26
Feb
08

Sheep thievery? Yes this is what we’ve come to.

Friday night I had a random walkabout w/some folks in my neighborhood, played piano duets and made out with a random guy. Saturday I met up with dear friends and tried–unsuccessfully–to steal a sheep. The sheep-thieving was way more entertaining.

Probably because the sheep was not alive, per se, nor had it ever been. It was, in fact, a miniature reproduction possessed of surprising authenticity and charm. Its wool was woolly, its legs were stocky, its eyelids were heavy in a way that suggested it was thinking deep thoughts and was perhaps a little world-weary.

 It was one of a family (a herd? a pod?) of many fake sheep that hung out in the lobby bar of the new Custom Hotel in Westchester, which may be the most surreal property I’ve ever seen. Think Berlin decor, random West LA clientele (not Venice, nor yet Santa Monica, and certainly not Hollywood) mixed with business dudes on layover and the occasional suspected “working girl.” Then add in a pretty bomb-ass DJ and a few live puppies, wandering amidst the sheep. There. Now you’re getting me. This place was weird. But you know, I like weird places much more than normal ones, so I had a good time.

The entirety of our time in the bar was spent in huddle mode, trying to figure out how we could sneak out one of the fake sheep. We had become strangely enamored of it, and even took turns throwing our coats over it, tucking it underarmed like a large football (with legs), and doing dry runs around the bar. We even tried to stuff it inside Jenna’s oversize handbag. Sadly, it was not oversized enough. And there were security guards and cameras EVERYwhere. So we left the sheep behind, with promises to return.

“That sheep will haunt your dreams,” I told Alex, a scrappy young Jewish man who had even, for a moment, been ready to to use his wife’s bosom as a diversion while he sprinted out the door. (His wife, mind you, was at the bar at the time… the idea died on the vine once she returned.)

 Anyway. Fake sheep = fun. Random neighbors = not. Two of ’em saw me eating alone in a sushi bar…which is not too unusual on weeks when I’ve worked 80+ hours and gone out almost every night. They immediately took misguided pity on me and insisted that I come out drinking. So I did, to the lamest bar, where I met the lamest guy, proceeded to go back to the lamest house party, made out with him at some point just because I was bored, and then took a taxi back home vowing never to hang out with strangers again.

“I don’t like smart women. Actually, I don’t believe they exist,” he told me, mid-snog.

“Hmmm…” I said. “That’s…repulsive.”

“I was just kidding,” he said, looking wounded. “Don’t you know it’s a joke?”

Don’t you know I will never speak to you again? I wondered as we wandered back inside.

Apparently he didn’t know, for he texted me and asked me for a date the very next day.

Silly Neanderthal. When a woolly, football-shaped piece of wood with legs has more charm than you…well, that’s when you know you have a problem. Sadly, there is nothing I can see that you will ever be able to do about it.

Stay tuned for pics from the Custom Hotel.


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