In July, my friend and I took a special visit to a magical land called Palm Springs. The Ace Hotel was our lodging for the two days we were there and it truly did not let us down. Neither did the characters and contraptions we stumbled upon. It made for instant writer fodder. Tales were spun in this fiendish brain. Characters were met and I couldn’t resist logging them down into righteous history.
Allow me to present…
Now I wish I had a photo of this girl because, sweet baby J, she was amazing.
Imagine a cross between Dorothy Hamill, the body of an Olympic swimmer and face of a small planetary moon. This is the only appropriate way to describe her. And I’m sorry if it’s not politcally correct, but I’m not politically correct, and that is my only disclaimer.
Tagging along with a bachelorette party, she was THAT girl. That one girl you just know the bride’s mother had made her invite. The female-version of Zack Galifianakis in The Hangover.
But to her credit this girl hit on every man in the pool. She set her sights on a sweet military kid, stroking his arm (“Are you from Army?”) and flirting until he excused himself and escaped to the bar.
I mean hell. This girl flirted like a pro. A PRO. And good for her. I say, good for Special Ed.
But we haven’t gotten to the best part of her skilled moves. There was the face. The face she’d pull on all the guys. That thousand-yard-let’s-fuck-but-wait-what?-stare.
Allow me to demonstrate ‘the face’. (Yes, I practiced this in the wilderness of my most recent camping trip).
The girl literally haunts my dreams and waking nightmares. I wonder what Special Ed’s doing right now. I imagine that her name is Molly. And that we’re secretly best friends.
I dropped my sandwich on the floor of the diner and ate it. Yes. You heard me correctly. I scooped it back up in front of about ten other people and promptly devoured it.
This is the sandwhich in question.
This is the face of a dirty-floor-sandwich-eater.
Big Gay Dance Party
Friday night The Ace held (and we stumbled upon) the most swinging party around. The Big Gay Dance Party –was $45 a head (pun intended), benefitting the Southwest Center for Aids, and we happily ponied up the dough.
And then some.
And all for a good cause, we met amazing drag queens, drank sub-par Chardonnay and danced our gay asses off.
DJ Mike was simply put a DJ. Sadly, he was no Magic Mike.
But this guy was.
DJ Mike played good tunes.
He was also insanely angry.
The Big Gay Dance Party was in full swing, plastic beach balls being lobbed and bobbed over heads when one bounced over to DJ Mike, hitting his equipment.
Ahem, DJ equipment.
Ahem, his turntables.
In an instant, with the fierce intensity of a stabby person, DJ Mike grabbed up the beach ball and popped it. An audible gasp went through the crowd.
But then he played “Call Me Maybe” and we all forgot about it and raved on.
The Record Player
It was the selling point of the room. Yes, the Ace Hotel includes a super sweet record player in every humble abode (Swoon). Jazzed about this, I had dutifully brought along a few choice albums – The Doors, Elton John and Aerosmith.
The first thing I did when entering the room was turn that bad boy on.
Well, tried to at least.
The instructions had me befuddled. SAYWHAAANOW??
The instructions called for attaching wires to rods and all sorts of manual work I am not experienced with nor do I want to be. An hour into it – Michele opening the wine – I finally broke down and rang housekeeping. I was exasperated. I needed help.
Yeah. Thanks a lot, assholes.
But most of all I was frustrated. Vinyl is my one true love and not being able to start record machine was sheer agony.
So they sent someone from tech. A big brutish guy who did not look in the slightest happy to be there. I waited. Waited for him to connect thingies and when he bent over he simply pressed the play button.
He left and I wailed.
I follow instructions to a goddamn T and they did not make themselves useful.
Mortification set in.
I have a record player at home. I break that thing in half.
I stand by my word – the instructions said to connect wires. CONNECT WIRES PEOPLE.
(someone validate me. someone. somewhere).
And the last one on our list is Ogre Girl.
This was another divine delight at the Big Gay Dance Party. Ogre Girl was a six foot tall drink of water with a body like a brick shithouse. She plundered through the dance floor, arms skimming air, mashing people out of the way. Imagine Will Ferrell in Old School, drunkenly shoving co-eds out of the way with brute (AKA drunken) strength.
If I had moves like Ogre Girl accompanied by the rock-solid body, you can bet your ass I’d be hauling a mule-cart in Siberia somewhere.
That’s my wrap-up. The breakdown of The Ace hotel. People watching, check. Amazingness, check. Half-naked men, check. It’s a writer’s dream all wrapped up in one lazy weekend.