We're pathologically social. We're professional leisurists. We're burrito lovers, bar flies, art whores and music nerds. We dish the good dirt, and we'll risk a parking ticket for a cheap sample sale. Sometimes, we blog drunk.
The Ward looks ahead:
So, I woke up at 5:06 am. Bafflingly alert, I then went for a 6 mile run, and cut my bangs. Predictably, I am now coming down like a tranquilized racehorse.
I just ran into an LA Times comrade in the cafeteria, and he asked which 2.7 events I was attending tonight. Without thinking, I rattled off the Hammer Bash closing party, maybe a stop into the Scene for the "Now Blog This!" show with the Deadly Syndrome:
But because I would fail a field sobriety check from pure fatigue, I hereby declare my intentions to loaf around in track pants. You heard me. I'm staying in, saving my soul for a wicked weekend of:
Young drunkards, indie rock and Bob Odenkirk: together at last
Chicks in mini skirts killing each other,
half-naked pool parties, and maybe even
a little bit of peyote dance mania at the Ford.
For now: MacSleeperstein von Wardenhoffer
By tomorrow: Hyperpants o'Wardenstein
Just say no to 6 mile runs at dawn,
The Ward
Miss Alie Ward
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