I don't do Saturday nights anymore. Making my venture out last night to see my visiting friend J a rather large shock to the system. Things I learned along the way...
1. I didn't realize so many people still went out on the weekends.
2. That their skirts had gotten so grossly short.
3. We should all be on high alert for the thief who stole Santa Monica's style.
After dinner at Chan Dara (where I would highly recommend the Pad Se Ew and highly distrust the waitress' promise of 'mild'), we began our adventures at The Woods, the strip mall-housed bar, designed to look like, duh, the woods, and called a 'dive bar' despite the obvious design efforts and lounge appeal.
Well, in truth, we really began at Mashti Malone's Ice Cream next door in the shopping center. We skipped the house specialty, the rosewater ice cream, for straight up cream and fudge. Not a bad choice.
Next up, we traveled to Santa Monica's Renee's Courtyard Cafe. To my friends who warned me (Elana--you tried!)...I never should have doubted you. The room full of dusty old dolls, meant to evoke the kitschy and creepy, paled in frightfulness next to the horror of what appeared to be a full-on college party. Couples making out against the walls, gaggles of girls and groups of guys and beer and rain a mess on the floor. I had sudden urges to down kamakazi shots, smoke cigarettes while swapping spit with strangers in the corner, and wake up in my own vomit--just like the good old college days. Well, no--my first instinct was actually to propel myself out of there.
I never fail to see a different side of the city when friends are in town. And while I'm sure J is now frightened of ever returning to LA's nightlife scene after last night's sampling, I hope she'll return. So I can show her the safest place to spend a Saturday night...at home.