Contemplating My Inner Monologue.

Freddie Flintoff has announced his retirement for cricket. This was not something we wanted to hear on Saturday morning. Best of luck to Freddie.



The Ben Cohen 2011 calendar is going to be available to pre-order on Thursday. The first 200 orders will be signed by Ben Cohen his hotness. Being on the west coast and something like 8 hours behind GMT I don't think I stand much of a chance of getting a signed copy, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to try.



Hit akbar on Saturday night and it was a seething hothouse of buffalo check and other assorted plaids. I've always been amazed at people's abilities to stand in a room with other people who obviously read the same memo, read it furiously and in some cases twice, and decided to wear the same thing. This happens with jazzy hats in the morning quite often. Even more amazing is when they stand around, purse their lips and act like they've accomplished something akin to a triple back flip off the high dive of style. But I only wish that was the highlight.

Rotund and squat venomous cow of a door lady screamed at us because we weren't making our way through the hallway quickly enough. She said it in such a way as if we were illiterate gobs who couldn't read the invisible sign on the otherwise empty wall of her cow like mind. Taken aback by the spectacle of ego-tripping rudeness I made a quip about fire hazards. Well, this queen of God only knows overheard me and proceeded to grasp me by my Ann Demeulemeester clad sleeve and give me that what for. She barked something about being the supreme hakareeshee of the club or this and that and none of it really registered as I was just staring down at this insignificant creature's sausage grip on my sleeve. I politely asked her to remove her hand and for a moment contemplated leaving the poor thing bleeding to death from the throat, but I think that was a flashback from The Last Exorcist which I saw last week which really wasn't very good.

She retreated to the safety of what I think she thought was her "crew" and it couldn't even end there. The night totally ruined by this ass wenches' fucking spectacle we decided to leave and on the way out she spouted off some tired new age karma rage about something "coming back to me". At this moment, in this sea of lumberjack drag, raw denim & enlightened mysticism I seriously considered retiring to a secluded cabin somewhere far away from ill-mannered agro lesbian rage junkies, but all I can do is brush it off. Why let that hateful wretch ruin my weekend. Why indeed.

On a side note, the Eagle (LAs premier leather bar) was just delightful. And not a speck of check or plaid or hateful hateful hippos.