The woes of a blogger.

As a new blogger, I feel that I have faced this week the ultimate irony of the blog life. One must do things to obtain content to write about. But when one does them, one loses time to write. And so it's been over this last week, that I have actually been so busy doing fabulous LA things, all the time thinking how interested you would be to read of them, and in doing them, left myself with minimal time to log the excitement. So, a recap is in order. It will be brief because I'm just exhausted from all the running around I've been doing and my bed is calling me like a hooker calls on her tricks. Alluring (as my head keeps nodding over). Forbidden (as I am intent on writing this before I sleep). Dirty (as I've not done laundry in quite a while). Except for that my bed is disease free. And not wearing patent leather.

Former work friends were in from New York over the weekend for a series of events in Los Angeles and I was made to question, on several levels, my decision to leave that position. They were staying at the Chateau Marmont on Sunset, where one evening's stay alone is valued at nearly what I earn in a week now. Beside the luxury of all expenses paid, I miss the comradery of a larger coworker pool. My current office of three won't allow for office gossip, although tensions and politics admittedly run high all the same despite, or because of, close quarters. An office without open fights, closeted giggles and caddy remarks just doesn't seem a fit place for working. But as remorseful as the weekend became for regrets of a good thing left behind, all was made right with expensed dinners out with the old work crew and invites to events chock full of b-rate celebs and more face work than a season of The Swan. Friday night's dinner at Massimo in Beverly Hills was delicious and nothing could have felt more old school Hollywood than sitting at a table just a foot away from Tom Poston and Debbie Reynolds, dining with another recognizable [but unnameable] couple.

More free meals, more semi-famous people you don't know or don't care about, scattered throughout the weekend could not compare with the real thrills of these past few days. Rites of passage into LA living that surpass even the celebrity encounter, for what is more valued in this city of fake blondes and fast cars than, well...blonde hair and a sweet car. So, in honor of my month anniversary as a Los Angeles resident (yes, it was yesterday and I'll expect your congratulatory remarks are in the mail already) I went blonder than I've ever been and treated my Jetta to a "full service" car wash (at least one of us should be getting serviced here). Both involved too much time, too much money and chemicals that don't belong among laymen. I am officially bleached and my car is sparklier than at conception.

Blonder than me, although with a hairstyle not exactly enviable, was Princess Superstar who I saw in concert last night at The Echo. Spastic costume changes [into a variety of outfits better suited for the animal which they once belonged to] aside, the performance was riveting. For a woman of her age (and by that, I mean any age over 15) to maintain that much energy without the aid of several lines of cocaine hidden backstage which she may or may not have been partaking in during said costume changes was impressive to say the least. She rapped against her own recording as a backdrop which I found to be cheap, but her sound was lively and engaging and her lyrics bizarre and hysterical. While it was debatable (and my guest and I did indeed debate this) whether or not she was a mere train wreck or a social genius of sorts, the show was entertaining. I thought myself brilliant when I realized half way through the show that who she reminded me of was Eminem. But according to several interviews that were pointed out to me today, others have mentioned the kinship before. Damn.

So that I shouldn't go back to the kitchen yet again for more processed edibles, I better get to bed.

A Little Lesson from Los Angeles: Say no to drugs--that don't fit neatly into your Fendi spy bag.

West Coast Word of the Day: phenomenological. fi-"nä-m&-n&l-'ä-ji-k&l.
* First person to use it in a sentence gets to feel like an intellectual elitist.

Kisses + sweet dreams of sex and chocolate * Jessie