Tag Archives: humor

First World Problems

7 Dec

Sometimes (often), some people (I), need a little kick in the rear, to bring them back to reality.

This last week has been one of the busiest weeks of my entire life.

(Kick.)

Ok, maybe not my entire life, but definitely the busiest week I’ve had in a while.  I’m dealing with extensive to-do lists and rapidly approaching deadlines resulting in sleepless nights, a bad attitude and unjustified complaining.  And not even about anything worthwhile.  I find myself complaining about the most trivial bullshit, commonly referred to as ‘First World Problems.’  #FWP

OMG, it took me five minutes to find a parking spot, and when I finally did it was like three blocks away from my apartment.

Really?  You own a GD car.  Beyond that, it actually drives, you have an apartment, and the parking was free.  First world problems.

It’s so ridiculous that I can’t use data on my iPhone while out of the country.  I can only call and text.

Wow.  Not getting emails and only being able to call, text, play angry birds and fruit ninja on a device that understands english, answers questions and takes pictures all the while fitting into the pocket of your skinny jeans…  Yeah, that’s rough.  PS: People used to die from the Chicken Pox.  First world problems.

I’m so thirsty and sweaty after my hot yoga class.

You just drank an entire litre of water imported from fucking Fiji, then paid some skinny white dude $40 to speak to you in Sanskrit for an hour while you willingly dehydrate yourself.  First world problems.

This free sample of hot apple cider from Trader Joe’s isn’t hot anymore.

If the words; ‘free’, ‘hot,’ and ‘groceries’ are in your regular vocabulary and would consider this an inconvenience, you should probably drown yourself in your remaining lukewarm Trader Joe’s cider .

Sometimes life is hard, but right now you’re on the internet reading a blog.

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Crafty

22 Nov
I always fancied myself a maker of things.  But if I am totally honest I’m more of a buyer of things that other people have carefully made. You feel me?  We bought these three little box shelves from Target…six months ago and they have been sitting in the closet ever since. Then last week I was shopping at one of my favorite shops in LA Maison Midi and I found this wrapping paper.
I have always loved turquoise and red together and I especially love that the owl seems very angry.  So I bought the paper and said to myself “I’m going to make this the backing of those green shelves, I will put them up in my daughters room, and they will be adorable!”

So last night I set my Phazers to “craft.” First things first, open tiny bottle of champagne from baby shower goody bag, check.

Take 3 sips of champagne and begin to think this out….

I placed the shelves on the paper and traced around them. Logical. I cut out the squares, and rewarded myself with a few more sips of champagne.

Shmeared glue on the back and place paper on the backs of the shelves.The glue needed to dry thoroughly so I drank the rest of the mini champagne bottle while watching “Boardwalk Empire” with the hubby. As I drifted to sleep I imagined how cute those shelves were going to be in her room.

Cut to next day: Husband is out grocery shopping, baby is out with the sitter. I begin to hang the shelves.

First shelf goes well. Shelf two… things go horribly wrong. As I begin to hammer in the second screw the wall gets a bit crumbly. So I take out a wall plug and hammer, twice. The plug goes through the wall and falls down inside the wall. I am left with a GIANT hole. Put duct tape over and try again…fyi duct tape does not fix everything. “Piece of shit!!!” I scream. “Son of a whore!” I yell to know one in particular.

How will I mount this? I try a nail but the wall just crumbles more.

Think Robertson THINK!
I put a nail underneath to support it and with one side functional and some help from below, it actually works! The third tiny shelf goes up without a problem and for a moment I am proud of my accomplishment. Sure an engineer would scoff at my work but a one and a half year old won’t know the difference and this is the first crafty thing I have done since I became a mom! So there!

10 Things That Scare Us

31 Oct
1. Horror movies that involve demon possession of children.  (Jenn)

Especially now that I have a child living in my house.  Late one night when Lola was a baby, my husband was out-of-town and I was downstairs, alone, watching Pet Cemetery.  As I realized the small child in the movie was possessed, I heard a noise upstairs – I looked at my baby’s video monitor, and at that moment, Lola opened her eyes, sat up, and stared right at the camera! Even creepier, the camera has night vision so she was green and her eyes were black and glowing!!! AHHHHHHHH!

