So as soon as I arrive in L.A., I’m informed that two of LAGrrrl’s friends are coming to pick us up to go dancing. We do a quick change and makeup touch-up: I’m looking sassy in a super-low pair of jeans, spiky heels and a cleavage special shirt. Is it L.A.? I have no idea. I figure I’ll just show ‘em how it’s done in Texas.

LAGrrrl’s friends are Sweetness and Nasty. Sweetness speaks with a lilting voice and sounds genuinely interested in everything I have to say. I like this girl! She’s awesome. Nasty, who is driving, however, is not quite so nice. I’m not sure if I’ve seen her smile yet. She’s whining about traffic, L.A. drivers, the guy who stalked her last year, and bitching at LAGrrrl because she didn’t lock the door as we arrive at Nasty’s place. Yuck. Where are the drinks?

Thank God, Nasty at least has enough manners to pour us all some red wine. She’s awfully skinny. Maybe she’s in a bad mood because she really wants a cheeseburger. She’s from New Jersey, which explains some of her abruptness, but I’m beginning to fear this girl. I sip my wine and try to tune her out. There’s some business about her boyfriend coming in from Mexico City that night. However, she doesn’t know the flight number or the time he’s coming in…or, well, any of the details. That sounds like a solid relationship!

After our second glass of red wine, it’s time to head to the club. Since Nasty is driving this party train, we have no idea where we’re going; nor does anyone seem permitted an opinion. We end up at a bar called Guy’s where we wait in line for a while outside. Nasty gets us in (no, I’m not thankful for that; I’d just find a bar with no line) and we walk up to the bar. Inside, it’s a dark room with the bar to the left and a wide open room. No tables here except in alcoves around the perimeter of the room. It looks like—though it’s hard to tell in the dark—the couches, drapes and carpet are all a deep red. It sort of reminds me of Madame X in NYC. I’m looking around and grooving to the old school rap the DJ is spinning—okay, more specifically, I’m singing every word to Nate Dogg and Warren G’s “Regulate”—when Nasty pulls me aside.

“L.A. is VERY different than Austin.”

I just look at her incredulously. Is she suggesting we don’t have stupid overpriced clubs in Austin? Is she insinuating that I don’t understand this crazy club world of dance floor and couches? Oh, Nasty, just shut up. I tell LAGrrrl what Nasty says as she runs away. What the hell is that girl doing? She doesn’t even have a drink yet.

“Was there a tone?” LAGrrrl wants to know.

“Oh, there was a tone.”

“That’s it; she’s dead to me. I was going to give her a little credit until…the tone.”

We grab our drinks; toast to Nasty’s nastiness and decide to head outside. Nasty joins us and accepts the drink Sweetness has purchased for her. I hope the red wine stains her teeth.

We polish off our first set of drinks and agree it’s time to hit the bathroom. The line is ridiculous. There’s about 300 people in this club and one toilet for all the girls. You have GOT to be kidding me. And to top it off, some genius designed the structure so that the bathrooms are on either side of the hallway leading outside. So you’ve got two huge bouncers—one for the boys, one for the girls—regulating who can get in each bathroom and trying to move the inside/outside traffic. Yeah, these L.A. peeps are organized! Oh, wait, I’m supposed to be 30 pounds lighter, in which case I’d have no problem maneuvering through here.

“Dude! Is that a Wayans brother?!” LAGrrrl is screaming in my ear. I’ve just finished purchasing another set of 10-dollar drinks. I look around but I can barely see the dude.

“Which one is it?” I ask.

“I don’t know—wait, maybe I’m wrong—I don’t know, can you tell if it’s him?!” LAGrrrl is having a bit of a starstruck moment. I blame the Rob Roys she’s sucking down.

Then we’re admitted entrance into the bathroom; as we’re finishing up there’s a terrible pounding at the door. By the time we open it, three blond girls practically fall into the room.

“Dude, chill out,” I say.

“She’s gonna puke!” one of them answers, leading her drunk friend to the toilet. Maybe she should puke in the alleyway, what with the rather crowded bathroom situation here. And what a waste of a ten-dollar drink.

Next thing I know, I’m slumped on a couch outside with LAGrrrl talking about jeans and butts—or more correctly, lack thereof. Dude, seriously, I’m blotto.

“Do you think this guy would notice if I tapped his butt with my shoe?” I slur, and tap the guy in front of me in his non-butt.

“I don’t think he noticed,” LAGrrrl says.

“I’ll try it again,” I agree and tap him again. He’s so ignoring me. Or maybe I really am just poking jean and not making contact with skin. Hell, I can’t even feel my toes right now. Oh look. The table next to us has an assortment of drinks and glasses on it.

“Hey, LAGrrrl, what do you think about some Ketel One?”

“Bring it on.”

No one else appears to be drinking it. Of course, the fact that we are stealing this liquor could have something to do with the fact the guy next to us in the T-shirt and blazer thinks we have attitude. Well, drink your Ketel One, silly! I pour LAGrrrl some sort of vodka, orange and cranberry concoction. There might be a name for that, but I’m working on remembering my own name at this point.

We’re on our way inside to leave when the music sucks us in. It’s “Billy Jean” by Michael Jackson! I concentrate very heavily on not tripping over my spiky heels as I attempt to imitate the lit squares featured in the video for that song. LAGrrrl has a special fondness for Michael Jackson. There’s more dancing and things are getting fuzzy…and then it’s “Just a Friend” by Biz Markie. LAGrrrl and I are screaming the lyrics and doing what we think is a funky cool dance. But alas, it’s two a.m. and the DJ cuts us off. What the hell? LAGrrrl is especially angry at his inconsiderate action.

“Dude, you don’t abort the song like that!”

We sing, “You say he’s just a friend…and you say he’s just a friend…” over and over in the cab on the way home. I hope Nasty’s ears bleed.

-Shakira 09.07.04