The Boulevard Pool is amazing by day, but at night it becomes this incredible concert venue.  I can’t wait to attend a show there again. It was intimate and yet incredibly open. It wasn’t totally packed and we sat with our feet in the pool overlooking the lights of the Bellagio, Paris, Planet Hollywood and more on the Strip below. We weren’t more than 60 feet from the stage, if that, and could have easily walked right up to it, but we’re old folks who were perfectly happy with our feet in the pool.  It also helped that the massive LED screen that overlooks the Strip was also visible to us. So the action on stage was projected up there, too.  The overall experience was fabulous.

Once the opening act ended, my toes were getting pruney, so we moved up to a cushioned lounge-couch thing and I spent the rest of the show lying down, looking at the stars, the screen, the stage… and sipping a staggeringly overpriced vodka tonic. (That’s my ONLY gripe — 2 well drinks in a plastic tumbler were $22!  I could have gone inside to the Chandelier and gotten a fancypants cocktail in a proper glass for the same price.)  High dollar drinks aside, I had such an amazing time. I was out until almost 1am, people. That’s saying something.

We met a couple on the lounger next to us who seemed… tense.  Apparently, they were staying at the Cosmo for the weekend and while they snuggled on the  couch, I could sense a weirdness in the air.  When the guy got up to go to the bar, the girl turned to us suddenly and said, “Are you two married?” (This was maybe the 3rd thing she said to us after “hi” and “are you staying here?”)  I thought that was kind of weird. I’d probably never ask a couple that, even if we’d been talking for a while.  It just seems like 1) none of my business and 2) potentially opening a can of worms. Just look for a ring or whatever if you’re that curious.

Anyway, since I am not wearing one and we are definitely not married, I said matter-of-factly, “Us? No.”

She said “How long have you been together?”

We replied with something like,  ”On and off for about 8 years.”  And she goes, “Woooooooow,” like we just survived a horrific accident or a brain tumor or something.

After she let that sink in for a second, she pleaded, “We’ve been together FOUR years. Please don’t tell him how long you’ve been together. ” (Like we would? Why would that even come up?) “We have to stick together, girl.”

Record scratch.

We do? Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot. You have a vagina and I have a vagina and therefore, we must help each other dupe our men into marrying us. My bad! I totally forgot that was on page 124 of the Girl Codebook.

I’m guessing they were probably there for a romantic weekend and she thought he might take the opportunity to propose.  He looked bored to tears, though, and there was little to no romance brewing from what I could see. They didn’t even look like they were enjoying the music, but I didn’t let their non-marital drama ruin my good time.

Ben Folds played for 2 full hours. I was pretty impressed, you’re lucky these days when you shell out for a concert if the act will even be a full hour, so I totally got my money’s worth.  He put on a great show — lots of improv and flipping off the people on the Strip on the big screen.  Impromptu made-up songs about douchebags and a story about how he went to the Gap across the street with his wife and now we all know her pants size.

I really respect his variety of instruments, too. There was a xylophone, a French horn, varying sorts of drums… and of course, the piano. Anyone who can rock on a piano sends my underthings ablaze.

Anyway, so that was a fabulous time. I don’t see live performances and concerts much because I sort of hate a lot of the current music, but this was so worth it. I can’t wait to see him live again.

Plus, I just love having a reason to go to The Cosmopolitan.  I returned on Saturday night for my friend Kira’s birthday and finally enjoyed a fancypants cocktail in a proper glass.

Okay, I enjoyed three.

Anyway, last week someone was at our table. We don’t officially reserve it, it’s just kinda of understood that’s “our” table. You can’t sit there unless you’re ordering food, so the usual happy hour crowd usually mills around it. And Marisol and the host always kind of keep an eye out, knowing we would be in.  But there was a new hostess and Marisol was busy, so someone was seated there.  Whatever. It was a bummer, but we rolled with it and sat in another area, where we could observe the patio action, if not actually in it.

There were three women at “our” table, all dressed in that special way that says, “This is my first time in the States.”  One, who I’ll call Helga, was wearing a Body Glove wetsuit-style t-shirt circa 1990 with a mini skirt and Teva sandals. The other, who I’ll call Gunda, wore a black hoodie covered in hot pink metallic lip prints. (The third I couldn’t see because she was in my usual seat, behind a pillar/bush.)