2. Cat Hair (Nic)

To me, cat hair is kinda like a bad rash.  It’s itchy, it migrates, and it always ends up getting in to places it shouldn’t.  I’m getting hives just thinking about it!  And no matter how fierce the outfit, sprinkle a little cat hair on it, and you may as well be wearing a Snuggie to a cocktail party.  Cats don’t scare me, it’s just what they leave behind that gives me the chills.

3. Undercooked Chicken (Jenn)

I am always examining chicken, asking people, “Does that look a bit pink to you?”  I‘ve never had food poisoning from chicken, so I’m not sure why I am so weird about it. I just am. Let’s move on to number four, shall we?

4. Vibram Five Finger Running Sock (Nic)

I’m all for working with your body’s natural mechanics, but the Five Finger Running Socks, scare the shit outta me!  First of all, they’re toes, not fingers.  The fact that we can’t keep that straight, is scary enough.  Secondly, when wearing them, you look like some kind of human-sloth inbred.  Makes me think you can do things with your toes, that you shouldn’t be able to do.

5.  Fat free, dairy free coffee creamer. (Jenn)

Coffee cream consists of two elements: dairy and fat. So if you aren’t either of those….what ARE you?  The answer is: mostly vegetable oil and corn syrup. Powdered coffee creamer has also been used to whiten clothes, clean dry erase boards and when you ignite it, it makes beautiful, pleasant smelling, fireballs.

6. Food past it’s expiry. (Nic)

Even if it’s only an hour passed the recommended expiry date, I can’t eat it. No matter what.  The expired food immediately tastes sour, forms a pungent odor, and an offensive texture.  I simultaneously develop a serious gag reflex, and consume nothing but rice cakes for the rest of the day.

7. Parents who say “Good job!” to their children every five seconds. (Jenn)

I seriously want to tell them to shut it. And I AM a parent! Don’t say “Good job” when your child goes down the slide. That’s not a JOB! It’s recreational fun! Over-praising your children for activities that take minimal effort may result in your child growing up to be a huge douche-bag.

8. Bees (Nic)

Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of bees, and know the world wouln’t continue to exist, blah, blah, blah…  However, I have yet to be stung by a bee, so it is not uncommon to hear me yell such phrases as, “Watch your skin!” or “Is it in my hair,” at random passer-byers.  Or to see me jump out of my car, at the intersection of Hollywood Bld. and Highland, spastically remove my shirt and then beating it against the pavement, screaming “Die bee, Die!”  Thankfully it was a red light.  And the tourists loved it. PS. Jenn does not respect this fear. She says “bees are very smart and good, wasps are A-holes.”

9. How much I love Neil Diamond. (Jenn)

When I was a young kid and didn’t know any “official dance moves”, my brother and I used to run in circles around the living room when my mom put “ Sweet Caroline” on the turntable. To this day, hearing a Neil Diamond song puts a smile on my face, and song in my heart.

10. How much I love Phil Collins  (Nic)

As an adult, I do know some official dance moves, yet I still prefer to run in circles around my living room, while listening to Phil Collins or Genesis on my itunes – always making sure to include a wildly impressive air drum solo to ‘In The Air Tonight.’

Get Your Sweat On

25 Oct

I’m a strong believer in exercise.  It’s a great way to blow off steam, cope with stress, and manage the guilt that comes with eating an entire cheese cake.  I’ve had fantasies about becoming a runner, but that’ll never happen.  I have bad ankles and despise the feeling of my wobbly bits bouncing around and making a scene in public.  I give full props to anyone getting their butt to the gym and ‘pumping iron,’ because personally, I find weights boring as hell and hate the fact that my hands are left smelling like a combination of wet metal and protein powder.  If I wanted that, I’d add whey powder to a margarita, and drink it out of a tin can.

I had basically come to the conclusion that I had serious fitness commitment issues, until I made a discovery five years ago.  Title of my upcoming New York bestseller – “How Hot Yoga Saved My Life.”

For those of you that are unfamiliar with this type of yoga, each class is 60 to 90 minutes and practiced in a room heated to one hundred and five degrees fahrenheit, with forty percent humidity.

Basically:

– you sweat your ass off,
– struggle to breathe, and
– fight to maintain consciousness while an instructor melodically guides you though a set of poses that cause your body to violently shake and make you wish you were never born.

Yet somehow, it’s the greatest thing I’ve ever done!

This week, Jenn got us a month’s pass for Moksha Yoga LA, a new hot yoga studio in her area.  I was completely thrilled with the opportunity, as I was once an avid practitioner, but let’s be honest, it’s been about a year since my ‘avid’ days.  Needless to say, my first experience back was… enlightening?

