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.
Ward on the Street: Trapped in the water closet
"Dude, you get locked in bathrooms a lot."
I can't argue with this statement. My comrade Gemini—and hard statistics—don't lie. Months ago, I texted Gemini from inside the grimy confines of the pay toilet at an Echo Park fish shack, requesting that he come to my rescue with a quarter after the inside door handle jammed. Though I tried not to panic, I couldn't help but envision dying alone in there.
This weekend, Metromix hosted a pool party at the W in Westwood, and it was everything an L.A. pool party should be: DJs, girls in bikinis, mojitos on a Sunday, and the occasional red-faced bro who forgot sunblock (below).
A routine lipstick reapplication was going well until I turned to leave, and found the bathroom lock swaying flaccidly from the door jam. Left, right—neither direction afforded freedom. A guy on the other side of the door earnestly offered "Have you tried turning the handle?"
Turning the handle. There's an idea. If this were my first time ever inside a bathroom, or using a door for that matter, his advice would have been golden. But I am pounding because that cause-effect relationship is failing me.
So I called our MMX photog Shane, bearing the news that I would have to be rescued from a public toilet. He squawked incredulously: "Locked in the bathroom?!?" and faintly, in the background, I heard someone say: "Again?"
Moral: drink less water. And always carry your phone.
Miss Alie Ward
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