What a weekend, people.
I'd skitter into this Kramer-style if you needed a visual for how this post will arrive to your eager eyes, but suffice it to say, and I will scream it from the rooftops: Three-day weekends trump all else in this life. I might go so far out onto the proverbial limb to say that three-day weekends even trump puppies but then I remember their sad puppy eyes and their furry, floppy puppy ears and their too-big puppy paws and how I want to lay down in a field of them and let them scurry to and fro all around me, licking my toes and doing other things that puppies do (minus pooping, peeing, biting, gnawing, scratching, whining, or barking, that is). I imagine that leaves: Sneezing, sitting, wagging, licking, sighing, singing, eating cupcakes, snuggling, cuddling, and being furry. So three-day weekends almost trump puppies, as you can see here, but not quite, because three-day weekends can't lick your face.
Glad we cleared that up.
On Friday Ashley and I celebrated our freedom from The Man (since neither of us had work on Friday, a weekday, an unheard of idea in this American society) by having lunch with Mike while he was on his lunch break. The irony in that, of course, is that Mike very much is The Man now that he is a teacher and regularly passes out homework to his students on the weekend. I know. I'd be ashamed too if he weren't so darned lovable. Sort of like a puppy, except that he does bite, gnaw, scratch, whine, and bark. Mike suggested we hang around La Hab for a bit while he finished up his last class of the day, so Ash and I settled in to my other version of Heaven (the version not including puppies): watching "What Not To Wear." Clinton. Stacy. Call me. SRSLY.
Later that evening we adventured to the remotest part of California also known as The City Of Industry and found a resort sitting grandly atop a hill in the middle of nowhere. It would have seemed a bit Psycho if not for the plethora of business men in fluttery golf shirts milling about. We forged ahead, past the well-lit areas and plunged into the darkness, discovering many things along the way. Among them, a wedding gazebo, a pack of wild coyotes, and a lake, which judging by this Google satellite image, is nothing but a large fountain during the day.
Seems rather unexciting, right? Well, add in a pack of rabid feral dogimals and some eerie lighting, and the results were FAR more noir:
On Sunday a the usual crew and I went up to Pasadena to check out the Rose Bowl flea market. I'm a bit ashamed to admit that I've lived in California since 2001 and I haven't yet attended this behemoth event, but there's no time like the present, right? After searching Pasadena's labyrinthine neighborhoods for the gigantic stadium we finally made it about an hour before closing. Most of the vendors were packing up or already gone, but this only made it easier to negotiate the best bargain. Also, a word to the wise: Vendors leave things behind in the parking lot when they pack up. We found an old hardcover book and a gold beaded evening bag in mint condition just waiting for us to claim them. I also found this:
We capped off the weekend and the summer at the Bowl. Brian Wilson played and we drank too much champagne and watched fireworks to the tune of "Surfin' U.S.A."
It was a fitting end to a spectacular weekend and an even more spectacular summer. First up on Fall's roster? Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, Spiritualized, and Cat Power.
Here are a few more pics: