Date Night

car, originally uploaded by medusahead.

Last night my man and I stepped out for a night on the town, he in his shark skin suit, me in my python heels. I'd had a hankering to get dolled up and go somewhere... different. I believe we've worn a groove into the ground between our house and Cooper Young. So when I saw that one of my very favorite nonprofits was throwing a swanky fundraiser downtown, I bit. It was held in a private residence downtown on Cotton Row, the invitation stressing buzzwords like "adaptive reuse" and showing tantalizing glimpses of a former cotton warehouse that was converted into a pretty snazzy home.



And it was snazzy.





There was a beautiful stairwell mixing old timbers with modern wire railing. A giant floating island demarcated the kitchen which then flowed into a space where young kids "jooked" to live drumming. We made our way outside and perched by the lap pool which overlooked the river, sipped our drinks and enjoyed the warm breeze that again made me almost nervous in that This-can't-be-August way. Amy LeVere (who, I have to say, really needs to be (musically) set up with my husband as I feel they are (musical) soulmates) played a set downstairs next to an actual 18 foot antique bar. It was all very interesting and different but truthfully we just couldn't wait to get out of there, because we just couldn't shake the feeling that we'd crashed someone's party. I have no problem strolling into a joint where I won't know anyone if the entertainment seems promising. The problem wasn't that we didn't know a soul there. The problem was that everyone else seemed to know each other.



As we were getting dressed for our night out, I was giddy with the promise of different. We were going some place unknown with an unknown crowd. We would maybe drink too much and move through an intriguing space full of interesting people and everything would seem a little brighter, a little more beautiful and mysterious, just how life always seemed in the Los Angeles of my 20s. I know, a tall, stupid order for a date night, but I was feeling hopeful.



I have to constantly remind myself that as much as I like to pretend otherwise, this is a small town. Small towns don't offer up literally hundreds of options for your nightly entertainment, especially when you are dealing with the arty fundraiser scene. Arty fundraiser types run in packs, just like they do in LA or any other city, but here there is just a much smaller circle, one we are not a part of and as we noticed the scores of folks with passes slung around their necks, we were starting to feel like the only suckers who had actually paid to get in the door.




After a couple of Amy songs, we ditched and grabbed some snacks at Molly Fontaine, listened to DeAnn Price sing, and felt mysterious for a few minutes.



Then it was time to go home and pay the babysitter.