Greg and I took a drive. We took Sunset to Beverley Hills. Manohman. Even at the stretch, where the celebrity hangouts and posh bars abound, there is still a distinct air of city trash around. As soon as you pass into B.hills, it's gone. Man alive are those houses huge. Of course, for the most part I am just assuming this based on the huge fences and hedges in front that block all view of the homes. We did see Ozzy's house though. It was big.

After that we went to Westwood, which basically a mini college town in LA. We went to this icecream place called Diddy Riese and got ice cream sandwiches made with cookies for a dollar. It was basically totally awesome. I want to go hang out there more. And get fat.

On the way home we saw some leather couches on the side the road. We pulled over. One was torn up, and a homeless person was sitting on one of the couches. He got up and offered it to us, but man, we assured him that they wouldn't fit in our car...or our apartment in the Hills. Vom. I hate myself. We did get this half-chaise-lounge mammerjammer. I'm convinced it's drenched in cat piss, but whatev. It was free. Best part was putting it in Greg's hatchback, tying a headphone cord to the trunk hood, and sitting in the front seat holding onto the cord for dear effing life so it didn't fly up and let the effing sofa fly out. That was fun. I felt cool.

Oh, check it. Rewind. When we were leaving, we walked in the elevator and joined a rockstar with surfer hair (from product, I'm sure) and low-rise jeans and his accessory gf in a trucker hat, tube top, gold spiked heels, and mini-skirt. Also, a bad dye-job. So dude is counting his money--crisp fifties--and chick is putting on lipstick and asking if so-and-so is going to be there ("oh, you mean my drummer, babe?"). Basically, it was all I could of hoped for and more.