Theoretically, Saturday night was supposed to be fun.

Not that it was all bad, not at all. Not that it was even bad. It was just off, in a way that's become a bit of a recurring theme lately, in several areas.

Well, actually, OK...some of it was pretty bad.

So, I catch word of a beachfront party on Saturday night in Playa del Rey. I understand there will be a BBQ, several people I know (but not well) from the IO in attendance, and an ocean fifty or so yards away. Perfect. I don't get nearly enough ocean time.

I head out. As I'm arriving, I call my default friend at the party, the one I will latch on to should all other avenues of conversation dry up or appear unattractive. He tells me he's just leaving. Seeing as how I'm parked and walking down the street toward the house, beers in hand, I decide to challenge myself and go to the party despite the fact that I'm alone and don't really know the other people there.

I enter. A girl I know stands up, shouts my name, and waves me over. I quickly take in the fact that the girl is wearing a bikini. And also sitting in an outdoor hot tub.

Excellent.

She's in there with another guy I know-but-not-well. Small chitty-chat ensues, they tell me to get in the hot tub, I express that I wish I had known there would be one, as I would have brought my swimming shorts (does anyone still use 'trunks'?). I say that, by the end of the night, I'm probably going to end up in the hot tub anyway, due to liberal applications of beer and, hey: nearby hot tub. How could I not?

I tuck into my first drink, and the hot tub girl and guy get up and run off together down the beach. Fantastic. Now the only people I know-but-not-well are Girl and Guy #2 who are already well into a discussion between the two of them, which I make it my business to enter, lest I spend the night in the corner petting the dog that seems to enjoy eating cigarette butts. Heaven.

Musical shame stories are shared. I tell mine about how a girl I liked in high school caught me listening to Rodney Dangerfield's 'Back To School' soundtrack. These days, I can cite Danny Elfman/Oingo Boingo as a defense, but that didn't really fly when I was fifteen.

At some point, I went to the bathroom. I noticed that the floors were concrete. I wrote this off. I could deal with concrete floors if it meant I got to walk out my backdoor onto a deck and see a hot tub to my left, a large grill to my right, and the ocean directly in front of me. I would gladly simulate what must feel like living on the deck of a pool for those particular amenities.

I get to the bathroom. I had one of those experiences that we've all had, where we go with the intention to perform one bodily function and suddenly we find ourselves having to perform an additional one. Normally, not a problem, but the beach house was, of course, out of toilet paper.

Considered and rejected ideas: 1) Not doing anything about it...I was getting in a hot tub, after all. Rejected as gross. 2) Hand. Gross, more so. 3) Using the tissue that was in the garbage can. Way too fucking gross.

After doing a quick search of the cabinets, I found my solution, and discovered that a big handful of cottonballs will do in a pinch.

I go back outside, and Girl and Guy #1 return after what seems like an e-fucking-ternity. I've just been waiting for them to get back so I can not sit in the hot tub by myself. They get in, and by now, I've had enough to drink so that getting in wearing my boxers seems like a fine idea. I get undressed right there, leave all my things in a pile, and climb into a hot tub with a hot chick friend of mine on my left, and a beer on my right. All is well with the world.

Five minutes later, Girl #2 tells Girl #1 she wants to leave.

Fuck. You. Fuck you, Girl #2.

Girl #1 apologizes, explaining "She's my ride." Annoyed, I stubbornly remain in the hot tub for a few more minutes, because I didn't get in just to get back out. During the five minutes where everything was fine, a male-female couple I didn't know had also joined us in the hot tub. I'm sitting there alone, with them. By now I've accidentally played footsy with the guy twice, and each time he's made the same weird bad joke. I feel I have no choice but to leave, considering everyone else I know is leaving too.

I grab a huge purple towel and dry off as I'm saying goodbye. Everyone leaves, and as I have no intention of driving home wearing wet boxers under my jeans, I decide to free ball it, heading for the bathroom to change back into dry clothes. There's a line.

As I'm standing there, out of nowhere, a girl strikes up a conversation with me. Her name is Megan, she's an easy laugher, which is great, and manages to somehow look like a young and cute redheaded Madonna. Various jokes are made. She blushes adorably several times during our conversation. The give and take is easy and the conversation freely flows with lots of laughs on both sides, when out of the blue, oh so suddenly my favorite part happens and she says, and I just have to fucking quote: "I'm going to go over there now."

Awesome.

So, I stand there for a few minutes, waiting for the bathroom, alone, running the conversation through my Creep-O-Meter, having it come up clean. I'm utterly confused. I come to no conclusion.

I change, and I leave, walking away from the party, alone, damp boxer shorts in hand.

"This evening will be salvaged," I swear to myself, and I dial up a girl with whom I've been exchanging emails. Last week, on a whim or curiousity or boredom, I looked through the 'women seeking men' ads on Craigslist, and found an ad from a girl who said she was from Chicago. Her ad was actually pretty dry and boring, but she did say she was recently single (as am I) and she mentioned that she was blond with green eyes. Blondes aren't my type at all, but between being a transplanted Chicagoan and having green eyes, I figured it couldn't hurt to write.

But it did. Her emails were pretty damn boring as well. In one of them, she said she was 'spiritual, but not religious.' Now, I'm all for being agnostic, or doing a little mixing or matching of the religious beliefs, but, to me, saying that you're 'spiritual, but not religious' is just so lazy and cliche. It sounds like something off a used car checklist, rather than an accurate description of a human being.

"This Chevy here has about 60,000 miles on it, got it's last oil change in January, and I'd say it's definitely spiritual, but not really religious."

The Green Eyed girl had called me earlier that day and left a message saying she was going to be down in my part of town at a BBQ and I should give her a call. That was at 3pm. It was now 10pm.

I got her voice mail. "Hey, this is L----, I can't talk right now because I'm stuck in LA traffic, so leave a message."

Would I come across as bitter or humorless if I said I would want to eventually kill myself if I had to hear that little comedy piece every time I called this woman and left a message?

I'm not even particularly inclined to date right now, as I just got out of a relationship and am sorting that out in my head. I guess I shouldn't have emailed her in the first place, but it seemed harmless enough at the time. She called tonight and I didn't answer. Maybe I'll just email her tomorrow and tell her I met someone at the party.

It's wonderful that mankind has now evolved to the point where we are virtually dumping each other without ever having actually dated.

I got home. I tell my roommate that I have had just enough beer that I can very happily continue to drink beer, or I can just go sit on the couch and watch MadTV. I express that it is my preference to drink more beer.

He's game, but to a limited extent. I proceed to harass him until he finally relents and agrees to go to Jessica's birthday party. We drive up there, and it's a good time. I see some people I haven't seen in a while, I run into some people I know from the theater and find out that parts of my little world overlap. Neat. Although the night does not include any serious debauchery, it's fun, and I leave happier than I arrived.

Fast food, couch, a few episodes of Cheers on dvd, and my Saturday came to an end.

Sunday was nice. Jonny and I made it a back to back movie event, and watched most of North America get destroyed in 'The Day After Tomorrow' (helpful hint: one can outrun a tidal wave if one tries hard enough, and a small fire will save you from temperatures that would flash freeze a wooly mammoth) and then we went to the next theater over and watched a man destroy his health in 'Super Size Me.'

I had been in the mood for Mexican food all day, but after that, I opted to make myself a vegetable stiry fry.