Sunday, December 04, 2005

Where is/was Dieter?!

Here it is...the first entry. This is going to be trouble.

So, what better way is there for two 20 (almost 30) somethings to spend a Friday night than to go (1) to LuLus to see (2) the B-list members of the already B-List Laguna Beach cast? Since I'm prone to answer rhetorical questions, I'll have to say, unequivocally, there isn't one.

But that's only because it gives us great fodder for a fantastic story. So here we go.

  1. Price of tickets: $53.00
  2. Dinner: $32.00
  3. Starbucks: $8.00
  4. Metro passes: $7.40
  5. Cab #1: $10.00
  6. "Coat Check": $9.00
  7. Drinks: $12.00
  8. Cab #2: $10.00
  9. Parking: $3.75
  10. Not meeting Dieter et al: PRICELESS

To make the story flow better, please use the numbers to refer to specific incidents. And here we go...

1. I had to join an online club to buy "VIP" tickers to the party aptly called "Chaos." Good thing they took paypal...I didn't have to type in a credit card number so I can pretend that I didn't really have to pay for it. Rumor had it that the celebrities present at said chaotic event would be Dieter (woohoo!), Jessica, and the Alexes. LC, Kristin and Stephen are apparently busy with bigger, better endeavors.

2. Per our waiter at Cafe Deluxe (in response to the question as to how the green beans were prepared), "you pods." Green beans, moron, not peas.

3. It's less than 30 degrees outside. We are not dressed appropriately (who are we trying to impress, really??). We have to wait for the train on an outdoor platform.

4. We shared said platform with two college age couples. Their conversation consisted of the females explaining to the males what Pad Thai was and convincing them that it was great with chicken.

5. FYI: 0.6 miles = $10. And, how sad is it that the driver knew exactly where we were headed, even before we told him.

5.5 Attempt #1 to enter club: "They are NOT on MY list," said bitchy coed with the too short dress and overgrown roots, giving us the stink eye. Like we wanted to go to your sorority semi-formal anyway, beyotch.

Leave entrance, head back into cold, walk around corner to Door #2. Stand in line behind "couple." Boy and girl are making out. Boy obviously likes boys, not girls. Actual conversation between the two:

Girl: Do you kiss boys like that?

It is apparent from their subsequent interaction that they have had this conversation before.

At this point, we seriously remember how old we are, look across the street, see the Ritz, and contemplate walking across the street for drinks and better company. For some reason, we decide to stick it out at LuLus...18 to party, 21 to drink!

We finally make it to the front of the line. College age girl cannot find us on "the list." We are told we must be on "the other" list, a list no one is able to locate. OOOOHHHH, she calls in back up! Back up can't find us on the list, either. "This event is SO disorganized," she laments as she asks us for the fifth time what our names are. They finally find our names and we're given the much coveted purple wristbands. We have officially attained VIP status. This does not mean, however, that we're allowed to enter the "club" at this entrance. Around the corner we go again. Estimated temperature: 20 degrees.

Door #3. "Sorry, this is the cash only entrance." Proceed to Door #4 (which is, interestingly enough Door #1 part II). We are followed by the four friends we made while at Door #3 (our age!). At Door #4, "man" with ascot and clipboard denies us access! "You're still not on my list," he says. Um, duh. We're not trying to get into your sorority function. Oh, no. We're trying to get into the Laguna Beach party! Much more respectable...

We push our way past this "bouncer." At some point, we're given green armbands.

6. We find and subsequently pay $3/coat for the coat checks. Yes, three coats, two girls. Don't ask.

7.1 "Where's the VIP area? Oh, upstairs?" No direction, nothing.

7.2 Hheeelllloooo Captain Morgan. Literally. He's there. I swear. If only my camera's batteries were working. How were we going to commemorate this evening on film??

7.3 We finally find the VIP room and alcohol. There are no limes (vodka tonic with lemon. Tasty), but at least the lemonade isn't pink.

7.4 We stake out our location based on where the "official photographer" is standing. Ten bucks says he's from the GW newspaper.

7.5 Our new friends find us! They approach and say, "We saw you and knew this was the place to be...we knew you'd know what you were doing and where to be." Awesome. New friendships blossom as we raise the median age of the crowd.

7.6 Hours of people watching ensued. We amused ourselves with such diversions as men carrying buckets of ice up the stairs; watching several near death experiences involving extremely intoxicated girls in inappropriate outfits almost bite it as they stumble down the stairs and slip on a [strategically placed?] beer bottle that no one seems to notice/move. We are so nerdy that we contemplate the various lawsuits that could result from the danger that abounds. We should have been drinking more heavily.

7.7 Five hours later, with no Laguners in sight and no hope of them even making an appearance, we decide to leave. We head to the coat check. Mass chaos. No line. Coat check girls decide it's a good idea to just stop giving out coats...they shut the door and don't respond to knocks, screaming, veiled and unveiled threats. "This is how riots start. I saw it on CNN," says a guy later identified by a drunk girl as "Ben." At one point, we are offering to run the coat check ourselves.

Note to males: just because you're in a "crowd" of people and need to "accidentally" push against females in an attempt to get by does not mean the females you get all up against won't notice when your hands happen to touch them in places strangers shouldn't be touching. Watch it, Buddy. I'm not as nice as I look.

Usually passive aggressive (or at least go with the flow), each of us was ready to throw a punch or two (based on all of the above and then some).

Finally, Bouncer comes by with his super scary flashlight and attempts to redistribute the line and regain order. He fails miserably. Attempt aborted. Finally, we get our coats. We are so tired and overwhelmed and sadly sober that we need to take a break. Feet are throbbing in 3 inch heels. An overly perky bartender is smiling for the photographer. "I hate everyone who works here," one of us says.

8. We cannot fathom walking the five blocks to the metro. We hop into Cab #2. Another ten dollars well spent.

We don't even know if the bastards ever showed. Seriously.

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