Okay, reader, so I promised you a diary of the proceedings last night, and what kind of jerk would I be to keep it from you? Please keep in mind that it was dark in the club, my notepad was tiny (to fit into my thigh-hugging leather pants) and my handwriting is awful to begin with. Here goes:

8:30pm – The night starts with a bang as H and I pick up Candy and I immediately proceed to take the freeway in the wrong direction. So after a detour through scenic Westwood and a close call with the ass end of a Lexus on a thirty-foot stretch of the 405, we are on our way.

9:05pm – We arrive at XES and begin the search for the Citysearch-advertised five-dollar valet parking, which is nowhere to be found. There is a lot next door, however, whose sign offers the choice of ten bucks to park or twenty bucks for “VIP parking”. Not fancying myself or the Draggin’ Wagon quite the VIP types, I opt for the regular peon parking fee, only to be told by our Friendly Neighborhood Parking Attendant that only VIP parking is left. Twenty bucks or nothing. I curtailed my “If the regular parking is full, doesn’t that make it more desirable and therefore worth the higher price” rant after being met with a perfectly timed blank “no hablo ingles, or at least not right now” stare from the aforementioned FNPA and proceeded to execute a stunning seventeen point turn in the cramped quarters of the valet parking lot, no doubt rustling the feathers of countless VIPs waiting for their primo parking spots. Take that, Nicole Richie!

9:15pm – After scouring the streets of Hwood, we receive word from H’s pal Nikki that she’s holding a spot for us in the farther reaches of EBF. Ah, but free parking is free parking, dear reader, am I right?

9:30pm – We arrive at the venue just in time to see a interview out front that Fox Sports Net is conducting with an aesthetically pleasing (or in other words flyyyyyyy) young lady in a revealing black and white striped referee halter top, tiny hip hugger shorts and fishnets. If Ed Hochuli and Elvira had a daughter, and then used all of mom’s residuals from those Bud Light Halloween ads from the 80’s on boobs and lips, this chick would be it.

9:35pm – Entering the club, we are greeted by the sight of roughly forty picturesque model types crowded onto a set of bleachers designed for twelve people at the most. They are grinding each other like grist in a mill, smiling, waving, throwing up their horns and doing that weird head-tilt-open-mouth-vacant-stare thing that has kept Maxim firmly entrenched on the toilet tank of every frat house in America for the past five years. Oh, did I mention that they are all decked out in blue jeans, pink lace camisoles that don’t *quite* fit around the airbags…oh, and eye black? Yeah, didn’t think so. It was enough to make Kathy Ireland in “Necessary Roughness” blush. Also, its important to mention that Elvira Hochuli’s galpals are out in force, strutting around the club carrying Styrofoam coolers under their arms or on their shoulders (Upon further interrogation of one of the ladies, I learned that the contents of the coolers were “uh…nothing…really…uhm…tee hee .” What can I say? I have a way with the ladies).

The club itself is pretty swanky, all flashing red lights, four stripper poles on stands (more about these later—I promise) and these velour-upholstered half-moon booths. Now here’s the fucked up part: the place is half empty, maybe two or three tables are taken by the girl “players” and their washed up “I’d be in the NFL right now if it weren’t for my damn bum knee” boyfriends, and the rest of the booths are totally empty. So we go take a seat, right? Wrong. They are reserved. ALL of them. Reserved for fucking whom? And you wonder why people are so desperate to be famous in this town. There are about twenty TVs around the bar, all tuned to a rebroadcast of the PPV event of last years Lingerie Bowl. Nikki Ziering, Angie Everhart, they’re calling your number at the Janice Dickenson Memorial Supermodel Retirement Home in Brentwood.

9:38pm – It’s official: some dude at a table with three of the “players” just ordered five bottles of Cristal. Who had 9:38 in the pool?

9:45pm – We’ve got an early contender for “best outfit not required by the club promoter”: some dude is sporting an old school powder blue velour Philly Sixers warm-up jumpsuit, easily two sizes too big, and a matching red plush (yes PLUSH) Sixers visor, which cuts into his afro like crop circles in a cornfield. Truly classic. If AI had worn this in Athens he’d still be carrying the torch.