This was amusing in itself, but then it got more interesting. A fourth woman joined them, this one wearing a neck to floor prairie-style dress (in 80 degree weather) with a frumpy shawl. It didn’t look like religious wear, it just looked… frau-ish. They were drinking big pitchers of Stella Artois (as told to me by Marisol) and complained about the price — saying they’re only 3 euros in Germany and why are they so expensive here?  Ladies, 3 euros in American dollars is like $4.  That’s just not happening here — not for steins the size of your thigh — come on!

Then they pulled out a few paperbacks and proceeded to have a book club meeting — in the middle of a loud, hoppin’, gay patio happy hour.  That’s fine, I guess — unorthodox, but then so is that hoodie.

I’m not sure why the next thing happened and I don’t entirely understand HOW I missed the opportunity to take a photo of it, but Gunda reached into her bag and pulled out a huge 32 oz tub of yogurt and set it on the table.  Then she rummaged around again and brought out a mammoth, chef-style, Julia Child, no-fucking-around block of butter. Big. Huge. Enormous butter.  She set it on top of her yogurt and they continued talking.

What book were these women reading?  Who brings their own dairy to a bar? Vegans, maybe, but this wasn’t even vegan dairy. This was dairy dairy. Lactose dairy. Full-fat dairy. This dairy was probably milked by Helga in her Tevas. How did I not get a picture of the B.Y.O. Yogurt?!

But I did get a picture of this guy, who the week prior chased me down in the adjacent alley asking me for mints (I tossed some Tic Tacs at him and clutched my purse like an old lady).  This time he spotted me in the open door of Mo’s and proceeded to do a little dance for me to the super diva house music that’s always coming from there.  I was blessed with not only the Cabbage Patch and the Running Man, but his own “humpty dance” rendition, some air smooches and a little tongue wagging.  My heart be still.

This is what a night out with me is like, people. Any takers?

(Please forgive my crappy German. You can thank Babelfish for that.)

My funny friend, Allison, asked her friend, who actually speaks German, and this is what he said:

ihren eigenen?! thats grammatically incorrect
If you said ” Bring deinen eigenen Jogurt mit” that would mean you’re asking people to bring yogurt that they’ve physically made themselves.
It doesnt make sense. It also sounds weird and rude. The people would be like “what?!? I have to make my own yogurt??!?”
“Bring Jogurt mit” works the best in this context.

And now, kind readers, you know how to rudely and non-rudely tell people to B.Y.O.Y.

I also made some absolutely delicious savory muffins… both got rave reviews, so I thought I’d share the recipes I found/modified. I realized after the fact that both of these recipes were chock  full o’ onions of one variety or another… I should have included post-muffin mints.

Heart Attack Hashbrown Casserole

• 1 – 32 oz.  bag of diced hashbrown potatoes (not shredded, Ore-Ida will do)
• 2 cups of grated fiesta-blend cheese
• 1 cup of diced white onions
• 1 – 16 oz. tub of sour cream
• 1 can of condensed cream of mushroom soup (no water)
• 1 stick of butter (salted or unsalted, whatever you’ve got), melted and cooled
• 6-8 slices of crispy center-cut bacon, crumbled or chopped into small pieces
• 1 bunch of fresh chives, chopped finely
• fresh cracked pepper to taste

This is the big one, Elizabeth!

Preheat your oven to 375 degrees.

Get a big bowl — like big, bigger than you think you need big.   Big like you’re going to feed popcorn to a room full of ravenous ‘tweens — that big.  Throw in all the ingredients, get a big wooden spoon and fold it all together.  Takes only a few minutes.

Spread it all into a 9×13 ungreased Pyrex dish or rectangular casserole pan.  Bake for an hour until the top is all bubbly crunchy crusty on the edges.

Let it sit for a few minutes before serving unless you want your guests to consume the potato equivalent of the sun’s surface.

