Well, well well. I ALMOST flaked out on my commitment to myself to blog more frequently.

Yes, you might point out (rightly) that it has indeed been nine days since my last blog, but let’s kindly compare to the length of time prior to my return from hiatus, which was roughly two and a half months. So, I’m thinking this is a little better.

I spent most of last week and weekend in LA again, where I visited with my very best good LA friend Kristen. We cabbed to Hermosa Beach and hung out at Fat Flapjack Flipper something-or-other, where we tipped a good three dollars per cocktail, which (shockingly) got stronger as the night progressed, and we proceeded to get roaringly drunked. I have pics, but I promised not to share the one of Kristen that is slightly, well, risque.

So we cabbed our way back, and whaddaya know, we get in the cab and there’s two TVs set into the backs of the car seats…with karaoke on the screens! KARAOKE! We asked the cabbie, and whaddaya know further, he whips out two microphones and handed them right over! We spent the entire 20 minute cab drive back to the hotel singing songs I’ve never really heard before at the top of our lungs. Kristen’s first karaoke adventure, and it was in the back of a cab. Remarkable.

Prior to that, however, you may have read already that PVDD managed to fracture his wrist. I will spare you the gory details, which he does delve into in spectacular PVDD fashion, in his blog on the subject. So read and enjoy.

Meanwhile, of course, what’s a girl to do but have a Sex and the City marathon? I mean, truly. So today I have seen gay men kisses, bisexual women kisses, and more breasts and coochies than you can shake a dick at. Season three is practically a porno, every single episode. Right now, Samantha is having sex with a guy who takes Viagra. Not that he needs it, he’s apparently a recreational user, but in his words, it makes him send his rocket straight through her solar system. Which I guess is the pickup line of the century, really.

Of course, that’s nothing compared to this:

However it IS a lovely example of the fabulously accoutred patrons of my favorite neighborhood bar (that you can smoke in and get attacked by four-hundred-pound women, did I mention that?). Meet Jerry’s Viagra jacket. I wonder if he sends rockets into solar systems too.

Of course, even Jerry pales in comparison to the unnamed but fabulously conceited guy at another bar I went to on Sunday, whose shirt read, and I am not even kidding, “God was showing off when he created ME.” Interestingly enough, he had the attitude to match. That, I found a bit much. Give me a little Jerry and his jacket any day.

Uh oh, gots to go, Charlotte just met Trey. What an exciting life I do lead.