may need to swing by the emergency room on the way home to have my arm checked out and make sure it doesn't have to be amputated. I stand by the bar while my friend goes to the bathroom so we can get da hell outta there. As I'm waiting for her this guy standing next to me starts to make small talk with me. "So, why aren't you at Coachella?" he asks. "Because I listen to One Direction and Ke$ha." I reply flatly. He laughed. I'm still unsure if he thought I was joking, but I have never been more serious about anything in my entire life. My friend joins me and we leave the club, completely exhausted. "This was the weirdest night of my life. And I've experienced some weird shit in my day" I tell her. She laughs and agrees. We talk about a few things that happened that night, mostly trumpet blowing, tracksuit clad, marionette dancing David. We laugh even harder because saying everything out loud made us realize how absolutely ridiculous it sounded. You would think we were making it all up, but it was so odd that you know it's true. It's a weird, weird, Hollywood world I tell you.
The following day my friend and I were texting back and forth recalling the ridiculous events that happened the night before. "How did we end up going from North Hollywood to Hollywood, to West Hollywood all in one night?!" To which she responded with "Stamina."
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