Serves: 4-6 hungry people, 8-10 peckish folks
Calories: 1 miiiiiiiiiiiillion grams of everything.
Source: Modified slightly from an original recipe found on The Wooden Spoon

I also made some muffins that were a HUGE hit… in fact, I might need to make them again today because they were easy, as well as delicious:

Herbed Scallion Goat Cheese Muffins

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 tbsp baking powder
• 1/2 tsp salt
• Coarsely ground black pepper, to taste (I like kind of a lot, but that’s me)
• 2 large eggs, room temp
• 1 cup buttermilk, room temp
• 6 Tbsp unsalted butter, melted and cooled
• 1 bunch scallions, sliced thin
• 5.5 oz goat cheese, crumbled (I chose to use the herbed variety)
• Sea salt, for garnish

Nom nom nom.

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees and bust out your 12-cup muffin man… or pan, whatever. The typo amused me to much to change it.

You can either grease the cups or use the little paper liners, but in my experience, if you use the paper liners, give each one a quick schpritz with some non-stick cooking spray in the very bottom anyway.  Otherwise, the cheese sticks a bit to the paper and you have guests scraping their teeth along the paper liners.

If you have a sifter, sift the dry ingredients:  flour, baking powder, salt, and pepper into mixer bowl. If you don’t have a sifter, you can use one of those little net-strainers or you can just make sure you mix up the dry ingredients really well.  I don’t have a sifter and mine came out just fine.

Lightly beat the eggs, then pour them into the dry ingredients. Add buttermilk, melted butter, scallions, and goat cheese. If you have a hand-mixer, mix on medium for a few minutes until all combined. I was too lazy to dig mine out so I just mixed by hand and it took no time at all.

Scoop the batter into the muffin tins.  The consistency is kind of sticky, more like a biscuit that your usual sweet muffin, but it comes out muffin-y.  Sprinkle the tops with a little sea salt, but be mindful to not make it too salty.

Bake for 20 minutes until the tops are golden brown and they feel firm n’ bouncy when you press on the tops.

They cool rather quickly, so if you want to serve them warm, leave them in the pan for 5 minutes, then pull them out and serve.   Otherwise, let them cool completely on a rack and store in a sealed container or whatever for up to 3 days.  But my guess is they won’t be around that long.

Serves: Makes a dozen muffins
Calories: Seriously, who cares?
Source: Confessions of a Foodie Bride

So, we get there and it’s closed. But not “hey, we’re closed for a private party” or “due to the economy, we’re now closed on Sundays”. Just… closed. The “dark, silent, not answering the phone” kind of closed. Very odd.  We decided to go to another place down the street in Little Italy called The Glass Door, which was at the top of the Porto Villa hotel.  Lovely little place, but still pretty new. Great view of the bay and sunset, but the martini glasses were those kind without the stem — just this big clunky chunky glass. It kind of takes away from the martini-drinking experience if you ask me, but the martini itself did that in spades. It was way too ‘dirty’ and mine had large bits of olive floating in it. I declared, “Mine’s got flotsam!” I don’t know if Richard was so lucky to get chunks in his drink. Daniel smartly ordered an appletini which was apparently good.

We decided to go over to Bing Crosby’s where the blue-hairs were hoppin’ last night!  It was wall-to-wall Geritol, but they were having so much fun it was more like American Bandstand. There was a guy playing Nat King Cole on the piano and singing when we came in. But then he kicked on a backup track and played along to My Heart Will Go On with a soprano sax. I swear, I thought my ear drums were going to burst from my ears. It was like a Kenny G singalong.

The man was talented, don’t get me wrong, but there was something really cruise-shippy about his whole schtick. After that he busted out an alto sax and played along to At Last. And then it was Robert Plant and the Honeydrippers version of Sea of Love.  Lots of Billy Joel and then came the Creedence Clearwater Revival.    Seriously?

The place is called Bing Crosby’s, for pete’s sake. I don’t deny the man had chutzpah and clearly was a gifted musician, but it felt more like one of those dueling pianos places instead of a fine dining lounge.  But the crowd was salivating over him. Some old guy got up and rained dollars on the performer’s head at one point.  He was hocking his CD on top of the piano… it was just… surreal.

Of course, that didn’t stop us from joining in on the rousing chorus of “Sweet Caroline”.  We’re no fools.

