We arrived in Santa Monica yesterday after two plane trips and two confiscated lighters.

I ever tell you how much I hate flying? Anyway, everything leading up to actually getting settled in was a nightmare as usual. Missing rental car, no parking at the hotel, a room the size of a matchbox with no air conditioning. The hotel in and of itself was quite an ordeal. There's no front desk, in fact there's no employees here save for one crazy chick who cleans rooms. The front door was locked and you had to call a number on the door for them to give you a code and let you in. Once inside we found our accomodations less then described to say the least. After complaining to the batshit crazy teenager who flits around the premesis, she got on the horn with the man behind the curtain and we got a slight upgrade. Whatever, I'm content with it now i suppose.

Cali people are not all that much different from French Quarter people, I suppose, and there doesn't seem to be as big a stigma attached to smoking as I've always thought. You have you same share of hipsters, hippies, and minorities (although of a different ethnicity). There are of course the people who walk down the street dressed like they're doing a spread for GQ, which in New Orleans would produce heckles like, "hey douche bag, do you think you're in L.A. or something?" But then you realize you pretty much are in L.A., so I'm not sure what to think about that.

In that shot from our hotel room up there you can just make out a Roller Coaster in the distance. That is apparently the peir/amusement park from The Lost Boys (which I think is technically in Venice, but I'm not sure). I'll go down there later tonight to see if I can get into a bitchin' dirtbike race on the beach with some twenty-something vampires.

The weather here is pretty kick ass. The sun is out full force and it's only like 70-75 degrees. If the sun were out like this during this time of the year in New Orleans, it would be 110. No wonder people in southern California are so health conscious; because they can be. You could go running around for two hours and not die from the demon sun trying to cook your organs.

One more thing, apparently getting stung on the fucking face by a bee is quite common in Santa Monica, because I was only here for 2 hours and I got stung on the fucking face by a bee.

Well, that's it for now, I guess I'll pop on from time to time to update everyone on how totally awesome we're doing.

Last night, Miss Loopie's fellow employees decided that there needed to be a work excursion type thing, so I got to go to the Hookah Cafe.

It's a pretty cool place. Nice "garden of a thousand delights" type decor. Pillows and low tables and vaguely middle-eastern flavored ambient stuff playing, kind of Indian fusion cuisine, la-di-da.

Anyway, we were the first people in the party to get there, so we're kind of looking around, taking the place in when the hostess comes up to us and gives us menus and then floors me.

She takes great pains to explain that they only have import beers at the bar. That means no domestics. Then she starts murmuring while looking at the menu and then explains to us which beer is going to be closest to a Budweiser.

HOLY SHIT. I mean, by no means do I consider myself the embodiment of hipness and glamour and all that, but damn. It's not like I had on khaki shorts and a polo shirt and fucking beads around my neck. I guess I'm starting to look my age or something. No. I've got it. It was that sign on my back that said: Kick me- I live in the suburbs.

Besides that unsettling instance, I had a good time and certainly wouldn't stay away from the place. It's a little pricey for just a night of drinking, but for an occasion, I'd say it's worth it.

***UPDATE***

It's going to be at my brother's friend John's house. To get directions, go to http://www.glitch13.com/#######.php where the seven #'s are my phone number without area code or hyphen.

***END UPDATE***

Come one, come all to the Bacchanalian extravaganza that will be known as "Brent's Bachelor Party".

I already am going to be uncomfortable as it is, what with me being the center of attention and all, I'm going to need friends to be there or it's just going to be me and my brother's drunken derelict friends. And strippers.

Don't get all meek on me now, I've been astonished by the lack of experience amongst my friends as far as these events go, and I've already had a few friends drop out because they're scared to live a little. Calm down, the strippers aren't going to grab your bird or call you out. 99% percent of the focus is usually on embarrassing the groom. These things are fairly common, there's nothing to be afraid of.

Anywho, it's this Friday (the 11th) and the more the merrier. Get in touch with me, don't puss out, I'm only getting married once.