First of all, it was hot.

Like, I’m sporting a parka while power walking through the Gobi desert, hot.  Like, I’m wearing a full length mink coat while participating in a triathlon on the fucking sun, hot.

Within the first five minutes I became brutally aware that I did not drink enough water that day, and the waffles I had for breakfast? Poor choice.  I was completely soaked, sweating like a beast by the ten minute mark, and my thighs and entire core were on fire and threatening to call it quits, by minute fifteen.  I found it next to impossible to ‘find my focus,’ with sweat dripping into my ears, and almost gagged when it crept  its way into my nose and eyes during downward dog.   There I was, blind and choking in a sea of my own filth, far too mindful of the garlic I ingested the night before.  And friends, I don’t care how waterproof your mascara says it is, it’s lying to you, so don’t even bother.  You’ll never look cute leaving a hot yoga class.  Never.

Now, I know yoga is supposed to be anything but competitive, but when there’s a sixty-year-old woman next to you in a swim suit, no cellulite, and a sticker in the middle of her forehead, bending in half like she’s a fifteen-year-old from Cirque Du Soliel,  I start to feel a little competitive.  I yoga’d  hard.  Shit got real.

The consequence of my ego?  An inability to use stairs for three days, raise my right arm above my chest, or stand fully erect without muttering such obscenities you’d only hear in women’s correctional facility, while the inmates are PMS-ing.

That said, even though Jenn and I left the studio looking like ass, we both felt like a million bucks! We’ve decided to drink more water, accepting that a third cup of coffee does not apply as a substitution, and I will be practicing at home between classes, to improve my form.  Either that or sitting on my mat in yoga gear— while watching The Food Network.  Feeling fit is sometimes equally as important.

Jazzed Up!

26 Sep

As the weather turns cooler (seriously, it was like 75 yesterday) and the sun sets sooner, there’s a little voice inside you that says “Go enjoy the outdoors while you still can, sucka fools!”

Our version of “being outdoorsy” is NOT hiking some remote location where you get your arm pinned under a boulder and end up drinking your own urine for survival. Although, that can be a good time…

We prefer walking 4 blocks to LACMA (the Los Angeles County Museum of Art), pinning down some tacos for under 5 bucks, and drinking wine for our survival. No need for rescue helicopters here…unless Jenn has too much chardonnay…again.

Below we are doing something local Angelinos rarely do: walking. Don’t these pictures look like a sexier urban version of “Sister Wives?” That’s our friend Jen in the stripes walking behind Nic.(Yes ANOTHER person named Jen) She’s one of the sweetest, prettiest girls we know. She has a baby inside her. It will probably be the sweetest prettiest baby we’ll know.

During the end-of-summer/fall season, LACMA hosts live outdoor jazz concerts on Friday nights at the Grand Entrance of the museum complex. The museum is itself a work of art, comprised of modern and art deco architecture built within Hancock Park – home to the La Brea Tar Pits – where a whole bunch of fossils have been dug up. By the way: trapped in hot tar = bad way to go. If I were a Mastedon (and sometimes I feel like one right before my period) and I knew the asteroid was coming, I would rather take a boatload of Advil PM and call it an era. The tar pits are still hot, and bubbling. And sometimes at the corner of 6th and Fairfax it smells like farts from the sulfur. In fact we refer to 6th and Fairfax as “the corner of fart and egg salad.

Lola in the stroller and Sofie the dog watch as we eat tacos and discuss the problems of the world. I wonder if Jenn’s husband knows how dangerous it is to wear a shirt with a target on it while Jenn has PMS?

Brandon can’t believe the veggie taco tonight is green beans! Karl (on the right) can’t believe Brandon is so exited about green beans. And check out the man-camel toe to the left of Brandon. Wow! Those jeans are right up in there! We should have done a “jean intervention” with both of these people.

Jenn’s daughter Lola has a deep rooted love for jazz.  Basically, she can’t help but dance as soon as she hears it. She will also dance with her stuffed dog and maintain eye contact with him while they dance – out of respect.  So, with apologies to my Mom and Dad for the ridiculous amounts of money they wasted on my dancing career, but I was out-shone by a baby.  Clearly I’ve been a little over confident in my abilities to pull focus.  Maybe I should get my boobs done?

