By Hillel Aron
By Joseph Tsidulko
By Patrick Range McDonald
By David Futch
By Hillel Aron
By Dennis Romero
By Jill Stewart
By Dennis Romero
My friend Nina and I were feeling lusty and our boyfriends were out of town, so we decided to wear red lipstick and see some art.
Track 16 was jamming. The faculty at Otis had taken over the sprawling gallery, and some of its work was amazing — the sepia-ink drawings and the embroidered panels, specifically. Not to mention the cute gray-haired guy’s sandals — black leather, with a molded foot bed, featuring a single leather ring around his manicured big toe.
We ran into our friend Matt, who’s gay and gorgeous, and our ovaries knew none the better, and we got all giggly and goofy. But he didn’t seem to want to play with us, so we left and went off in search of the perfect Saturday-night libation.
Now, you might think two hot girls out on the town with a growing thirst to quench would make their way to a bar or a restaurant for a cocktail. Alas, red lips or no, we are not such girls. We are the girls who hang out at the herb bar at Erewhon and ooh and aah while Truth, the herb-bar guru, rambles on about the Law of Attraction and the Five Tibetan Rites. We are the girls who snack on raw chocolate and goji berries and drink Kombucha by the gallon.
So, naturally, we went to Euphoria, a raw restaurant and boutique in Venice where $8 buys you a kickin’ cup o’ lemonade and a gnawing itch in the back of your brain admonishing you for paying $8. Glowing skin and thriving life force outweigh logic and weekly food budgets every time, so we smacked down $6.50 each for a dose of almond milk with raw chocolate and maca powder (a Peruvian superfood that helps put you in the mood, not that we needed any additional help in that department). Yummmmmm.
We headed back toward Hollywood, and on Melrose we were so dazzled by Marc Jacobs’ star-spangled display that we double-parked and window-shopped. We took a moonlight stroll around Melrose Place, perusing the window displays, the architecture and the local flora — specifically a row of lavender bushes desperate for a drink but still fragrant and gay. Highlights included an enormous hand-painted rug hanging in the perfectly polished window of a hand-painted-rug store, the knickknacks at the fancy perfume shop, the cute guy who passed us while walking his golden retriever, and the winter coat hanging smack-dab in the center of Marni. And the blouse hanging to the left of the winter coat at Marni. And a brown, leather purse . . . at Marni.
Back in the car, we headed up Cahuenga and were distracted by the flicker of low-res surf scenes being projected onto the side of a building. Dance music blared. We surmised it was a club and wondered if a) they’d let us in to see the surf movie and b) they had a toilet. We parked and approached the unapproachable bouncer with warm smiles and open hearts.
“Can we come in to watch the surf movie?”
“No. It’s boring anyway.”
“Can I use your toilet?”
On our way back to the car, we stopped to consider the Amoeba window display, in which plastic shopping bags dyed blue and green were tied and shredded to look like jellyfish floating above a sea of pirate’s treasure. It was very effective, and of course, I had to give them extra points for recycling, even though deep down I hate Amoeba for putting Aron’s Records out of business and wreaking traffic havoc on Cahuenga.
We never did find cute boys with whom to canoodle, or a public toilet. But in the morning there was no guilt, no mess, no awkward partings — just glowing skin, sparkly eyes and the lonely satisfaction that comes from not cheating on your boyfriend.