Tigers in the Fire

So before we get to anything juicy, you are probably (maybe? maybe not?) wondering two things:

1. What happened to Pinky the Pink Vespa?

2. What happened to my cat called Wanda?

Well let me put your mind at rest. Wanda is currently ensconced in Cecilia’s apartment for the time being. The plan is that I will win my roommates over with my fierce loyalty and lovely sense of humor and seduce them into the idea of having a cat called Wanda on the lose in the apartment. Foolproof plan.

As for Pinky, I simply forgot to mention that she made the trip down with us in the back of the Ruth’s pickup. You don’t want to know how we got it in and out of there (we may or may not have had to stoop to a medium low and ask for man-help). However, I am still not sure how I feel about riding her on the rough and tumble streets of LA. I am going to ease into that one.

Well what else is new... perhaps my attitude. I am working on a take no prisoner approach to life right now. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Let my inner bitch out a bit more. It helps if you buy a new pair of Alexander McQueen origami snap boots. (Whatever, it is my welcome to your new home gift to myself...thats what plastic is for).

Saturday evening I was all self-loathing and wallowing in a certain amount of homesickness slash self pity while decorating my massive bedroom. The vintage chic from San Francisco needed to be revamped and modernized for my LaLa Land digs. I paused and stepped onto my balcony, to lounge on one of my new black iron chairs and smoke a cigarette and brood about my abrupt decison making issues. I could hear Leah’s angry Riot Grrrl music bumping even outside. I pictured her in her room sullenly drinking cheap beer and creating aggressive messy art. She is an artist by the way. She is also dangerous--I need to watch myself around that one; I could easily make some very poor decisions.

Kim burst in on my musing with an open bottle of champagne and a huge grin.

No sads Louise we are going OUT!

Kim it is only 7 o’clock.

Exactly. Time to sip some champy and get ready. Wear the McQueen boots. Drink.

She shoved the bottle at me and I shrugged and took a gulp of the bubbles. I got in touch with my inner punk fashion-wise, throwing on skinny grey jeans, a cropped black leather jacket, and Marc cuff for good measure.

And so the roommates scooped me up, forced me into something stylish and lugged me downtown to a hole in the wall club. You gotta get outta WeHo once and a while Lu Andi explained (and now she has said a total of 12 words to me since my move).

So it was a hole in the wall. Literally. Outside looked like someone just hammered out a hole. Inside was a different story though. The entire place was white, like stepping onto a set for a fashion shoot, with high ceilings, and Louis XIV style moldings, alongside swaying blue and magenta track lights. A band called Love Grenades played while hipsters swayed coked out and mesmerized. Dancing in the middle of this was the lead singer--an urban Katy Perry, gyrating and bobbing in a gold lamé unitard, her effervescent voice carried to the ceiling:

Let's play tigers in the fire

I know this is just desire

So won't you stay with me

Oh, if you stay, you'll see

You've changed

Nothing is the same...

I can screw anyone that's nice, then walk away

Put your hands on me, we can make sweet love in the winter breeze

I can do anything that I like

I can screw anyone that's nice then walk away...

A drag queen stood to the side taking it all in, while I took in her tribal gown and serious afro. She would later grab the mic and shout in a husky falsetto O M fucking Geeeee!

Leah’s mohawk bobbed through the crowd ahead of me. The hipsters moved about--young skinny chicks teetering in impossibly high vintage YSL heels, gay boys with ironic mustaches holding hands and sharing cigarettes (yes inside)--a sea of vintage, plaid, flannel, and lace. I blended in but I didn’t belong. My clear drink was glowing blue and I sucked on the tiny straw while trying to sway a bit as some girl grinded behind me provocatively. I gingerly disentangled myself and went stand near a fan and some bored gogo dancers.

Transplant? I turned. A tall androgynous brunette leaned over me, her skinny lithe body curving close. I smiled.

Completely. I feel a little like an alien.

You’ll get used to it. It grows on you. Kind of like a fungus.

Lovely.

She laughed. You’re cute.

Gee thanks.

She laughed again. That came out wrong. Sorry. So you aren’t much of a dancer?

Not at the moment. I glanced at the dancing and tried not to visibly cringe. She caught that too and laughed harder.

So let me guess. San Francisco?

Bingo.

Yeah, the leather and little look of discomfort are what give you away. But its not a completely wicked town. I’d like to show you things a little maybe...if you are interested.

I eyed her and raised an eyebrow. Are you coming onto me?

She smiled but turned serious. I can if you want me to.

And then I did something completely inappropriate and totally out of character (HUSH!): I leaned in slowly, towards her mouth but shied away to her ear and whispered I’d love that.

I pulled away and she was grinning, her green eyes twinkled at me. What’s your name?

Louise.

Corrine. Pleasure to meet you Louise.

Ok things are getting interesting here. It is amazing what a pair of McQueen boots can do for a girl.

Always,

Louise