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Return to West Hollywood
Aug. 27th, 2004 03:52 pmThere better be somethingone fun to do this weekend!
My self imposed embargo of West Hollywood may be coming to an end. I'm still sick of it, for sure (and so I'm clear, when I say "West Hollywood," I'm including the usual haunts—even those in Hollywood). I've avoided the place like a born again Chrisitian to a science class for months now. But serendipity has not been kind in hookin' a brotha up. Before I dive into the online dating pool, I think Weho may not be a horrible option (I reserve the right to change this opinion).
Problem is I don't want a club filled with plastic, self absorbed clones. I know that 5 minutes after I walk into The Abbey, I'll begin to fantasize about dropping a moth farm with an appetite for D&G and Versace clothing and watching the queens flee, while I laugh and laugh. What I'd like is a club like Cherry was back in the day or some place that wouldn't be caught dead playing Britney. I'd like a club, with a mixture of hot guys—dressed up, drag queens, goth, preppy—not just a bunch of pretentious, walking billboards for Abercrombie and A|X, talking about their latest "Prada," as if it were an accomplishment.
I know. I know. I'm just being bitter. It's 85 degrees outside, and I'm stuck inside a climate controlled building. I'll get over it in a couple of hours.
Someone send in a cake with a nail file in it. Or a hot guy.
My self imposed embargo of West Hollywood may be coming to an end. I'm still sick of it, for sure (and so I'm clear, when I say "West Hollywood," I'm including the usual haunts—even those in Hollywood). I've avoided the place like a born again Chrisitian to a science class for months now. But serendipity has not been kind in hookin' a brotha up. Before I dive into the online dating pool, I think Weho may not be a horrible option (I reserve the right to change this opinion).
Problem is I don't want a club filled with plastic, self absorbed clones. I know that 5 minutes after I walk into The Abbey, I'll begin to fantasize about dropping a moth farm with an appetite for D&G and Versace clothing and watching the queens flee, while I laugh and laugh. What I'd like is a club like Cherry was back in the day or some place that wouldn't be caught dead playing Britney. I'd like a club, with a mixture of hot guys—dressed up, drag queens, goth, preppy—not just a bunch of pretentious, walking billboards for Abercrombie and A|X, talking about their latest "Prada," as if it were an accomplishment.
I know. I know. I'm just being bitter. It's 85 degrees outside, and I'm stuck inside a climate controlled building. I'll get over it in a couple of hours.
Someone send in a cake with a nail file in it. Or a hot guy.