A woman on the prowl sauntered up to our table at one point and asked, “Do you smoke?”  We all responded that no, we don’t.  She looked incredulous, “NONE of you smoke?”  When we shook our heads, she said, “Well, that’s uh… very good.” and walked away. She trolled every table, it seemed like. Then later, another older cougar-y type in a big fur coat stopped by our table to tell us to “have fun, kids”.   I’m telling you, the people-watching was ripe last night.

When we ordered our drinks, our server — a very perky, perky, perky woman I’ll call “Sunny” — informed us she was not only out of Grey Goose, but Kettle One, too.  Very strange, considering the lounge is known for it’s martinis. But whatever, we got Belvedere and moved on with our lives.  Then they ran out of blue cheese olives.  Now, I realize this may be one of the most pretentious statement on earth, but you can’t offer blue cheese olives and then run out. Every single time I’ve been in there, I get one drink with blue cheese olives and then they tell me they’ve run out.  You’d think if they always ran out, they’d plan accordingly.

I realize people are starving and there are holes in the ozone and gas prices are creeping up and it’s been like, a whole month since Lindsey Lohan did anything gossip-worthy, but if you’re going to offer fancy olives, don’t jerk a girl around.

This weekend was some of the best fun I’ve had in a long time. And the most stuff I’ve done in a long time, too. We had very full and busy days the entire time she was here. From the moment her plane touched down, it was lunch at the Prado, Grey Goose and a piano bar at Martinis Above Fourth, karaoke at the Lamplighter, TMI about a stranger’s areola, some eggs benedict, a harbor ferry, an almost-purchased Dr. Seuss painting, a bunch of maritime crap, a whole bunch of laughing, a lot of “Yay!!”-ing and clinking of glasses, a dash of Eurotrash, some twigs and berries, one hangover pizza and a handful of girl movies.  Oh, and excessive quoting of the movie “Knocked Up”.

I think the best part of Kathy being here was spending time with her (of course!) and many of our friends. Our cocktail party at Lei Lounge was faaaabulous and I think a more-than-good time was had by all. Much, much more. I’m not naming names or anything, but the offending drink was pink.

I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. I really, really needed that. Thank you to everyone who was able to make it — it meant a lot to have you there.

Naptime is imminent, but I will close with a little gem that Daniel and Richard shared with us. We can’t stop quoting this either.  If you’re sensibilities are delicate, you’ve been duly warned.  Don’t bother trying to make sense of it, just enjoy.

I’m a pirate.

mikey, GFI and I got there before it opened and spent the majority of the time sifting through the assorted crap vendors in Bing Crosby Hall and the like. We stopped for cupcakes at a super cute booth that was decorated in pink and black and white with lime green accents and curly font. It looked like a website I did for a client once… only life-size.  A little surreal, but the cupcakes were good!  Three mini cupcakes in red velvet with cream cheese icing, chocolate on chocolate and vanilla cake with chocolate icing for $5.  It worked out perfectly; we each got a bite of every flavor. 

We got our handwriting analyzed because we had a sudden urge to piss away $3. The Fair does that. It’s like a state of fugue or something. One minute, you’re perfectly rational, bypassing the loud guy selling chamois, the mood-lipstick mistress, the uber-butch hocking cheese graters and then, without warning, “Let’s get our handwriting analyzed! It’s only $3!” And the next thing you know, you’ve corrupted your whole party.

Our priority stop was GFI’s temporary goal in life:  deep fried macaroni and cheese on a stick.  I was a little skeptical at first, but I definitely had to try it.  I kept saying, “It sounds good in theory…” but no, it was pretty good.  A little bland, as far as a mac n’ cheese goes, but overall pretty much like you’d suspect — a ball of breaded and fried mac n’ cheese.  I made a beeline for the grilled corn on the cob guy and then we all hit the beer garden for an adult beverage.  Sure, it was 10am, but who was keeping track really…?

My Fair highlight was the talent from Doggies of the Wild West.  We didn’t actually catch the show, but we ran into Gary Noel and his wagon o’ western cuteness at the entrance.  I was totally insane for his dogs, snapping photos like crazy.  All rescues, he had a bunch of chihuahuas, a couple mutts, a beagle mix, and an adorable Boston Terrier I got to hold and love on.  He also let me take photos while his dogs did tricks like one-pawed handstands!  Yes, I was impressed. 

