But strange coincidences seem to follow us around and as we sat in a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint in Santa Monica, discussing whether or not we wanted to swing by Little Rhodey at some point, a girl behind us couldn’t help overhearing that we were from the same area code as she was. Turns out, she is our very own Director of Cool’s ex-well….we’ll just leave that one alone. No matter where we go, we can’t seem to escape the Ocean State.

After our delicious lunch/dinner pizza we returned home to get ready for a night out in Hollywood starting at the famous Whiskey a GoGo. Sean had yet to see any of Hollywood in the five days that we have been here and it seemed like the perfect quintessential L.A. experience to go rock out at one of the most notorious bars in the country. Again, nothing could prepare us for quite what the night had in store.

Ah yes, the infamous Whiskey a GoGo. One of Hollywood’s most legendary rock and roll venues that has seen the likes of the Doors, Odis Redding and Frank Zappa over the past forty plus years of operation. Just ask any true rock & roll fanatic. We went to the Whiskey to see Bridget’s friend, Chad, and his band, The Hitchhikers. Everything was as expected as we entered. We got searched and patted down. They asked Sean if he had a knife. Yeah. Rock and roll. This place was hardcore. The Hitchhikers were great. Presenting the audience a hodge podge of blue grass rhythm, rock and roll riffs, and lyrics that would bring King’s to their knees, these guys did what the Whiskey A GoGo has always been known for….play original music.

Then we entered the Twilight Zone. The Hitchhikers left the stage. We looked around and noticed that we were all of sudden being swarmed by acne-ridden teenagers with braces. This was not the crowd we expected. We expected dog-collars, heavy metal, chains, lots of black, men with eyeliner and chicks with Mohawks. But noooooooo. We were surrounded by teenie-bopping, Abercrombie-wearing, fifteen year olds and their chaperones. Panic stricken and alarmed we flagged down the first bouncer we saw, who informed us that it was some sort of amateur night starring high school boy bands. Instead of bolting out the door like we should have done, we stuck around and patiently awaited while Chad packed up their equipment.

First Act: Miss Sassafrass “My Parents Paid For Me to Sing Here” Ray. Oh my God this girl was atrocious! Not only was she singing to a crowd of all her friends, with a band whose average age was forty-five, she broke rule numero uno at the Whiskey: she covered all of her songs (not to mention that she just plain sucked). Just as Sean was beginning to feel like a dirty pervert hanging around a bunch of fifteen year old girls, it was only fitting that INCOMING take the stage. (Just a side note to the announcer introducing Incoming, you didn’t help them out by saying: “Incoming is coming up next.” It sounds retarded) This band consists of five scrawny little emo-punk ass wannabees. Jim Morrison was rolling in his grave when the lead singer of this band took the stage. The kid squirmed more than a worm in a rain storm. The only redeeming factor was the four foot nothin’ bass player who had the stage presence of a God. Keep an eye out for Bill Mills everyone- he’s going places.

All in all, we have only this to say: Get your head out of your ass Mr. Big Wig at the Whiskey a GoGo. What the fuck are you thinking? What happened to rock and roll asshole? This is the fucking Whiskey not Chucky Cheese on a Friday night! No tents filled with balls, no singing animatrons (well maybe Ms. Sassafrass and crew) You’re searching teenagers for knives at the door and you close the place down at 10:30?!?! FUCK!!! Honestly.

Laughing hysterically we bid Chad adieu and since it was only ten o’clock, headed back to Santa Monica for something a little more age appropriate, and what we thought would be a little more fun. Shall we continue? Yes we shall…

Earlier in the day on our way to lunch in Santa Monica, we came across an engraving in the sidewalk which read, “DIE YUPPIE SCUM.” It wasn’t until last night had we realized how eloquently put that particular public outcry was. After returning from the Whiskey, we ventured to what we believed to be a good ol’ Irish pub, O’Briens (of course). Yea, good ol’ Irish pub infested with not the pikeys that we know and love, but the yuppies that at least one person with a stick hated when the sidewalk was drying. Note: yuppies have no idea how to hold their booze like pikeys—that’s for sure.

We ventured there to see one of Bridget’s “friends.” We say that in quotes because after last night we prefer to think of them as frenemies. Haters in disguise as friends… The worst kind of haters of all. Basically, they learned very quickly what it meant to get phetasized. After refusing to wear a phetasy.com sticker on the grounds that they were going to “wait and see if PHETASY held up and lasted” (mind you we are a company that is three months old), we proceeded to plaster the back of the biggest d-bag hater of them all with stickers like chicken pox. (This is the same d-bag that bragged to Sean about how he worked for a “big bank” and if Sean ever needed a home loan he could help him out. What are you blind? He's wearing a mesh hat on backwards. How ‘bout a loan on a few quarters so I can at least pay for a damn parking meter.) Then we laughed hysterically as we watched him return to his yuppie friends where he was informed of the phetasizing he had received, got really angry, and ripped all the stickers off and put them on the back of one of his friends.

D-Bag number one.

We weren’t done yet. Bridget’s “friend,” the one who smelled like puke (yuck), made out with at least two separate girls in disgusting, sloppy, blackout PDA-style, and in the biggest douchebag move of all, ordered us gin and tonics after we requested rum and cokes, got it right before we left as well. Bridget gave him the cunning bear-hug phetasizing and Sean gave him the old handshake pat on the back—a time-tested classic. Don’t fuck with PHETASY. And if you take yourself too seriously, you’re goin’ down.

D-Bag number two.

So we left laughing hysterically, as we do pretty much everywhere we go, and delightfully gave Santa Monica the phetasizing it deserved. THE END.

Some pics of Santa Monica phetasizing...