I don't want my Corona unless it's served in a bucket with ice.
Friday night, after some beers with the Staffwise crew at a heinous bar downtown and a quick stop by the Irvine opening, I grabbed Chai and Paul and went to Hirshhorn After Hours to see the new Lambie installation, Sugimoto's photos on their last weekend, and, apparently, party like a college student. I've never been to one of these events before and was surprised at the casual atmosphere - and long, long, long lines for beer. Line, I mean, singular, that stretched around the entire atrium of the museum. The 90% under 30 crowd duly queued-up for coronas, yuengling, and white wine while listening to a much-too-quiet dj.
Upon arriving we immediately ran into Adrian and my shoe broke. I'm not sure if there was a connection. So I walked around like a gimp all night, in a sad attempt to keep my (adorable! irreplaceable!) shoe from flying off my foot. The beer line was The Place To Be, as I also ran into a couple other friends, including a girl who I met on my study abroad in Chile, and one of Paul's friends, who I've only met one other time even though we went to law school together (um, unlike Chai, with whom I went to law school and only met when we both started blogging for the bar), and found out she's also a blogger, but she's "not religious about it," which apparently has nothing to do with Jesus, like Chai and I both misunderstood. (Side Note for Chai: We have bad memories - this comment thread is where we met. Good times.)
I also met a friend of Chai's, who I ran into again on Saturday night when she told us this story about the beer line: Cutting was a rampant problem. When she and her friends had crept up close to the front, she saw this elderly couple walk up and try to sneak in right in front of them. She was not about to let these octogenarians cheat her out of beer for another two minutes, so she pulled out her defensive moves and laid down the block. The shuffling escalated into a minor tussle when the gentlemen yelled, "She started it!" Much later in the evening, while this girl and her friends were drinking at a table, the bluehairs came over and the gentleman, pointedly looking at her, gestured to his companion and said, "I'd like to introduce you to Olga Hirshhorn," and walked off. Oops. So, "She started it," was not an immature, snide comment to my friend, but that she, Mrs. Hirshhorn, started the museum they were standing in, and she wanted to cut in line for a goddamn beer. Heh. Though one has to ask why Olga Hirshhorn had to wait in any line at all, much less be reduced to cutting. (Update: Chai's interweb skills have deduced the old man was probably this guy.)
After some drinking and gossiping, we headed inside to check out the vertigo-inducing Lambie exhibit - and get our pictures taken! Some photographer in a tux was enthralled with me, Chai, and Adrian staring up at a hanging, glittery, giant set of eyelashes, and took about six or seven pictures of us, until I got super uncomfortable and walked out of the frame as slyly as I could without looking like L-Lo fleeing the paparazzi (with my broken shoe, heh). Maybe he just liked Adrian's flood watchers. If anyone sees those photos somewhere, let me know. We stayed until we got chased out of the Sugimoto exhibit - literally - by an overzealous and egomaniacal security guard, much like this re-enactment:
(omg, Power Point! I may have inadvertently uploaded this to our client's shared database at work...let's all hope that's not the case. And it's true, Chai and I are the exact same shade of pasty tan.)
This was followed by a fairly awesome encounter with a Metropolitan Police Officer on 13th Street after a left-turn-on-red incident (after passing by Alero and provoking the comment in the title by Adrian, as a nod to my post about Cinco de Mayo douchebaggery). As the officer approached the car he stopped and stood silently at the driver's side rear window, content to watch us giggle uncontrollably like teenagers who'd just hit up the bong, until Adrian finally noticed him and handed over his license and registration. During the twenty minutes the cop spent checking his Virgina tags, three murders were committed down the street.
Eventually we made it to the Black Cat, only to watch a group of shaggy-haired girls in shapeless cotton skirts and Chucks with no socks line dance to George Michael. I wish I was kidding. Or drunker. Fun was still had, and I was happy to successfully continue my mission to integrate my 100 separate groups of friends into one large crew, thus creating my very own Real World were I can observe lots of hot summer drama and incestuous romantic relationships.