Paris Hilton is Not a Rolemodel

We're in a mexican bar/restaurant, enjoying margaritas on Cinco de Mayo. The bar, usually a pretty laid back hipster kind-of place, has a special promotion going on, wherein a bathing suit company is doing a promotion involving two dozen very young girls walking around in bikinis. Not inherently a terrible thing, mind you, just a little offsetting for a restaurant. More disturbingly, the average weight of each girl is about 75 pounds.

One, who looks identical to Paris Hilton(blonde hair, big sunglasses, runny nose), approaches Melissa and I to chat us up and hand out bikini propaganda. Melissa is suppressing laughter and the urge to offer to split her tacos with the emaciated tweener.

Somehow during this stimulating conversation we mention we're from LA, and her eyes light up like dull christmas lights. She looks at us like we're the key to her future movie, modeling, nightclubbing, tabloid career. I look at her and get depressed, envisioning her returning to St. Louis in 5 years with a drug habit, after being spit out the bottom of the porn industry.

She likes Melissa's shirt, a festive Mexican number. Paris-lite asks her where she got such a cool Mexican shirt, wherein Melissa sarcastically replies, "Spain."

"Like UHMYGOD," she says, "My family is like...TOTALLY FROM HUNGARIA!"

Funny on so many levels.

These. Girls. Rock.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Ew-3IO5axo&search=chinese%20boys

Only in Los Angeles

sunset, originally uploaded by jasonmlott.

Went to LA last weekend.

After the Laker game, I am seated in the Hotel bar enjoying a nightcap and talking to the interesting cast of characters assembled.

To my left is a woman who never learned "rock-scissors-paper" because she believed it to be gambling, and therefore immoral. I taught her the rules and swept her in a best of seven series, winning a drink.

To my right are a professional of the oldest profession and her handler. Two VERY drunk men enter the bar, have a short discussion with the pimp, and take their places on either side of the woman. In a disturbing/disgusting twist, the Johns rotate between talking to her and me. I feel dirty simply being in their presence.

The symbolism involved in having an over-the-top bible banger on one shoulder and the hooker-loving drunks on the other is not lost on me. I am very careful not to mix up the individual conversations to either side, which I somehow manage to carry on simultaneously.

Tired from the fight for my soul between good and evil, I quickly leave. In front of me waiting for the elevator is a young woman with batons of some kind in her hand. Curious...and obviously not having learned any lessons that evening...I ask about what the heck they were.

They were flags, reported the girl, which she used to wave at God our Lord Savior. Asked whether she thought God liked it, she assured me that she was a shoe-in at the pearly gates. I wish her good luck, tell her there is a bar seat open downstairs, and go to bed.

Apparently angels haven't fully given up on Los Angeles, they're around... just a lot friggin' stranger than the stories would have us believe.