Then the sun finally set, we recycled our plates, and strolled home. Not a whiff of fart in the air. Except for actual farts from the tacos.

PS. Dear readers, we want to thank you for all your support over the last 8 months. And we’d like to ask you, in a very meek and Canadian way, to SUBSCRIBE to Society Finch. Over 400 people read our blog every week yet only 29 of those readers subscribe. It’s free, no salesperson will visit your home.

Hair Extensions – Part Deux (The Reckoning)

19 Sep

The theory behind the Butterfly Effect is that something as small as a butterfly flapping it’s wings is enough to cause a ripple effect that could change major events in history.  Forget butterflies, I altered history big time flipping around my new long hair on Saturday afternoon!  Friday I’m a short hair gal.  Saturday I’m a long hair gal. It’s pretty weird I’m not going to lie.

The hair on my head is Russian I’m told, and the method used to apply was Extend Tubes. A tiny piece of my hair and the extension get threaded through a little silicone tube that looks like a bead. The bead then gets squished, thus holding the hair and extension together.  I felt like I cheated the universe. In 3 hours I had hair that would have taken me 3 years to grow.  Then my new hair got caught in my seat belt and I realized, like with superpowers, with long hair comes great responsibility.

The first night, NO SLEEP! Those little extensions hurt like a son of a bitch. It felt like a hundred tiny ponytails that you can’t take out. And since they were all over my head I had to sleep on my stomach…. face down.  Starfish float (face down).  I tried to put my head on the pillow but it felt like I was lying on one of those beaded seat covers taxi drivers use.

Woke up day two, and looked like an extra from FuBar. My short hair has separated from the long hair creating a super rocker dude effect. I panic, fluff it up, and curl the ends.  Go for breakfast that morning and a woman compliments me on my beautiful hair. Because I am me and always have to “tell it like it is,” I  enthusiastically reply, “Why thank you! It’s fake… and Russian!”

My partner at Society Finch, Nicole, has also gone for extensions. Like animals in the wild we are adapting to our LA environment.  We are merely fitting in with “the locals”.

It’s a choose your own adventure in the wild world of weaves, and Nicole has opted for clip ins. Nic’s hair is longer and more suited to clips ins.  With that bit of extra length, she can wear clip ins and not look like a cracked out drag queen. (P.S. there is a cracked out drag queen named Sharone who frequents our local library. Literacy is for everyone!)

The great thing about clip ins, is that Nic can remove her extensions when going back east, avoiding the statement, “LA has changed you.”  FYI she wants you to know LA HAS changed her. In her words “I no longer look sad and pale, and guess where I was this morning? The mutha fuckin’ beach y’all!”

Nicole can remove her clip ins, wash them, and put them away in a cute little pink bag…kinda like a diaphragm.  I on the other hand am permanently attached to my extensions that I have nick-named, “The Wendigo” (due to the massive amount of hair involved).
Despite our fake hair we’re still the same salt of earth, Steel Magnolias, tells it likes we see it kinda gals. Here are some photos to prove that we’re still just everyday people….with extensions!
We wash dishes.
We clean toilets.
We barbecue. (With caution.  Extensions are flammable.)
We do our own gardening. (She’s actually just holding dirt.  She doesn’t garden.)
We wait for the mail.
We pick up our friends dog poop.  (We’re so average.)

Stupid questions. Smart mouths.

5 Sep

Sarcasm.

A dangerous yet highly effective tool.  Paired with a delicious sense of humor, sarcasm can be the perfect end to a robust question that’s been stuffed with stupidity.  Don’t let your feathers be ruffled by uncouth company, my friend, dish it right back!  At least that’s been our mantra as of late. Sometimes stupid questions just deserve stupid answers.

Scene One

It’s early morning and I’m in the kitchen, pouring myself a fresh cup of coffee.

Anonymous: (enters kitchen) “Hey, is there any coffee?”

Me: “Nope.  This steaming brown liquid which smells remarkably identical to coffee, is actually last night’s meatloaf.  I’ve puréed it, and created a hot breakfast smoothie.  Want some?”

Though this may seem a little harsh to some, please consider the options.  Either I use our witty friend ‘sarcasm’ to assist me in diffusing the situation, or I revert to basic instinct.  Since I’m completely uncivilized first thing in the morning, especially before I’ve had my coffee, my instincts lean towards hurling the cup of coffee directly at Anonymous’ groin, ideally scalding him with the steaming beverage.  Next, I’d most likely begin openly weeping with the eventual goal of drowning myself in my own tears, thus becoming a casualty of the war against foolish questions.  Not so harsh anymore, huh?

