Just Another Weekend

Weekends in L.A. during the spring are not for the timid.

Drinks are mandatory after work on Friday. A morning spinning class headed by a celeb fitness guru followed by an attendance of a poolside birthday party during the afternoon and a movie premiere at night is to be expected on Saturday. And brunch at any given sidewalk eatery, either in Silverlake or on Sunset Boulevard, is guaranteed on Sunday (mimosas and flip-flops optional).

It is a Southern California ritual with which I have come to familiarize myself, booking yourself bonkers and penciling in every friend, acquaintance and potential foe into your Blackberry/calendar/black suede planner (mine is the latter) during those two days of the week when, in my opinion at least, a minimal amount of errands should be completed and your butt should remain glued to the sofa for several numbing hours.

I, for one, am all for 3-day weekends every week, or at least once a month. We live in the hardest-working country in the world, yet at the same time we are arguably the laziest because of the amount of daily office hours we face, inspiring us to seek the slightest form of escape. Admit it: most of us are procrastination professionals.

I knowingly contradict myself. Like many people I know, I get exhausted from the constant scheduling and incessant socializing, yet I get a high from it whenever I'm thrown smack-dab in the middle of it all. However, I like to think I know when to slow down and decompress, especially whenever my body reacts to all of the run-around with a scratchy throat and lethargic limbs.

Bidding farewell to a coworker over some drinks at Culver City's Saints and Sinners kicked off my weekend two Fridays ago. I worked up a nice buzz, thanks to a bottle of Rolling Rock, and it lingered as I met up with friends to catch the latest edition of Pathetic PG-13 Remakes, Prom Night.



Nutshell review: Brittany Snow, while inevitably generic in all of her blonde-scream-queen glory, pisses of a predator and pays the price on that specialest of nights during her senior year. Her friends become fresh meat for the chopping block while trapped in a luxe hotel, a cop on the outside barks orders at his nerdy partner, and the dull denouement is filled with one too many fake-out scares (how many times can they pull off the same close-the-mirror-and-he's-right-behind-you tactic).

In other words, we enjoyed the hell out of it - mostly due to the audience's reactions and screaming variations of "Stupid bitch, get out of them high heels and run the other way!" At least the ending didn't include a shameless and vapid attempt to leave room for an inferior sequel in which a new unrelated set of characters could be inventively picked off one by one. Please spare us. We're already mentally prepping ourselves for the onslaught of 80s horror remakes that are to come.

The rest of the weekend flew by - Saturday morning writing session at Insomnia Cafe (a top-secret screenplay collaboration) with one Mr. Corey Moore, a pit stop at the Beverly Center to empty out an H&M store credit (there's nothing like shopping for summer clothes on a gorgeous spring afternoon), and a game night at Andrea and Blake's in Santa Monica. Sunday: A Hot in Hollywood brunch-meeting in Coldwater Canyon followed by preparations for an 80s-themed prom thrown later that night at a bar in Silverlake, where I proudly took over the DJ booth, donned some headphones, and spun a little Tears for Fears and Rick Astley for a crowd of 60.



This past weekend I had planned to stay in and do absolutely nothing (I had been out three out of the five weeknights prior). However, one last hurrah was called for on Friday. Cocktail party at 5:30. Special screening of Kiss the Bride at the Regent Showcase. Afterparty at East/West. Followed by a birthday party in Venice. I scratched out the last two due to the congestion and cough that hit me once I exited the theater. Saturday: an oil change which lasted longer than I thought, making me late for a long-overdue lunch at Kings Road Cafe with Rachel, and then a little window shopping across the street at Blueprint where I found a great deal on a designer leather bookcase.



Later that night: It was just me, some pizza, beer and a Quentin Tarantino movie. Throw in some crotch-scratching, and I could have been the perfect Al Bundy incarnate. Sunday: more of the same...Me. On the couch. Under a blanket. The Sci-Fi channel. The Jane Austen Book Club. A nap. Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. More fast food for dinner.

I savored every minute and strongly suggest everyone do the same once in a while. There's nothing like celebrating the great indoors with a chenille blanket and a chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich while soaking in the drama of an English period piece on BBC America (Sign #15 of How I Am Turning Into My Mother).

Decompression complete.

Be excellent to each other.

H.P.M.