Sky's the Limit

So, even though we've been here for what, 7-8 months now, Bubba and I have not painted the town red particularly thus far. Combination of the move, getting settled, and my overall squareness have kind of precluded it. On Sunday though, Bubba was feeling spontaneous. For my male, single friends, what that means is, when your wife is feeling "spontaneous," by definition, YOU are now feeling spontaneous and have to oblige said spontaneity.

We had a little Mexican food (one of the few cuisines where Cali seems to have an advantage over the east), and decided to put our glad rags on and hit the town. Problem was, it was Sunday night, so Hollywood was relatively dead. I called my boy Z from the road, seeing as how he is literally our resident expert. He suggested the Sky Bar, a swanky but hip watering hole on Sunset Blvd.

We valet park the car (an unavoidable reality) and make our way to the place. The Sky Bar is located within the Mondrian Hotel, smack dab in the middle of the strip. Like, I can't swear to it, but I'd say with confidence that the boys from "Entourage" cruise by it in the quick-cut opening credit sequence. We walk through the hotel lobby, out towards the back. Dressed up more than a usual lazy Sunday, but not quite to the nines, we were a TAD leery of getting velvet roped, but we mustered up the courage to forge ahead.

We finally, get to the bar, and I have to say, visually, it was spectacular. What you have is, essentially a really large deck, and glorious swimming pool. The pool was illuminated, and filled to the brim, but because the wind was still, it was pristenely flat. It looked like it was straight out of a Calvin Klein Obsession ad, and like it hadn't actually been swum in since its inception. Like, to swim in it would be beyond uncool. Surrounding the pool were upscale benches and chairs. Meanwhile, the bar itself was upstairs, but still essentially outdoors.

Then you have the view. Located about halfway up the hills, basically overlooking the whole of Los Angeles. For the unintiated, when you're in the hills, Los Angeles is COMPLETELY unobstructed. No skyscrapers blocking the view. No trees. No light pollution. So now we're there, under a cloudless blue sky that almost matched the pool water, a smattering of stars dotting the sky, and the city of angels twinkling below. Not too shabby.

As anticipated, it being a Sunday, the crowd was modest, which was fine by us. Still, within the population were more than enough observable characters to tickle my fancy. Bubba and I looked for a spot to set up base camp, only to see every table posting a "reserved" placard. We managed to flag down one of the waitresses scuttling by, and were able to gleen that we could sit anywhere we wanted to, with the proviso that should said reserved party actually show up, we'd promptly get the boot. Fair enough I guess. So we sat down at a bench in the middle of the pool.

In the half hour we sat between placing our order and waiting for its delivery, we made like Woody Allen and Mia Farrow in "Manhattan," and sized up each party of people, assigning them a life story. First, there was drunk girl. Sitting alone, she somehow managed to attempt to give herself a lapdance, if that makes sense. From there, seeing a more primo location open up, she stumbled across the deck and promptly tripped over a table. While she waited for her girlfriend who was awol in the bathroom, concerned persons helped her back up to her perch. While she should've been completely embarassed, she seemed oblivious, smiling while the entirety of the rest of the bar laughed at her, not with her.

Then there was my favorite. There was this fat walrus of a man, sitting in the corner with a couple of hangers on by his side. I haven't the foggiest idea who he actually was, but he had the air of some type of Hollywood big shot, on the prowl for the latest in a long string of patsies duped onto his casting couch with the faux promise of stardom. This guy was as alluring as Fat Bastard, but in this town, if you got the Motts, the girls can be gotten, no sweat. And believe me, the VAST majority of this crowd would fall into this vulnerable pool. All kinds of 20-something "starlets," bopping around in their summer hoochie wear. All of them trying to be seen, but trying not to look like they're trying to be seen at the same time. I'm also convinced that half the men in this town are genuine nobody's, but they try to LOOK like they're somebody. They lease high priced cars, get a bitchin' pair of shades, and speak of taking meetings with so and so next week.

So up 'til now, this was more entertaining for us observationally, rather than genuinely. But then, the "beds" opened up. I have to concede, this was dope. They had several really large flatbeds, covered in pillows, around the pool. Like, totally big enough for whomever the flavor of the month rapper is, AND his whole posse. They can ALL kick it on one of these. So Bubba and I got a spot, and the night got a whole lot better. Now, were sipping a cocktail, in full cushinoned sprawl, under that deep blue sky. I need one of these in my house. It was enough to make me forget that we were paying $14 for drinks.

A mix of r&b and hip-hop was playing all night long. Bubba started feeling the groove, and was fixing to dance. This not being a dance club per se, presented a slight obstacle. Undaunted, we decided to buck the system, and dance anyway, hoping to inspire the masses. The masses were not inspired, save for two other ladies close by. After a few futile songs, we bagged it and made small talk with the ladies. One was an actress. One was a producer. Surprise, surprise.

It being a school night and my being an overly responsible adult and all, we called it a night around 11 or so. A fine time for sure, but definitely not our scene. Still, as with everything as far as I'm concerned, it's yet another hilarious slice of life, and life in its entiretyIS my scene.