10:00pm – I come out of the bathroom (no men’s room attendant. For shame) to find H and her friends being chatted up by some average looking (read: over 30, no highlights) dude. I’m two drinks in and feelin’ fine, so I puff up and walk over, prepared for a “can I help you with something, pal” moment. Then I see it. In his right hand. Right there, about waist high. Is that? An ESPN Radio 710 microphone? Needless to say, H and the girls walk off, most likely to engage in a body shot contest with the refs, and I spend the next twenty minutes chatting it up with Dave about his job at the station (he’s a producer on The Big Show w/ Mason and Ireland), how he got into the biz, the Pats (Tommy’s on the cover of SI this week!), the Sox, whether LT or the Fridge were coming (they aren’t on the list! Sad times!) and what the hell he’s doing there (Dave heard that Paris Hilton was supposed to show up and he wanted to record a bump for the station). Needless to say, I will be calling my new buddy Dave for more job advice REAL soon.

10:20pm – Candy and I hightail it to the smoking area. I forgot my butts at home, so I bum one of her Marlboro Ultra-why-don’t-you-just-quit-Lights (thanks Candy!). The outside patio is small, but the crowd doesn’t seem to have discovered it yet (despite the neon “SMOKING ROOM” sign) so we sit down. Directly to my left is a poster-sized photo of one of the girls inside. She’s striking a “I’m tough…but sexy…watch out boys” pose, bending over a football as if to hike. Again with the eye black. I’ll never think of Brian Urlacher the same way again.

10:30pm – The photo shoot is over and we’ve officially hit the “Drunk white girls dancing like, well, drunk white girls” portion of our evening. Three “players” just hopped onto one of the stripper poles and began twirling around, groping each other while every available male of the “American Pie” era trample each other to get the best photo possible.

10:31pm - A single tear runs down my cheek.

10:35pm – Justin T comes on the box, inciting an entirely new wave of drunk white girls to drag their boyfriends to the dance floor. Guys, I honestly believe that if we all just stop letting them drag us out there, Justin T will reveal his true demon form and spontaneously combust in a cloud of sulfur and cocaine. Just a thought.

10:45pm – Man Purse sighting! Wtf is this guy thinking?

10:48pm – Still no LT. Still no Fridge. Still no Paris. You mean I went through all of this just to hang around forty half naked girls getting free drinks?

10:50pm – From the bathroom, I hear the unmistakable opening chords of Boston’s “Takin’ my Time”, but with a nearly unpalatable block-rockin’ beat behind it. The dude next to me at the urinals (who looks to be wearing a gold-plated midget around his neck) half turns around and says to no one in particular “What the fuck is this shit?” I bite my tongue, and spirit of rock n’ roll weeps.

10:51pm – We have a men’s room attendant, ladies and germs, and he has enough candy on the sink counters to give an entire Cub Scout troupe diabetes. This dude either has a day job at Willy Wonka’s place or all this shit “fell of the back of a truck”. He and I both search around for a good 45 seconds for paper towels (“Hey, are they under the blowpops?” “Nah, that’s the soap”) and I still tip him a buck. And I forget to take some candy. Yes, I have officially hit the four drink wall.

11:05pm – The dance floor is a madhouse. Bodies bumpin’. Music thumpin’. Chicks grinding with chicks. There’s a thirty-minute wait to get on one of the poles. I’m getting ready to head off for drink number five when…wait…is that…did she just…was that H giving me the “let’s go home” head nod? Aw fuck! But LT’s not even here yet! My boyhood idol! The real reason I dragged my po’ ass out to Hwood on a Wednesday night! I even got a free pass to do a line of coke off a stripper’s ass if he showed up! Maybe if I just ignore it and keep on dancing it will all go away.

11:10pm – Second head nod. She’s now mouthing the words “you wanna go?” This is getting tense.

11:15pm – Third head nod. The purse is on the shoulder. Candy comes and tells me that she’ll be fine getting a ride home with Nikki. Could this be the end for our hero?

11:20pm – We’re out the door. The line outside is halfway to the curb and the stench of Botox residue is absolutely stifling.

11:25pm – I’m blatantly acting out. A palm frond is hanging out over the sidewalk and I swing on like George of Drunken Jungle. Kids, don’t try this at home. I am now completely covered in shit…ok, maybe its dirt…nope, it’s shit…probably bird shit…and soot…and…is that a rubber? Ah screw it. I’m goin’ home.