Scene Two

Early morning…again. I’m in the kitchen (most likely enjoying a hot breakfast smoothie) as Anonymous stands in the living room.  Curtains are drawn.

Anonymous: “What’s it like outside?  Is it sunny?”

(At this point I’ve only one eye open, and a mere one fifth of my brain actually functioning.  Basically I’m still asleep.  Or mostly dead.  Hard to say.)

         

Me:  “Nope. Raining.”

Anonymous: “I don’t think so… (pulls curtains aside), looks sunny!”

Me:  “Only looks that way. Monsoon season.”

Anonymous:  “Really Nic?”

Me: “I know.  I was shocked too when I heard the news, especially since Southern California’s weather has been the exact same, every day for the last gazillion years.”

Now, I understand that this approach may not be the most mature or even appropriate for that matter, but COME ON!  The weather has been the same.

Every.

Fucking.

Day.

Just open the damn curtains.  Or are you experiencing a rapid onset of upper paraplegia, thus being the reason you can’t seem to look for yourself?

I’m not sure of the lesson that is to be learned here.  Maybe it’s that I’m a bad person, or that I really shouldn’t interact with other humans before I’ve had at least two cups of coffee, but sometimes you’ve just gotta be a smart-ass.

Dog Gone

29 Aug

Last Monday around 4 in the afternoon I was standing in my kitchen when a thought entered my brain. “It’s been a while since you’ve seen the dog of yours, hasn’t it?” the thought said. Where could that rascal be? I playfully thought.

I bet he’s under the bed…..nope.

Maybe he’s under the couch….no.

After checking EVERYWHERE, I turned to the age of trick of obnoxiously loud opening of dog food containers while shouting “DINNER!” at the top of my lungs. For the entirety of my dog Norman’s life, he has never come when his name has been called. He has, however, always come after hearing the word “dinner.” Next dog I plan to name dinner.  It’ll just make things easier in the long run.  But I digress, as I was saying the dog is, officially, gone.

Call to husband…

“Norman is gone.” I say.

“What are you talking about? He’s just sleeping somewhere.” Says the hubby.

“He’s sleeping in heaven on a cloud, because he’s missing, and that means he’s dead.”

Our dog Norman is a grumpy, 12-year-old Boston Terrier, with more attitude than a grounded teenage girl, who’s on the rag. He’s bossy, has wicked halitosis, and ZERO natural instincts. Outside of the safety of a house I’d give him somewhere between 2 to 10 minutes to live. He doesn’t know about crossing streets, hunting for food, or that raccoons are not to be fucked with.

Basically he’s a total jerk, but he’s MY jerk and I’ve loved that smelly little smushy face for 12 years.

While my husband prepared to drive the streets and make missing posters I decided the first step was to call the Humane Society. Fighting the tears I was finally connected to the Lost and Found department.

After a seriously long, frankly unnecessary, list of questions the woman at the lost and found informed me that indeed Norman was there at the shelter.

I burst into tears and shouted “When he gets home I’m gonna KILL HIM!”

For the next two days Norman was a man of mystery.  I wondered where he had been found? What he had seen? Did he save little Timmy who was trapped down a well? Did he fall in love with a hooker dog with a heart of gold? What did my dog do with the 6 hours of his life that I cannot account for?

Three days after Norman’s trip to the slammer Norman and I were walking out the door to go to the park. Our neighbor’s wife (who we haven’t seen all summer) was getting out of her car. She looked at me, looked at Norm and gasped “Oh I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you had a dog!”

Turns out she had found Norman by the garbage bins between our two houses. And seeing that he wasn’t wearing a collar she scooped him up, and whisked him away to the animal shelter.

So turns out Norman went… well…. nowhere. He got as far as the side of the house when his dream of freedom was taken away from him.  No wonder he looks grumpy…..

 

What are we,12?

22 Aug

 

In a perfect world, weddings are sophisticated, romantic events that re-instill our belief in true love and the sanctity of marriage.
However, there’s something about an open bar and a gathering of family that can turn a wedding from classy to trashy faster than you can say “I do.”

