best. weekend. ever.

Going to LA for the weekend was certainly not the most rational thing I've ever done. My thought process in purchasing the expensive last-minute ticket was pretty much as follows: "NY weather sucks. NY boys suck. LA is warm. My sister lives there, and she does not suck." Fortunately, the trip was worth every goddamn penny, down to the $34.16 tank of gas.

When I rolled into Dollar Rent-a-Car on Thursday evening, I was informed that I had a choice between a Dodge Neon and, for five dollars per day more, a Jeep Liberty. I inquired as to why the rates were so much higher than what I'd seen earlier on the internet. Turns out you need to "book in advance" to get the cheapness. Interesting concept, indeed. Since I was spending a lot regardless, and since the apparently clairvoyant Drone suggested it specifically the day before, I went all out with the cooler car. Despite having to navigate three freeways, I arrived at my sister's suburban utopia called Pomona College in a speedy 45 minutes. There, I proceeded to sleep soundly for the next 11 hours, which, as those who know me know, is no small event.

In remembrance of Jesus Christ Our Lord's death for our sins, my sis and I spent Good Friday shopping on Melrose. The first stop was a women's only sneaker store I'd read about in Nylon on the plane ride, where I finally found a suitable replacement for my poor old beloved Pumas. Next, we actually walked (apparently this is not done in LA) to the cavernous thrift store Jet Rag. We were greeted by my first LA star-sighting, who I of course stared at like an idiot, walking down the stairs. After taking the requisite photos of ourselves in silly outfits, which I'll post if I figure out how (anyone??), I bought some very Gina items (i.e., most suitable for a 10-year-old boy in 1973), and my sister found a vintage dress deemed "awesome" by the trendy checkout girl. How proud I was! Then it was down the road--in the Jeep this time, natch--to where the beautiful people are. Good little liberal arts student that she is, my sister's first reaction upon entering Fred Segal was to note, "This place is so post-modern." Before she could explain this statement for me--I have become certifiably retarded post-college--a force of heretofore unknown strength pulled me into the corner. There, gleaming like an angel sent from Above, was my holy (or hole-y, as it were) grail. The. perfect. jeans. Ever since Perplexa's thrift store Levi's became too scandalous to wear, I've been on a mission to find some faded, paint-splattered, tight ass, buttcrack-covering jeans of my own. I am now the proud owner of a replica of the 1970 Levi's 684 Big Bells, with strategically placed holes and stains and a pricetag about 40 times that of Perplexa's. Sis proclaimed these post-modern as well. And I fucking love them. We declared the day a success and returned to campus. The boyfriend-in-law joined us for a trip to Pitzer, the neighboring crunchy hippie school, where we stumbled upon a Pretty Girls Make Graves concert. If only Columbia's concert planners could be so indie... Then I took the kiddies to dinner in The Village (not anything like my The Village, as it's basically a retirement community.) After dinner, our cute-ish waiter overheard our conversation about shots, and offered us a free round of some damn good whiskey. My sister took it like a champ, and, once again, made me beam with pride.

After another 10 or 11 hours of sleep and a consultation with the internet weather gods, we determined Saturday was park day. Sis and I drove the Jeep out to the ocean and up the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu. As it was too cold for the beach, we headed straight to the Palisades for a picnic of avocado and white cheddar on a baguette and tangerines and strawberries. We worked off the yummy fat bomb with a relatively easy hike that my measly schedule of two spinning classes a week failed to prepare me for. The ride home took us through Brentwood (OJ!) and the v. v. gated Belaire. During the many hours spent driving over the course of the trip, I learned I have a minor obsession with really old light blue cars. I want one, preferably parked in the driveway of my house in the Hollywood Hills. (Someone remind me not to quit my job.) Back at school, my sister had to go to a play for her theatre class. Pomona really hearts queers and really really hates hate, so it was not surprising that they were showing Bent, a play about the treatment of gays during the Holocaust. The actors weren't amazing, but they certainly surpassed the William Hungish kid who had to read the orgasm scene in my college creative writing class. Then I packed, said goodbye to my sis and her friends I've come to know, and drove off into the night feeling all profound listening to Modest Mouse's Moon and Antarctica, as it was just made for driving on a dark highway by yourself.

After one miserable flight and one pleasant one, on Sunday morning I was welcomed home by a panoramic view of the city from the plane, a delicious three hour nap, and an even more delicious dinner of homemade bacon-wrapped lamb and blueberry cheesecake, courtesy of two old (not old old, Z) friends. While the weather still sucks, and boys still suck, my existence here is suddenly both fresh and comforting again.