So Paris Hilton and I are walking down the Santa Cruz Beach boardwalk, chattering away, or chin wagging as the British call it. It’s early morning, around 1:00 am. The air is damp and at that desolate hour, few people are about. I’m tired and ready to head home, but Paris wants to grab a bite and you know Paris. When she sets her mind to something there’s just no saying no, and she’s really jonesin’ for a burrito. Okay, fine.
We stop at an open-air café on the boardwalk. Under the fluorescent lights, the café’s bright yellow décor screams and offends my sleepy senses. The place is deserted, except for the Hispanic cleaning woman who is lugging around a large orange bucket and mop. Pools of water remain in spots that haven’t quite dried and she keeps telling us, “Recoja los pies.” Pick up your feet, while trying to mop underneath our tables. I tell Paris to hurry up and eat her damned burrito because I’m tired and she’s my drive home, but, oh no, here comes Nicole Richie and a couple other guys I don’t know. Great. Now we’ll be here forever.
Paris lights up when they join our table and I realize with dismay that this evening is far from over. Nicole is always getting on my case about being a party pooper and there’s no way she’ll let me flake out this early. After running the Iron Man Triathlon in Hawaii that day, I am dead tired and want nothing more than to go to bed. But I’m at the mercy of Paris, who shows no signs of leaving. Damn.
One of Nicole’s friends is an older man with curly gray hair, a white goatee and round, rimless glasses. He is furious with Rush Limbaugh, he tells us, furious! He explains that Rush has sketched a very offensive portrait and this man at our table is quivering with anger, so livid is he.
What did Rush draw, I ask? From the side of my eye I notice that the cleaning woman has mopped around a large clump of mud that has suddenly appeared in the middle of the café’s black and white checkerboard floor. She should clean up the mud, I think to myself.
But back to Rush. Seems he sketched a color portrait of a black bear cub squirting a golden arch of pee on a hardback autobiography written by President Dwight Eisenhower. Hmmm, I quip. Sounds like someone doesn’t like Ike. Paris groans at my lame attempt at a joke and Nicole points out that the mud that was on the floor has been rolled up inside a burrito and is now on a plate before me.
I’ve never tried a mud burrito before so I take a bite, but don’t care for it. Paris and Nicole decide they’re tired of eating and want to go shopping. Go, I tell them. I’ll find my own way home because I’m too tired to join them. They leave the café and I find myself stuck with the angry man who keeps ranting about Rush. Whatever, I tell him. Get over it. While he continues dissing Rush, the cleaning woman is mopping around us and I munch on the mud burrito. It’s not so bad after all.
And when I wake up, thick-headed and disoriented, I vow to never again binge on brownies and ice cream right before bedtime.