So, I'm in an unlikely place for the next 22 hours or so: a spa hotel in Palm Springs. I'm seeing a lot of wonderful friends this trip of old and recent vintage, but none of them save for the two brides are at this wedding. S'okay: Everyone I've met so far has been lovely, even the girl who called me "JFK Jr.", and I've brought plenty to read. There's a bar at the pool, and you can get massages or facial treatments or play golf (maybe, no, hell no) if you've got the dough and are into that stuff.
I can't decide whether Don Draper would bring Betty on vacation here or one of his mistresses. It's definitely a hipster kind of place, whatever that may mean to you. There are guys wearing fedoras, and I like all the music I've heard coming from the pool area and in the restaurant where I drank my pot of French-pressed coffee this morning, and I haven't felt compelled to comb my hair since before I got on the plane two days ago.
I guess I'll comb it when I put on my new suit, a once-a-decade indulgence indulged in special for this occasion.
Meanwhile, I've got the hot, dry afternoon to kill. Just typing the phrase the only straight guy at a lesbian pool party makes me feel like a jerk flailing around for a metaphor. I forgot to pack sunscreen, so taking my stack of Believer back issues to the pool is probably out. I've already got a nice left-arm tan from the slow, congested drive east from Silver Lake yesterday. I'll be doing a lot of driving this trip -- it's Los Angeles, that's how you do -- and I'm pleased by my decision to bring only CDs I've never heard before. Yesterday's drive was accompanied by the recent Besnard Lakes, the new New Pornographers, and the imminent Damien Jurado album. And If You're Feeling Sinister, a seminal Belle & Sebastian record that's new to me.
Unrelated: I reviewed OK Go at the 9:30 Club Wednesday night for Click Track. The show could have been more focused and propulsive, like OK Go's best songs are, but I still dug it. I'd forgotten how much I like that band.