Cocktail table.

I spent a night in a penthouse at The Standard. I realize that may make me sound like a hooker. In reality, it was a small gathering of friends at one of the hippest hotels on the block. At 1am on a Monday night in downtown LA. A land where you can actually get food at 3am and there’s an empty parking spot sweetly calling your name, “Heyyyyyy, Honda…You like this?” (Said with a slightly Chicana accent.) The hotel is pretty sweet and hipster (room numbers are listed on “Hello, My Name Is ____” placards). Waterbed cabana type things linger by the rooftop pool, cocktails are spendy and any and all furniture is meant for lounging. Pillows everywhere. And the rooftop bar ladies/gents room has one of those sinks that have a scandalous breezeway to the other sex’s quarters. So you can literally reach across and grab a stranger’s hand as they wash it. Maybe after they wash it. We are a civilized people afterall.

Adult swim.

Lounge act.

Talk to me, Baby.

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