We wrapped up the Fair with frozen confections, mikey with his chocolate dipped soft serve while GFI and I shared a frozen banana. I can’t go to the Fair and not have a frozen banana. It’s like sacrilege. But seriously, where do they grow these bananas? They’re enormous, giant, mammoth, Holmes-esque bananas!  Seriously, they must be imported, equatorial bananas.  Or like super genetically-altered bananas engineered by carnies.  Between the two of us, we could only finish half… and the nuts kept falling down my top.

Anyway, we did the crap vendors, the livestock, the gastrocities and we were in and out in about three and a half hours.  Now that’s efficient fun right there!  I’ll have more photos up over the next few days. I only took 484 (with an inordinate amount of chicken shots, I might add) so that shouldn’t take any time at all to sift through. 

In the evening, I took some shots of the fireworks off my front porch and upstairs on the terrace.  I didn’t use a tripod, so out of about 128 shots only a few were clear, but I like how they came out.  It’s my last hurrah with my Nikon D80, as the Picture This project has ended and I’ve decided not to purchase it.  It’s a great camera, but it’s more cumbersome and a bit more camera than I really need.  I’ll be looking at smaller Nikons or maybe a Canon.  I’m not sure, but it was really great to participate in the program. I learned a lot about my own eye for photography.

This month is super busy while I prepare for Kathy’s visit in August and some time off that has been postponed until September.  I may slack a bit, but I know you’ll forgive me because we’re cool like that.  I do have a redesign of the blog coming soon, though.  Finally. 

I hope everyone had a great holiday!

So far, I’ve gone to a Cuban restaurant and had the most delicious rum punch I’ve EVER had (red wine, silver rum, spiced rum, pineapple juice, splash of pina colada mix on the rock — mmmmmm!) It was vacation in a glass.  I’ve also been to Target, watched Pride and Prejudice (GFI will be happy to hear that, you know how I feel about corsety period romances), loved on a big fat cat, and the biggest golden retriever I’ve ever seen named Freethrow.

Last night, we went to this “club” called Sting.  I couldn’t possibly express how LAME this place was.  It was one of those club complexes where they’ve got a main dance club, a billiards rooms, a lounge, a restaurant and supposedly… a karaoke bar.  That place was bizarre.  The bus girls kept trying to take our vodka-tonics and they brought us the wrong order of appetizers and never gave us silverware or napkins. And the drinks!  Judas priest!  Heika ordered a vodka-red bull and it was $9.50. NINE FIFTY.  What the hell?  Turns out the one night they didn’t have karaoke, even though it was scheduled on the calendar, was last night.  Hmph!  I didn’t want to sing for you fools anyway.

We left and this friend of Nikki’s, Monk, directed us (us being Nikki, Heika (you may remember her as Macgeezel), Nikki’s friends K. and Monk) to a dive bar in a seedy area. From the outside, we were like, “hmmmm… I don’t know about this.” but once we opened the door, I knew this was MY kind of place.  It was a dive, full of happy, smiling, karaoke-fun havin’ folks.  It was a really good time.  The book didn’t have a lot of the songs I sing, but I found some stuff. I sang… um… “Last Dance” by Donna Summer (the place went NUTS!), “Since I Fell for You” by Lenny Welch, “Someone to Watch Over Me” (which ended up sucking because it was SO high) and then the karaoke host chose a song for me. Ready?  Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles”. I know. I was surprised, too.  It actually wasn’t bad, but during the bridge, I stepped on the mic cord and pulled it right out of the base of the mic.  Rock n’ roll, baby!  heh.

We left at last call, but Nikki convinced the karaoke guy to have me sing “Crazy” by Patsy Cline because she loves that song so much.  I don’t love singing that song, but only because at karaoke someone usually has already put it up or it’s just beaten to death.  But she really loves it and I do like the song itself, so I did.  I got off easy, actually, she wanted me to sing “The Rose”.  hehe!  (When we lived together, she’d make me sing that song to her as we went to bed when we’d come home from a night out..  She loves it!  I personally find it the most depressing song, but who am I do dampen her happiness?)

