Arabian Nights

Somewhere after the Hawaiian feast and delicious, delicious sangria, three girlfriends braved the fashion district together. After a promise to several shops to return before the end of business day to purchase a few items, no money had yet changed hands. After all, with the bountiful choices of the L.A. alleys, one has to be frugal and particular with spending power.

That's when I saw the pants. Genie pants. With cheap cotton drawstrings. They were glorious. Or maybe that was the sangria. Either way, that mannequin was working those black and white beauties and I decided I could do it better. So, I made my first purchase. Then Malo decided she liked them, too, and she wanted to put them on right away because it was too hot for jeans and boots--another one of my great ideas, though I suffered gladly for my autumn wardrobe. And then, I just suffered, as Malo was now wearing the Aladdin pants with a navy top, brown fanny pack and black motorcycle boots. And just when it couldn't get any weirder, Emily (new recruit to this circle of friends, and an excellent one at that) also purchased the pants.

Later, we all powwowed back at Emily's for a nightcap, of course wearing our new duds and vowing to never wear them again...

We all woke up with some buyer's remorse and a hilarious $18 story. I can only conclude that there must have been vodka in that sangria, and I must also apologize for being condemned to never share any of the pants' pictures. It's probably worse than you think...

It's Always Sunny in Los Angeles

The Fall of Erin is not scheduled to begin (de)construction until 2050, leaving at least 14, 235 hay-days. Thank you for your patience.

Vegas, Baby!

Vegas. I used to think "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" was an idiotic thing to say, but it turns out to be true. It should stay there. Always. All I can tell you about my recent trip there is this: I may be permanently blacklisted from the MGM Grand, I found the outside of my comfort zone with a stripper named Delishay (some variation of Delicious), and Swedish people are crazy.

Remember that time you gave me the ants?

One of my best gal pals, Malo, surprised me with a small, blue vase she bought at an art school. There were wild flowers crowding the stem, which she had picked while singing and prancing, thinking of me--but that's her version of the story. My story kicks in an hour or so later, when we were waving our goodbyes. I placed the tiny gifted ceramic in between my legs for the drive home to ensure its safe travels. Once parked, I realized that there were ants crawling everywhere. And not just any ants, the bitey kind. I began slapping myself on all exposed skin and hunting down the runners with an opposable thumb. More than a few got away, though they have probably suffocated in their hot, leather hiding places by now. That is my hope, at least. I am still itchy with bites from that time Malo gave me the ants...

**Stay tuned for tonight's adventure: Malo and I go to the Prince concert.

Summer of Erin

According to the tarot card reader on the Venice boardwalk, my social cup will runneth over as long as I open my iron fist, let go of the past and remain open to beauty, art and love. Even though he never stopped picking his nose and talked entirely too much about himself, his roommate, his ex-girlfriend and did an uncomfortably long Rodney Dangerfield impression, he seemed to know a thing or two about reading a deck of cards. All he really told me was to take my own advice, which is pretty good advice... So begins the chronicles of the Summer of Erin.

Dodgy

People have been saying "Get the hell out of Dodge" for a while now. I'm guessing it's cleaned up all right by now...