Some second-degree friends (now officially first degree) were in town, so I put on a wholly age-and-weather-inappropriate dress (this one), threw on some whore paint, and hopped the train to Hollywood to enjoy an evening of acting like an idiot, because I'd worked the previous 6 out of 7 nights and I deserved to have some fun, damn it.

I got off at Hollywood and Highland, with plans to walk to The Standard (where my friends were staying) from there. I'd called the hotel earlier, and had been assured that it was just a 15-minute walk from the train station. Lying liars and the lies they tell: once off the train and standing on the cold street corner, my map app informed me I had a 45 minute walk instead. D'oh.

Friend with rental car to the rescue! While I waited to be picked up, I took pictures of the sidewalk and street (like a tourist) and picked fights with the preachers proselytizing on milk crates nearby. "Picked fights" isn't entirely truthful. They approached me, and I just engaged, enthusiastically, with my usual But how do you know you've got the right book/god; there are so many! argument. Homeboys gave up on me quickly. They usually do.

We had drinks at The Standard (salty dogs, mmmm), then walked in the freezing night down the street to Katana for dinner. It was a huge treat for me to be out of downtown, one, and two, taken out to a nice dinner. Your blogmistress is stupidly lucky-blessed with awesome friends equipped with expense accounts. We sat on the patio, overlooking Sunset Boulevard, and ate sushi, salmon sashimi, grilled asparagus skewers, rib eye, and chicken hearts (I had one, just to say I did. Chewy, gross, not a fan). And saki. Lots and lots of saki.

At one point, a party of two ridiculously beautiful and quite scantily-clad Australian women and their escort (some former 80s hair band drummer - didn't recognize the name of the group when he said it) decided to join our table. I'm not even sure why; we just struck up a conversation with them as they were being seated near us, and then suddenly, we were an eightsome. Being that I was with three straight dudes, I got mad points for acting as a girl liaison and sealing the deal on that. Meaning, they probably wouldn't have hung out with us all night if I hadn't somehow, like, legitimized their presence by being a woman they could chat up.

I'm nothing if not helpful.

So yes. I scored us one blonde and one brunette with which to pass an evening in WeHo. Huzzah.

As you can tell, I was partial to the brunette myself.

As dinner was wrapping up, Brunette leans over and asks me what my plans are for the rest of the night. Apparently, they want to steal me away from my manpanions. I think sleazy hair-band-drummer dude was pulling the strings on that. But I was having none of it, and said I'd love to hang out with their lovelinesses more, provided we could all go. And so go we all did, piled into two taxis, to The Rainbow Room, which was nowhere near as cool as I thought it'd be. Live jazz in a sad little attic with nothing/no one of much interest to look at. We didn't stay long.

Back in the taxis, this time to Hemingway's, which was definitely having a ghetto-ish night. There was bumping club music and lots of skin. But we went with it, did shots, and had stupid fun dancing anyway. Basically, it was a wickedly indulgent night of laughs and goofing around, and one that I definitely felt I'd earned.