Weddings should (in theory) bring out the best in everyone. But sometimes, a little gin and a long personal history can turn a simple toast into, “Let me tell you about the time ‘Bride’ pretended to be a record producer and banged 3 of the guys from 98 Degrees.”

I find that the tone of a wedding begins with the Stag and the Stagette. My sister Tiffany is getting married this coming weekend in a picturesque setting (wine country), with only immediate family in attendance. In honor of my beautiful sister, I’m throwing her a simple, tasteful shower.

Here’s something I won’t be doing for this event. I will NOT be serving any penis-shaped food items, making her wear a penis hat, or tying a penis balloon to her wrist lest I lose her in a crowd. When I see some of the extraordinarily phallic items intended for showers these days, all I can think is, “What are we, 12?”  And did your betrothed friend really miss that many PE classes in grade school, that she has no concept of the male genitalia?

    

I suppose hundreds of years ago women did marry when they were 12. Back in the 1600’s with things like The Black Plague the phrase “Live like you are dying” applied in a very literal way. But today’s brides are older, wiser, and well aware of “the monster in his pants” that waits for her on her wedding night. Who are we kidding? Most brides have seen their husband’s penis so many times before they’re married their attitude is more, “Oh, that old thing!” than, “Oh my! What is this?!”

At my shower there will be no “sexy arrests’’ made by scantily clad officers, no party-bus pub crawls, and no riding of mechanical bulls while wearing a shitty veil someone stole from the dollar store.  Fear not, my dear sister! This shower will be a celebration of you becoming a married woman, not you becoming a woman. Because Tiffany is a wonderful, witty, intelligent woman who is entering into her marriage already grown up.

At the shower there will be bottles of bubbly, tasteful lingerie…….and temporary Justin Bieber tattoos. What are we, 12?

      

Irony and Wine.

15 Aug


Missing a friend is like giving up dairy. Your life goes on, it’s just way less…delicious. Over the last 4 months my life has been less delicious without my friend Nicole, the other half of Society Finch.  Nic has been in LA, and I, Toronto.  It’s been an unfortunately long separation, but last night we met in Toronto for a much-needed dinner date, pairing long overdue catching up with wine, laughter and sunshine!  Sounds like a good 80’s album, I know. After dinner we moved on to ‘tipsy shopping’ on Queen St. West. Unfortunately most of the shops were closed, but we managed to wander into an edgy little boutique  filled with ironic hipster clothing, at ironic hipster prices.  (Shocking.)

How is a half top 400 dollars? It’s only HALF a top!’

Our too cool for school sales girl, recommended we visit the “garage sale in the back room”.  Usually when offered a “back room” experience, I’d suggest checking the ‘No, thank you‘ box, but we were feeling wild and inspired!  Or mildly intoxicated… it’s a fine line.  The back room consisted of everything that ironic hipsters weren’t willing to wear, which is impressive because hipsters will pretty much wear anything…. ironically.

I’ll see a person walking the street in gold leggings, a Spider-Man T-shirt, huge glasses and a waxed mustache, and I honestly don’t know if they’re a hipster or mentally unwell. It’s a tough call sometimes.

I would love to be so confident in my coolness that I could leave the house in 80’s running shorts, a Fonz t-shirt and a fur coat, and feel that if you laughed at what I’m wearing, you’re the asshole.

Hipsters are emotionally untouchable! They are rubber and we are glue. Whatever we say bounces off them and sticks to us.

In the back room of this shop, Nic and I found hoodie dresses, ruffled leather mini shorts, and an off-the-shoulder t-shirt that said “peach cobbler.”  We stood in that back room and laughed our asses off . We also sneaked pictures of said clothes while the sales girl walked in and out of the room.

I’m sure she thought we were stealing. Not bloody likely!  In the end, we decided that if we HAD to buy something, we’d choose a couple of navy skull bikinis. Only because there was two of them so we could look like jackasses together.

The irony continued as we moved further west to the Drake Hotel, for a cocktail. The Drake is like The Mothership for hipsters.  One of our bartenders was inked from head to toe, with mostly comedically ironic tattoos. We were big fans.  Lionel Richie on his calf. Eyes wearing glasses on his forearm, so when he sleeps with his arm over his eyes he looks awake. And our favorite, a small tattoo on his collarbone that simply said, “Tough Crowd.”  Thankfully he never had to pull aside his shirt collar, exposing his true feelings regarding our company, because after cocktails and a mystery shot, we were ironically crowd-pleasing.

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