I convinced a few friends to join me on an overnight journey to the land of fake tans, fake boobs and fake Republicans and finally spend some time at the beach now that summer is officially over.
The five of us piled into our Bonnie’s Jeep and we skedaddled on down to Laguna Beach.
We were quite unprepared.
We brought only 2 beach chairs, expired sublock, zero frisbees, zero reading material and no food or drink.
Yet we all remembered to pack our dejected attitudes and sullen expressions.
It was cold and grey and foggy.
As close as we sat to the water, we still could not actually see the water.
It felt like we were in Seattle in December.
What now? Actually talk to each other?
After poking endless fun of each other, we decided our beach fun was over and we all needed a drink.
We walked to the Casa Del something or other to their rooftop bar.
As it was one of those obnoxious first come, first served joints where annoying people (like us) are hovering next to your table. Waiting for the second you plop your credit card down and then leap onto your lap.
We had a few drinks, ate some delicous meatballs on a stick, chicken empanadas and tuna tar tar while enjoying the incredible ocean view.
Then we left to check into our hotel.
In San Clemente.
The hotels in Laguna were all too expensive and required 2 night minimum stays.
So, I found the single most depressing place to hang our hat in Southern California.
The Comfort Suites.
Nothing sweet about it.
Our room overlooked the freeway.
It was dank and tiny and musty.
We walked out onto the morose concrete patio and I felt we had checked into the Baghdad Sheraton.
As cigarette smoke wafts over to us from the patio next door, we peak over and see some meth head junkie twitching and winking at us, as if to say “Hello, good sir!”
As we get ready for our evening out, I begin to itch. We have to get out of here before I catch something.
We find a cute Mexican place to eat at, yet Clyde insists on going somewhere else for a drink first.
“Why don’t we just get a drink here while we wait?” I suggest, as we don’t spot many alternatives.
“That’s fine, I just thought we’d get a drink somewhere else first. It’s fine”
Clyde is clearly disappointed.
After I call him passive agressive, he becomes irritated and we end up eating most of our meal in silence.
I order a quesadilla for the table and as Clyde picks up a slice, it drips grease on his $250 jeans.
Oh boy, this could be a night ender…
We unecessarily fill our bellies full of food and now we are comotose.
Best trip ever.
We need to pick it up a notch.
We walk over to the divey Packers bar, Ole’s and have some beers and play a game of pool.
Then we begin the world’s longest, most boring game of darts on record.
We soon become zombie-like and Chesty Morgan begins throwing the darts willy nilly, breaking off the plastic tips of each one.
As Siegfried knocks over a candle, spilling wax all over a pillow, we know it’s time to leave.
We head on over to Goody’s, a bar that claims “Where nobody wants to know your name”
Rarely does one find such incredible people watching.
I was quite entertained.
And not just by the surprisingly good 80’s cover band.
I’ll have to address three standouts.
The couple that were constantly slow dancing to “Turning Japanese” as if it was “She’s like the Wind”
The lady wore 6 inch clogs, which caused her to tower over her salt and pepper gentlemen caller. She was Manson Family and he seemed more Jeffrey Dahmer.
There were the three Amazonian women, looking like they had just been rejected from a Heart cover band tryout.
They were fantastic, replete with giant, Aquanet hair, short jean skirts they actually wore in the 80’s and drenched in their favorite Elizabeth Taylor fragrance.
They were having the best time, all smiles.
Even when the obese man with the confederate tatoos and not enough shirt comes barrelling onto the dance floor, drunk off his gord. He slid around like a pin ball, bouncing off everyone at least once.
Other stuff happened during the trip, but nothing really worth mentioning.
We had been transported to the 80’s this weekend and as miserable as I made it sound, we actually had a pretty good time.
What would life be like if there weren’t folks to make fun of? How would we maintain any of our own self esteem??