Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Hermosa Fiesta: A Labor Day Celebration

This past weekend was Labor Day, a day to look back and honor all of those people who ever had jobs and fought for fair laws and hours in the workplace. In their honor, apparently, Americans feel the need to have barbecues, fireworks, and in the case of Hermosa Beach, CA, an enormous festival. This festival shut down the main streets leading to the pier where vendors could sell things and people could get shit faced drunk and not get run over. I was one of those people.

Saturday morning, after hosing off my stairs because some drunk asshole decided to half die there the night before, I looked out upon the vast sea of tents floating along the street. A hot guy jogged by and I thought it my best interest to dive right in.

A USC game was on, so Freaky and I left a screaming and hollering DNasty to her game so that she could freak out alone. We made our way through the free samples, a few times naturally, and decided to wade through the tents that were actually there for monetary gain. While some of these tents had cool stuff and unique artwork, I beg of you tell me: why in the fuck would someone put up an entire tent dedicated to sell nothing but cheap, wood, "funny" signs saying things like "Wine a Little Bit, You'll Feel Better"? Or a tent that viciously attacked defenseless hats and shirts with an enraged bedazzler? Or better yet, a tent that only sold thick, leather bracelets with yin yang symbols that only a member of Creed would be caught wearing? The answer: old people. (Side note: Watch yourselves. They're everywhere and they will buy anything that would fall under the category of junk.)

As we made our way through waves of the excited elderly waving dollars, we came to the opening of a fair ground. To our left we saw that there was a beer/ wine garden. Exchanging a glance, no need for words, Freaky and I skipped to the garden where we got the biggest cup of wine ever sold to us in the continental United States. Plus, all proceeds went to charity so we'd tell people that was why we were there. Instinctively, we scoured the crowd that was enjoying the live band for hot guys. With a sigh, we realized that there were none and that those god damned old people infiltrated our shores once again. We'd have to just swig our wine and rock out to the 80s cover band "Heartless" that was playing. Man, they were awesome. The lead singer was a fatter, red haired version of Steven Tyler and her voice was made to sing "Barracuda".  Obviously, this is what Labor Day was all about.

We were not the only ones enjoying the band's fortysomething enthusiasm for the music of their youth, however, and two heavily intoxicated twentysomethings with no self esteem got onto the grass dance floor and continued to dry hump the air and each other for an impressive five minutes (I believe they recreated a scene from Cirque De Soleil at one point.) as random, elderly men slowly staggered by . There was a lot of drink flinging, falling down, awkward gyrating, and cries from the crowd to "please God make it stop!" before a crazy, Asian tranny broke up the scene by trying to join. He/she was wearing a barely there red swimsuit and, quite frankly, I think her/his angry face and "sexy" face are on in the same. The crowd, as a whole, took a step back and the singer made a depressing yet utterly true comment about the fact that her life had brought her here to this moment. Best charity event EVER.

Our lips now purple from our massive drinks and a decent wine buzz in us, we decide that we want to get on a ride. (Bad idea after you've been drinking? Yes, yes it is. However, we're professionals, we know what we're doing so stop questioning it, ok?) After being told we were "too big" and "too old" to go on almost all of the rides, we found one that we were allowed to ride. Not without parents looking at us like we were creepy and *gasp* perhaps a little drunk. The man told us to climb into the giant green dinosaur and we did so. It was one of those rides that spin but have a steering wheel inside to spin you around faster. Whirling and whirling we went, laughing hysterically, and slamming our heads into the side, delighted at speed and sheer stupidity of what we were doing. Stumbling out, I thought it best to leave because apparently acting strangely around children is a good reason to get the police.

We made our way back through the tents again and met up with DNasty so she could get us more free samples. (I actually considered changing my clothes so that I could get more as well. Then I realized how pathetic it is to go to such lengths for a free carton of soy milk that I will never drink.) A guy popped out of nowhere and offered us free drinks at his tent. DNasty answered yes before I could go over the probability of this guy being able to maim and murder us in public without me being able to leave a trail to his warehouse where he would surely hide us. I don't like to think anyway (it hurts) so we all followed and had free drinks while they tried to sell us some cable bullshit. I wasn't listening because I couldn't care less. Jack Daniels wanted to make out and I had to plan my outfit for the night.

Awhile later, we came inside and began the long, music filled, make-up smearing, pregaming process of girls getting ready to go out. Finally, we were ready, and on our way out, ran into a buddy who got us into Sharkeez and paid our cover. The dancing began and so did the drinking and smack talking. We're having a great time when the girls spotted a dude that apparently looks like USC's new quarterback. (After Mark Sanchez left the team, a part of me died. That piece of man meat was basically the only reason I accompanied DNasty on the couch to watch the games.) Freaky was talking in a language the guy didn't understand, and to help, I translated. Actually turning to look at him, I was momentarily stunned. He was absolutely gorgeous.  I'm not sure how I formed words after I saw his face but I managed. And for a reason at that moment I could not understand, he seemed interested in me. (Yes, me you asshole.)

He was nice, beautiful, tall, completely ripped, and a Navy Seal. A Navy goddamn Seal. Could he be any more perfect? As the night went on, I realized that the answer was no. I also realized why God would allow me to think this incredible god like creature would want to talk to me. The answer: to insult me. (Now I'm not sure why perfect strangers feel compelled to say rude, uncalled for things to me with no provocation, but they do. [It's been hypothesized that I make people feel very at ease and they feel they can say anything to me including the ugly truth. That makes me the ugly truth so this theory is not one of comfort.]) So, after being informed that I have "lumberjack hands", a question regarding whether I was a whore or not, and the overall sense that he had no respect for me or women in general ended my little bubble-o-happy. On a nice note, Freaky and DNasty both met very nice men who spoke to them like human beings and I assume told them they were pretty.

The next morning, I awoke from my whiskey haze feeling sorry for myself.  After devouring an enormous burrito and two mimosas, my two girlies led me back home for a nap (not before I knocked over a bike in the street) and made me lay down. I felt better (aka sober) when I woke again and we all talked in my kitchen for a bit. We discussed the weekend and the fact that we didn't have to work the next day (Monday). I posed an asinine question : "What do you guys want to do tonight?" They looked at each other, rolling their eyes at my stupidity and internally questioned my patriotism.

DNasty: "Um, we're going out tonight, Brenna. It's Labor Day and in America, this is how we celebrate."
Freaky: "Dance Party."
DNasty: "Did you vote? Do you enjoy your freedom? Then how about you not be so selfish and let this country know how much you care by drinking."
Freaky: "Dance Party."

They were right. I was being unpatriotic, selfish. After all, my work, my writing, my labor, was based a lot on how I go out and drink so I would be doing this country a service by going out and dancing my ass off at Union Cattle. God bless all those workers, Americans, that came out to dance with me. I applaud you and so does Uncle Sam.


  1. YAY!! love it... my only problem with this is when you say you feel better, aka sober... ?!@?>@>!??>! who are you and what have you done with my BNasty?! otherwise brilliant :)

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  3. Oh Brenna. I'm worried about you. It seems your life is revolved around debauchery and lack of self-worth. Where exactly did I go wrong with you? Did I not love you enough? Not tell you "you're pretty" enough? What should I have done differently so that you wouldn't feel the daily urge to turn to a bottle for love instead of yourself (or Jesus?). Chew on that. I know I will.

    P.S. Luimberjack hands are making a comeback-- "Navy Seal" tools who are just a little to concerned about the safety of their shoes however, are not.