The Weekend of Ward

My weekend started with a bang, then a wilt, then a bang, then a stall. Then I dug through garbage.

Friday, I bolted out of work for the 8 o'clock show of Modelogues, a new play at the Complex. After two intermissionless hours of model-related sketches, my comrade and I emerged glassy-eyed and unable to speak. I'm sure they had the best of intentions, but homophobia and whining about rejection can only go so far. And by so far, I mean, less than two full hours without an intermission. A high point, however, was the cabaret sequence about insecurity. Grandma always said: you can never go wrong with fishnets and choreography... or can you?

Saturday:

I grabbed a bag of cheddar Ruffles and hightailed it downtown with a few girly comrades for the Angel City Drive-In—(yep, it was called the "Million Dollar Drive in" a few weeks ago, but they just changed the name).

We picnic-ed the beejesus out of "Pee Wee's Big Adventure," split a bottle of wine and whooped it up at the good parts ("Let's talk about your big butt, Simone...") Folks dressed as P.W. got in at a discount, and we sycophantically stalked them and took pictures.

Then I lost my keys and a homeless man attacked me with a shopping cart.

After needlessly searching through a trash bin downtown and dodging cockroaches like a jog through a minefield, I finally reunited with my lost keys in the bathroom of the parking garage. Way to go, Ward. So...

Newly energized from the key victory and running on homeless-man-attack adrenaline, we hit a soiree in the courtyard of some lofts on Beverly, caught a howling set by Wake Up Incinerate (below) and considered getting a taco from the truck hired just for the party. Yes, I'm proud to report that we kicked Saturday's arse. 

Last words of wisdom:

Carry hand santizer. If you need to dig through trash, you'll be protected. And if the keg runs out, you can probably huff it.  

Over/out,