Let me preface this by saying that if anyone who reads this should ever find his or herself in Las Vegas, he or she would be loathe to miss a bar called the Double Down and the, shall we say, adventurous cocktails they pour.
But anyway, last week I finally made it out to the west coast to visit certain awesome individuals that live on the opposite sied of the country from myself. I arrived at LAX at about 6:30 LA time, met up with the previously mentioned awesome individuals at baggage claim, and promptly hopped in the car. Destination: Las Vegas, Nevada.
And then 36 hours, two hundred dollars, inumerable overpriced beers, several bottles of champagne, four bacon martinis, and one hotel room later we were back in Los Angeles. I spent the next few days wandering around Hollywood acting like a tourist and watching The Stranger while my hosts were at work, and consuming expensive (for me at least- who charges ten dollars for a hamburger?) food and drink while they weren't. There's a bar out there that has jsut about the best jukebox I've ever encountered (though the patrons seemed a tad confused at our drunken, rabble rousing singalongs. My friends and I are notorious for such antics around here).
We drove out to Sant Monica and rode the ferris wheel on the pier. At the top you had a view of the entire city in one direction and the vast expanses of the Pacific in the other. I never realized that water could be so blue.
Later we drove up the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu. We ate dinner that night at a little seafood joint squatting in the Malibu hills where the highway seemed to be the only barrier between us and the sunset.
On my final night in LA, we drove back up to Santa Monica to see the legendary Dick Dale play on the pier. I felt like I had stepped into a vintage beach movie: standing on the pier, watching the reflection from the ferris wheel dance across the waves while The King of Surf Guitar sent Amazing Grace shimmering out of a myriad of tweed-covered speakers.
I ended my trip in a bar near UCLA, toasting to old friends and bands-you-used-to-like-but-don't-anymore over pints of the local microbrew.
California is great, and so is this chick. It isn't everyone who can put up with my personal mess for a week without speaking a word, after all.
But anyway, last week I finally made it out to the west coast to visit certain awesome individuals that live on the opposite sied of the country from myself. I arrived at LAX at about 6:30 LA time, met up with the previously mentioned awesome individuals at baggage claim, and promptly hopped in the car. Destination: Las Vegas, Nevada.
And then 36 hours, two hundred dollars, inumerable overpriced beers, several bottles of champagne, four bacon martinis, and one hotel room later we were back in Los Angeles. I spent the next few days wandering around Hollywood acting like a tourist and watching The Stranger while my hosts were at work, and consuming expensive (for me at least- who charges ten dollars for a hamburger?) food and drink while they weren't. There's a bar out there that has jsut about the best jukebox I've ever encountered (though the patrons seemed a tad confused at our drunken, rabble rousing singalongs. My friends and I are notorious for such antics around here).
We drove out to Sant Monica and rode the ferris wheel on the pier. At the top you had a view of the entire city in one direction and the vast expanses of the Pacific in the other. I never realized that water could be so blue.
Later we drove up the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu. We ate dinner that night at a little seafood joint squatting in the Malibu hills where the highway seemed to be the only barrier between us and the sunset.
On my final night in LA, we drove back up to Santa Monica to see the legendary Dick Dale play on the pier. I felt like I had stepped into a vintage beach movie: standing on the pier, watching the reflection from the ferris wheel dance across the waves while The King of Surf Guitar sent Amazing Grace shimmering out of a myriad of tweed-covered speakers.
I ended my trip in a bar near UCLA, toasting to old friends and bands-you-used-to-like-but-don't-anymore over pints of the local microbrew.
California is great, and so is this chick. It isn't everyone who can put up with my personal mess for a week without speaking a word, after all.
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Oh, and I thought about moving to Nevada for a while to work in a casino. Depends on how next semester goes. Anyway, I'll be sure to follow up on this bar you speak of.