In this club, in this club...

To tell the truth, a lot of what people find so titillating about Hollywood kinda bores me. When I see girls stumbling or slamming down Sunset or Hollywood Boulevard in high heels and tiny dresses, I can't help but laugh. So much effort! First, you have to decide who is going to drive. Cabs around usually out of the question because they are notoriously hard to catch and their prices cost an arm and a leg and hair-extensions. There are always limos, but you have to either be a star or sleeping with one or, God forbid, you have to call up those creepy promoter guys you mistakenly gave your number to when you first moved here who won't stop texting you.

Then once you get there, if there is no valet, or you don't want to pay $10-15 to park your car for a couple hours, you have to drive around forever until you find a spot. Most of the open spots will actually be parked right under a sign that says NO PARKING 6 pm to 8 am. This is because the mastermind behind LA's parking infrastructure is in league with the devil.

Then, once you actually get to the club, unless you are "somebody", and especially if you're a dude, you have to wait in line until the bouncer decides it's time for you to go in. Luckily, we girls have it easier. However, if we do have to wait outside in the line, it's more humiliating because our dresses barely cover our asses and we might easily be confused with hookers.

Finally, you're in. But you have a problem. It's so packed, that you can't move, let alone get to the bar. When you try to dance, you are surrounded by sweaty, ape-like men--most likely ones who don't speak English too well--never the ones you actually would like to be accosted by.

So, after making it through the gauntlet of gold-diggers and sweaty gorillas, you finally get to the bar. There, the bitchy bar-tendettes ignore you. This may work in your favor, as a rare knight in shining armor--or Armani--will catch your eye, read your mind, and order you a drink, just like in the movies, and you both will live happily ever after. More often than not, though, one of the cologne-drenched ape-men will "come to your rescue". Oh well, a drink is a drink, right? Not necessarily, putting aside the ever-present threat of rufies, by accepting a drink, you may risk being stuck to your benefactor for the entire evening.

Otherwise, you wait, patiently, until every guy around you has been served, until the bar-tendette has no choice but to take your order, begrudgingly.

So, FINALLY, you get your drink. And, guess what? It's last call! Bars in L.A. start closing around 1:30 am. And the staff makes no bones about wanting you to get the f*ck out.

Ironically, this is about the time that things actually get fun. You and your friends now have to get creative. Luckily, there are many options. Most of them include greasy fast-food. There are food trucks, like the Munchie Machine. There's the California delight: In n' out, not to mention countless other runner-ups like McDonald's, Wendy's, and Carl's Jr. And of course, there is the good old fashioned favorite of going back to a friend's house, maybe lighting up a joint, watching Anchorman or Scary Movie 3, and ordering a pizza/eating everything in your fridge and cupboards.

Or you could be lame/a grandmother, and go to sleep. Which I NEVER do. NEVER.

All in all, it makes a person wonder, besides the hope that Prince Charming will start rubbing up against you during the song, "DJ got me fallin in love again," why don't we just skip to the good part?