That bar was great, though. What a crowd!  Everything from khaki-wearing frat boys to overdressed chicks (that would be us) to your typical seedy-dive bar types to the dudes from Medieval Times. I’m totally serious.  The jouster guys were there… though not in full regalia. That would have been too beautiful to express.

Today, we’re enjoying some hair of the dog (or Nikki is, anyway… silly vodka!) down at JR’s in the gayborhood. It’s my favorite place in this town and I’m so excited to see my fave bartender Stephen.  It’ll be the same folks from last night and hopefully anyone else I know in Dallas who happens to read this.  (Raven, I sent you a text, did you get it?)

There will be hardly any photos from this trip because I forgot not only my laptop cord, but my phone charger AND my camera.  I am so full of awesome!

Ok, I better go get in the shower and prepare for more Texas.  Yee haw, y’all.

Lushy and her mom are in town, so we all went to The Prado on Saturday for lunch with GFI and Modigli.  That is probably in my top 3 places to eat in San Diego. The architecture, the gorgeous park… the giant vats of sangria… what more could you ask for?  Normally, sangria is what I would go for, but since I’d never had a prickly pear, let alone a margarita made from one, I decided to live large.  So I had two. I would have had three, but I was too full. 

I can’t quite describe the taste… it’s tart and sweet and a wee bit sour, but not too sour. You don’t taste the liquor, really, yet you know it’s there. It’s an easy-drinkin’ cocktail, my friends.  I’m now hell-bent on making them at home.

Here’s my assessment of their recipe, based on a combo of what their menu said, your basic top-shelf, Cadillac-style margarita and the addictive experience I had with it.

Prickly Pear Margarita

• 2 parts tequila of your choice (I prefer silver tequila, personally… Hornitos or Petron, preferably, but whatever you like)
• 1 part Grand Marnier
• 1 part prickly pear juice
• 1/2 part fresh lime juice
• 1 part simple syrup

You can shake with ice and strain into a glass rimmed with salt OR, how I had it, throw it in a blender with as much ice as you like and serve it frozen. I didn’t have salt and personally, I think either a sugar/salt blend or no salt at all on the rim would be ideal.  Squeeze o’ lime. Viola!… alcoholic orgasm.

Don’t say I never gave you nothin’.

To say I love this place is putting it mildly. It’s just my speed… inside it’s very “70’s cocktail bar meets modern lounge” complete with natural and wood wall coverings, amber glass here and there and some really cool giant 70’s-looking light fixtures.  Their food is delicious. I’d only ever tried their garlic aoli pomme frites (fancy name for French fries), but last night we had the cheese platter with Stillson, brie, fresh honeycomb and some funky little raisins. Good stuff.

Anyway, the bartender has this pair of pants that he wears every time we go.  I can’t tell if it’s a uniform, if it’s just coincidence or if he really, really loves those pants.  No one else seems to be wearing a uniform, other than maybe the hostess, who is usually in all black.  He’s got a hipster thing going for him…he’s got a definite style. And while I’m not really all that partial to men in skinny pants, these are pretty cool pants.  Black and white hounds tooth, I think?  Or perhaps they were just checked — the print was small and it was dim lighting.  I just find it funny that he’s sporting them every time we go in there and if it were a uniform, wouldn’t someone else have the same pants on?  I have another hipster-y friend who also wears a specific pair of pants very frequently.  I’m beginning to think hipsters only have one pair of pants.

But, Repeat Pants or not, I like our bartender. He is sometimes a bit slow and GFI isn’t wild about his martinis, but I have faith!  Out of the roughly 8 martinis I’ve had from him since we’ve been going there, about five have been alright, two have been awesome and one was like drinking Sea Monkeys.  He got a little crazy with the “dirty” part of a dirty martini.

I think GFI is throwing in the towel and switching to Cosmos, but like I said, I have faith.  He seems like a nice guy and he’s starting to remember us, so someday, I fully anticipate he’ll know exactly what and how I’ll order when I come in the door.  It would also be nice to be greeted with “NORM!” but I won’t push it.

Moral of the story: Make friends with your bartender. Even if he’s only got one pair of pants.