Maybe it’s something I would not have understood had I not moved away – but I feel like there is such a large part of me that resides in San Diego, and every time I go back I feel that I am accessing that part of myself once again. I always drive back up north feeling gratified by all the people and places I was able to visit. A sense of social accomplishment, if you will.So, yesterday was another success in that I was able to join a few different parties with a few different groups. The hours crept on, and I broke my own curfew. But they kept playing the bumpin’ tracks and drinks were easy to come by. Just as I had my bag slung over my shoulder heading towards the exit, the bartender caught us. “Free shots for you girls if you’ll go up and dance in the booth.”
Well, it wasn’t really a booth. It was more like a holding pen, elevated above the rest of the club and smack dab in the center of the dance floor. I looked up at the renowned Typhoon Saloon VIP stage, so fabled in all my years of San Diego residency, and I quickly weighed the positive effect such a move would have on my already swelling ego.
It was in the center. It was high up. And I would be able to dance.
I put my purse down.
But, I’m ahead of myself. Should I begin with the 4 hours of maddening traffic that I suffered with other Memorial Day travelers? But traffic for me is just same shit, different day. I made a detour to San Clemente and saw Natalia’s showroom-pretty house. Then, down to San Diego, to see another beautiful beachside home. Natalia and I walked by the Mission Bay Aquatic Center and her old apartment, the scene of many spirited parties, and we reminisced about my birthday in 2003 when we all had a kayaking race in the Bay.
I finally got to meet Lindsay’s parents. I loved chatting about Portland and Seattle, and they admonished me, as any loyal Pacific Northwesterner would, about not turning into the California expatriate invading their Washington utopia. I told them that I had the California Bar to worry about for the next decade, so they could rest assured.
We went from the bayside vacation home to an Ocean Beach hideaway. The house looked more like a 70’s museum, and as we came upon it people were diving into pools and dipping into hot tubs a la Boogie Nights. I thought about my strappy bone-colored heels and the dress I had on, and tried to avoid the splash. I politely declined the burnt burgers and dogs offered to me. Ghetto-fabulous Jennie took me aside, and whispered, “This lifestyle – I don’t live it, but I will indulge.” That was the beginning of many inspired quotes she’d declare across the night.
She also gave me a ton of shit for moving back to LA. I complimented her many achievements across the year, including the great momentum with which she seems to acquire real estate. "Oh, girl," she waved casually, "thas' just an equity line o' credit... so how do you like LA?"
I didn't even bat an eye. "I love it," I said. The words sat there with satisfying finality. I realized I meant it whole-heartedly.
There was a hyperactive man-child running across the yard in neon Speedos, and four people crammed in a makeshift hot tub so small I thought of the old “Rub-a-dub-dub” poem. I began to consider an efficient exit strategy, when Cirrus suggested that we go to Typhoon Saloon. Peer pressure reared its guilt-inducing head, and I relented.
Then we were all packed in my ride, wailing out Mariah’s current number one hit. We made a stop-over at Cirrus’s. The first thing I did was run to her kitchen to check out her KitchenAid mixer in robin’s egg blue. “Oh,” I sighed in disappointment, “You have the Artisan, and it’s 300 watts.” I thought dejectedly about my new KitchenAid Classic in white waiting at home, which supplied a pitiful 250 watts. “But it will do all the same things,” Cirrus reassured me. Then I walked through Cirrus’s house and saw how crisply clean and Spartan it all was. Everything was either beech-toned or white, with no clutter, excess, or item not placed in a 90-degree angle. I vowed that upon my return to West LA, I would whip my apartment back into shape.
By now, the girls were way loopy and in search of even more booze. En route to Typhoon, Jennie pleaded for better music in the car. I played the Killers and she unleashed a torrent of disapproval. “Is this your favorite?” she asked with thinly veiled disgust. “Don’t you have any Fiddy or G-Unit?” Jennie expected the thug life out of more than just herself.
“I didn’t upload it to my iPod yet,” I lied.
“Girl, I liked you. But thas’ it.” I tried to play something with a harder edge, but could only come up with Destiny’s Child for her.
Typhoon was every bit the good time I both remembered and have tried to avoid in recent months. It still amazes me how unsmoove guys can be. One “John” from Newport Beach was so unacceptable that I told him off in a manner I hadn’t used since the third grade. And as I was nearing my swan song, my last dance, my eleventh hour, my final hurrah, we received the invitation to shake our tail feathers on center stage. Madonna's "Holiday" was the way to end on a high note.
And as I pulled onto Santa Monica Boulevard, hours later, "Bye bye, baby," Morrissey sang, "bye bye."
posted by Lucy Sloan @ 2:11 PM
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