Emily and I had barely arrived back in L.A. before it was time to hop to it on ringing in the new year. We met up with Mike, a friend we'd made back at CMJ in October, and grabbed some quick eats before heading to our final destination of 2011. Also, there was a beer that was bigger than my head. It required two hands. I give you Exhibit A:
Our plan for the night was to catch some bands at a club called The Satellite. We caught sets from LA Font and Henry Clay People, and then things devolved into an insane jam session that resulted in some amazing covers of "Born to Run" and "Don't Stop Believin." I say if you're looking for an omen on a good year, it can't hurt to have the first 20 minutes of January 1 include a dude standing on a piano ripping out a guitar solo to a Journey song while a mosh pit develops. Did Steve Perry ever perform in front of a mosh pit? Probably not. But maybe Asian Steve Perry has.
Also, you should know that this was the hand stamp we received at the door.
The other two notable things I can tell you about the evening are that I was stopped by a middle-aged biker-looking dude while handing champagne glasses to Mike and Emily so that he could tell me that I look like Reese Witherspoon. I wanted to respond with either a.) "Maybe in the dark" or b.) "Just because I have blonde hair does not make me look like Reese Witherspoon. See related: people with dreadlocks and how they don't all look like Whoopi Goldberg." But I did not do either of those things. I'm pretty sure I snorted, and said thank you.The second notable thing is that The Satellite had a photo booth, and that we took pictures in it. I do not have those pictures, because the strip we did for me wouldn't fit in my clutch and I completely forgot to get them back from Emily. Frankly, we just look like crazy screaming girls in most of the shots. It's probably for the best that you can't see them, internet. It's probably for the best.
After eating our Hash House leftovers in the wee hours of January 1, we officially chose to spend the first day of the new year in Santa Monica. We had brunch on the promenade, did some people watching and couldn't stop taking pictures of pretty things, which was everything, which meant lots of pictures of everything. Lots of pictures of the same every-things. From slightly different angles.
This was photo one of three. I can't decide if my favorite part is the dude on the right (hey, dude!) or the purse and shopping bags at my feet that he decided needed to have their moment on film, as well.
After he left, I took other pictures that were less ridiculous. Maybe I have a knack for this, too.
At some point during our walking the beach/walking the promenade/walking the pier in Santa Monica, it occurred to us that something was going on all around us. And at some point it occurred to us that it was the Rose Bowl. And at some other point later when we started seeing all the signs in business windows that said WELCOME ROSE BOWL FANS and all the people decked out in Oregon and Wisconsin gear, we realized that were both perhaps only functionally retarded.
We wandered down the pier for a bit, people watching and searching out tacky souvenirs, and ran into Jade The Psychic. Now, Jade The Psychic (JTP?) was hanging out in a little inch of real estate on the pier with her folding chair and her fish bowl full of dollar bills and her business cards, and it just so happens that Emily and I had not 10 minutes before been discussing our mutual desire to engage in some type of psychic reading during our vacation. We'd passed a brick-and-mortar psychic on our way up to the pier that had been closed. (Shouldn't she have known we would be there that day, wanting to come for a reading? HELLO.) The thing you should know about JTP is that she was not exactly the caliber of psychic we were looking for, but she also said she would give you a reading for whatever you could drop in the bucket, which instantly put her squarely inside my price range. I gave her four dollars and she set her 1990s flip phone alarm for four minutes.
JTP told me a lot of things that fateful day, though most of them were about JTP. For example, she used to work in public relations. Also, she has learned through experience that musicians are not the monogamous kind and she does not want to see me dating one of those hooligans. In the few seconds of my four dollar reading that we were able to touch on me, I did learn that my business is going to be successful and that I have a strong entrepreneurial reading. Or something. I also told Jade a little something that day that I haven't told you about yet, and JTP had some very nice things to say about that, too. Or rather, him. (I told you I wouldn't be introducing anyone here until they were a more permanent, recurring character. And this one definitely is.) JTP said the spirits were telling her that he's a "fair-haired boy." When I broke the news to her that he was not, in fact, fair-haired, she quickly explained that when the SPIRITS say this to her it ACTUALLY means that he is someone who is very intelligent, very fair in demeanor and very lucky. Ahh yes, JTP. Naturally. A fair-haired boy.
After our exhausting day of soaking in ocean air, we decided to stuff ourselves with incredible food at Bottega Louie in downtown Los Angeles. It looked like it was in an old bank or train station terminal, with sky high ceilings and crisp white walls. And of course, stellar people watching. We had a bottle of wine, appetizers, pizza and (obviously) not one but two incredible desserts (including the tiramisu pictured below). We had given some thought to hitting a whiskey bar after dinner, but once this plate was clean it was pretty clear the only thing we were hitting was the couch, in our pajamas.
cheers,
elizabeth
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