I Wanna Plane, Daddy! And I Want It NOW!

Sometimes it takes a little push to remind me that we live in LA. Living on the beach, you have a tendency to get sidetracked from the Hollywood bullshit that most people associate with LA-la land. People at the beach are cool with flip flops and beer and it's nearly impossible to tell the people with money and the people without because really, no one gives a hoot.

But, we got our shove this weekend. And it made me want to race home, strip off my clothes and bathe myself with steel wool to get the "eau du soulessness" off of me.

We rocked the engagement party for our girlfriend and her fiance. It was a great evening and for a group that you rarely see out in anything but jeans and teeshirts, we were all glamming it up for the occasion in sundresses and stiletto heels. Our theory was that why should we waste the glam at our normal hangouts post-party when we were right down the street from the Viceroy - glam central in Santa Monica. As Hollywood as you can get without being in Hollywood. It's what the Hollywood considers "going to the beach".

So off we went. As soon as we entered I knew we should just turn around and walk back out. I turned to Lyn and said that God help all the men in the joint if a fire started because all their heads would go up in flames from the abundance of hair gel that solidified their matching "wave" hairdos. (You know the "wave" - flat all around and then spiked up 85,000" in the front - I consider it the male bangs of the 2000s.)

We did a quick spin around the place to see what was cookin and then after that we were more than ready for a drink. As we stood at the bar waiting patiently for a bartender to notice us, we couldn't help but overhear the conversation between Wavehead #1 and Little Blonde Dummy #1 standing next to us. (We couldn't help but overhear because Wavehead #1 apparently had a megaphone implanted into his body along with his presumed calf and chin implants.)

Here is what transpired:

WH #1: "Dude, I so want a plane. Seriously, I'm going to buy a plane and you can be my pilot. I'm getting a plane."

LBD #1: "Hee hee." Hair twirl, hair twirl. "Well, my brother is coming out to visit and you can ask him to fly it." Hair twirl, hair twirl.

WH #1: "DUDE. Seriously. I'm going to buy a plane."

Bartender to WH #1: "Bro, do you even know how to fly a plane?" Eyeroll.

WH #1: "Dude. She's going to be my pilot! I'm so buying a plane. And when you're brother comes out, we totally have to hang. We can take my new Ferrari out."

LBD #1: "Hee hee." Hair twirl, hair twirl.

Rachel to Lyn and random people standing next to us: "I'm going to shove me finger down my throat and vomit. Get me the f*#@ out of this place. That guy is a walking headache just screaming for a punch in his plane-buying ugly-ass face. I'm over it."

And leave we did. In all of our hotness. This was not the place for us.

It was almost as if the obnoxious vanity and soulessness had begun to consume my inner being and my buzz. We immediately raced to the Irish pub down the street where we happily consumed pints of Harp, continued to look hot and laughed hysterically and in disbelief over the fact that not only do people live their lives in that manner but also that they congregate en masse and in doing so, live on a completely different planet than us. They are people that need a wakeup call and a nice dose of "who the F*#@ gives a shit". And, ladies and gentlemen, you KNOW that I am more than happy to be the one to give it to them.

I love you beach. I will never leave you again.