The Girls Next Table Over

Tucker went out last week and ordered a massive porterhouse from Ruth's Cris. He brought the bone home to the mutts, got out my rubber mallet and carving knife, and tried to pound it in half so that each mutt could get a piece. He broke the knife instead of the bone. It was like I said...massive. So he put it in the freezer and promised to go out to a steakhouse again, in the near future, so that he could order another porterhouse and give both bones to the pups.

That night was tonight. We went to Mastro's in Beverly Hills. We were seated next to Hugh Hefner and ten lovely ladies with unfortunate straw-like hair. Whosoever popularizes the eradication of peroxide amongst such beauties will forever be my hero. I hate that hair. But the ladies were beautiful, as were their breasts, as were their shapely yet firm bodies as they impressively downed steaks and decadent potato dishes with their fruity martinis. I found their attire to be dissapointing. It was a little...Fredricks of Hollywood, or like that store in the local mall only the girl who was molested shops at. Lots of spandex, faux fur, rhinestones, etc. I was wishing they would get hot and take the dresses off. And the peroxide off, too.

To be perfectly honest, I was enthralled. I love "The Girls Next Door." I love everything about that show, from Holly's raging insecurities, to Kendra's latent homosexuality, to Bridget's rampant but benign stupidity...its all so god damn good, and if you touch yourself after you watch the show, you're sure to come in about a minute twenty. Especially if its an episode in which Kendra lifts weights in a sports bra (read: all of the episodes).

Apparently it was Bridget's birthday. For obvious reasons, I wanted to get up and give her a hug and say "Omigosh! Happy Birthday, sweetie!" I imagined I would be accosted by security before I got to her, but I thought about doing it. She's so oblivious, and midwestern and wonderfully trashy.

My point in bringing all this up was to, more or less, make a statement about Los Angeles and what its like here. I don't often get out to the West Side. I try to stay in Glendale/Silverlake/Los Feliz, and when I do venture west, its to go out in Hollywood, which is close enough to Los Feliz to be considered artsy fartsy. I have a really great group of friends who are brilliant and clever. They make movies, and books and magazines, and musicals and fetish wear. My Los Angeles experience is very unique. I know few blondes. Nobody talks to me in a Valley accent, and if they do it is because they are being ironic. I've never been judged for being brunette and small breasted. No one has ever immediately asked, "What do you do?"

Naturally, I've been beginning to think that everything I read and hear about Los Angeles is faux like the fur of Holly's coat. Surely Holly is a savvy actress, boning all the right people and working her "insecurity" into a spot on a CW television show. Kendra is surely aiming for Ellen DeGeneres, and Bridget can't be that dumb. Not possible. There's lots going on behind those gorgeous, yet vacant eyes. There just has to be. This is LA.

Not so. I listened intently, as behind me, the lot bantered back and forth, quietly, timidly.

"It's, like, really cold in here." Was followed by...

"Yeah. It's like really loud, too." Was followed by...

"Mmm hmm. It's, like, boring."

So maybe there is still one place in Los Angeles that is true to its public image, the Playboy mansion. Rock on, Hef. Rock on with your viagra loving self.

And happy birthday, Bridget.

Comments

Posted by: Kelsness at September 27, 2006 03:06 AM

Posted by: Imaronin at September 27, 2006 08:36 AM

Posted by: Emmaluscious at September 28, 2006 09:30 AM

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