The Sunset strip

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I took some time off from cleaning cat poop and grabbed Blondie to head out to a party at my friend Randi’s apartment off Sunset Boulevard. It was one of those rare quiet evenings on the Sunset strip. The night sky was clear and filled with stars and for some reason, even the traffic was light. 

Randi was an artist, musician who I had met through my former live-in boyfriend Bobby the drunk. I parked my car one street over on Larabee and was surprised by how easy it was to find a parking space so close to her place. 

I walked Blondie up the hill for a little exercise and a bathroom break before heading to Randi’s. We were the first to arrive because I had offered to come early and help her get ready. There really wasn't anything to do once Blondie and I arrived. It was a low key party and guests were invited to BYOB  We placed some munchies out but that's about it.

Her home was decorated mid-century with her own art work on the walls. Besides being a rock-n-roll musician, Randi was a celebrated photographer and crazy artist who could make a masterpiece out of any trash you brought her. And her art was on every surface. She smoked cigarettes and was a pothead so the space smelled like a combination of stale cigarettes and marijuana. In fact, Randi was smoking a joint when we arrived. 

"Hi Susan, hi Blondie," she greeted us and tried to hand me the joint.

"No thanks," I told her. "I have precious cargo," I said motioning to Blondie, "and I have to drive through Laurel Canyon."

Blondie wagged her tail as if she approved of my decision. She proceeded to make herself at home, sniffing out the place she had been many times in the past. I guessed that there were new smells since she was there. 

Randi put the joint down in a bean bag ashtray and grabbed her guitar. She always had to have something in her hand, be it a joint, a cigarette or a guitar. I sat down on the floor next to Blondie and listened to Randi play the Blondie song, "Don't Leave Me Hanging on the Telephone."

"Did I tell you my friend wrote that song," she asked.

"No, I din't know that." I wasn't surprised since Randi seemed to know every musician and song writer in Los Angeles. I knew the night would be fun, with all her eclectic friends, myself and Blondie included.