It's great to be back at work, where I can rest and relax after my busy weekend of drinking beer and getting punched in the stomach by strippers.

My friend Carson--to whom I should mention I was previously married for three years--is trying to sublet his apartment for a month or two, and on Friday he called to see if I'd show it to a prospective tenant. I jump at any opportunity to skip out on work early, and I said yes, but I told Carson that it would take me a while to get there, what with it being Friday, and rush hour, and the fact that his apartment is 80 miles away, in Los Angeles. He said that was fine, and that Alex--the prospect--really, really wanted to see the apartment right away, and couldn't wait, so I said all right, I'd be there by 8:00. I swung by the boat, picked up the Keelhauler, and we were on our way.

Alex arrived at about 8:45, with his girlfriend Mimi, who was tall, with long, perfectly straight blonde hair, and aggressive black eyebrows. She was overdressed for apartment-hunting in a pink camisole that laced up the front, and a long, clingy jersey skirt in several pastel shades, divided into maybe fifty tiers with various types of ribbon. She looked like Orange County Belly Dancer Barbie.

When we opened the door to the apartment, she gasped and stepped back. "There's someone's stuff in there!" she said, looking at me with wide eyes. "Is someone living there?" I explained that the apartment was being sub-leased furnished, which Alex already knew, as the details were in the ad he'd answered.

The pair stepped in, and were instantly underwhelmed. I don't know what they were looking for, but this wasn't it. "Does he care if we like, read his books?" Mimi asked. I showed Alex the rest of the place. "Where's the laundry?" he asked, looking humorously disturbed. His consternation grew as he looked around, not finding the amenities that, although not mentioned in the ad, he had apparently expected to materialize. Back in the living room, he explained that the company he works for usually puts him up "in a really nice place," but he'd decided to branch out on his own this time. He was obviously looking for a luxury apartment, something with a wet bar and a view of the Hollywood Hills. Carson's comfortable but not glitzy pad was not going to cut it.

Mimi stared at the furniture. "It's decorated kinda funky," she said. "What do you call it? Aztec?" I bit my lip. "It's called Danish modern," I said, adding that the rug was actually Persian. "Oh." I didn't add that I'd picked out the teak-armed Danish sofa with Carson in an antique store on Valencia Street.

Alex was polite, kind of. "I'm sorry you had to drive all the way down here," he said, looking uncomfortable, which suited me just fine. I just shook his hand and thanked him for coming.

The Keelhauler and I waited until they'd walked out of hearing range to raise our eyebrows and yell "What the fuck was that all about?" in frustration. "When you were out of the room, she asked if it was OK to use the salt and pepper," reported the Keelhauler. "She asked who the Coen brothers were," he added.

I was annoyed because, although Alex has every right to want to live in a luxury apartment with a wet bar and a revolving bidet, he might have asked if all those things existed before he wasted my time showing him the place. "He's never lived anywhere not like that," said the Keelhauler. "He doesn't realize anything else exists." Here's a picture I drew of Mimi, so you can enjoy the beauty:

Following the dissing, the Keelhauler and I were all embittered and annoyed, and feeling morally superior and Viva la Revolucion, etc., so the only thing to do was put our pants on and head around the corner to Jumbo's, the neighborhood strip bar, for a beer. The place was overrun with hipsters, a large party of vocal lesbians, and several guys I'm going to say were computer animators who sat in the front row tossing dollar bills and singing along to "War Pig" blaring over the sound system.

The Keelhauler and I got our beer from the blank-eyed bartender and stood back to people-watch. Behind us, a stick-thin, bikini-clad stripper in 12-inch heels, with red hair that fell past her waist, argued with a short, energetic woman in painter's pants, who was yelling, "I know you fucked 'im! I don't CARE that you fucked 'im, I care that you LIED about fuckin' 'im! You wasted three years of my life!" Post-argument, the yelling woman wasted yet another hour of her life by sitting next to the electronic darts game and staring stalkerishly while the other girl went through her routine.

It was right about then that another stripper punched me in the stomach. I think she was trying to be playful, but it's hard to say, because I wasn't looking at her when it happened. She--a slight, drunk brunette in a net bodysuit and platforms, had been sitting at the bar talking to a friend. At some point, she stood up to pass me, and decided to playfully grab my midsection. Being drunk, she used a little more force than was necessary to get my attention, and I ended up doubled-over, laughing, as the two of us staggered a few steps and she yelled "Sorry, dude!" into my hair.

Just another night in the city.

Star of the day. . .Eero Saarinen