Turtles Rule, Boys Drool.

There are so many places to eat and things to see in Los Angeles, so many crazy happenings that I always mean to attend, but only seldom do I follow through on my lofty city-life goals.

Last night, my lovely roommate suggested that we finally carry out a Thursday night plan in Marina del Ray. This neighborhood-famous event is none other than:

Turtle Racing!! Wowee! We envision lanes of turtles happily charging, and us poised like Royal Tenenbaum, betting pennies. The early evening just crawls by as we wait to travel to Brennan's and drink/be merry. Look at the website! It's so inviting, I just can't believe it has taken us so long to go.


We stroll in to the pub and get our first beers. Served in plastic cups, oh that's cute... frat-chic. Let's go outside and see this shit!

There's a circle shaped court surrounded by wooden stands, and a stage at one end. Ok... no lanes. That's fine. But, the races actually start at 10:15, not 9pm as advertised, so we wait/shiver in the damp chill of the west side, chatting with some young sweet sk8r boi's until the stands have filled all around us and the game begins.

I look around me and see a mix of college hipsters and dude guys. And... what I can only describe as "skanks". I don't know what else to call girls who wear glam and stripper heels to Turtle Racing. "Why is Malibu Barbie here? It's just turtles!! Geez, LA is nuts alright," Carol thinks, riddled with naivety yet again.

It's $5 to race your very own turtle, so a few of us pony up a buck and race who will now be referred to as "Miss Johnson". Another cold half-hour passes while people claim turtles. After which, the rules are announced.

1. No pointing at the turtles! You can't point at the turtles. If you do, you get charged $10. If you do it again, $20. A third retarded time, $50. (I'm thinking that pointing must distract the turtles somehow, and thus it is prohibited.)
2. No getting up during the race.
3. No blocking cocktail waitresses.

Finally! The game begins! They race 4 turtles at a time, and a representative from each team must place their turtle in the ring in center of the court. The first team sends a lady up to get the turtle.

The judges and ref tell her to take off her coat and she giddily does so. Then she goes to the ring with her turtle.

And here's another rule: you have to place the turtle in the ring without bending your legs. If you do, you have to do it again, until you get it right. (Looks something like this: only, you know, add the "skank" element.) Oh and there's a dude taking a low-angle picture of your ass every time you do it.

Perhaps needless to type, my mouth is now dry from gaping for so long. I know now that I am at a thinly veiled college frat party. Oh.

After four women perform this stupid routine, the race actually starts. The turtles run from the center of the circle, in what I can only assume is pure fear. The race has to stop twice, though, because a few people always point.

They point at the turtles even though it is posted EVERYWHERE and they know they have to PAY. This is where I am totally divided once again by admiration and hatred for people like the turtle-racers: part of me is disgusted by the exploitation and encouragement of stupidity, and part of me does a slow clap for how much money they rake in every Thursday because people can't control themselves/don't listen.

Anyway, it's Miss Johnson's turn to race. Since we, the only girls in the group, will not do the honors, another girl volunteers. She looks like a twenty year-old hipster Glenn Close with horrible hair. A low blow, but true. She places Miss Johnson in the ring with yoga-like dexterity, and is still made to do it over, twice. Sigh.

Miss Johnson hauls turtle ass to the edge of the circle and WINS!! Yaayyy!! We feel a little better about our night.

Until Glenn Close picks her prize out of a laundry bag full of 99 cent store merchandise. And what does she pick, but old lady underwear! Did she put on the undies and prance around the circle?

You bet Miss Johnson's scrawny neck she did.

The night progressed with similar and much worse antics, until we were frozen enough to duck out. I swear to Christ I didn't mean for this to happen again, but I got tricked into yet another feminist battle!! I am all for sexiness (and strippers!), but why oh why do some girls think a jeer from a toolbox meat-head is a compliment? I tried to keep my mouth shut as the boys around us said it was "all in good fun". I tried to see the fun in it. But all I really saw was vapidness, danger, and at least two other genders apart from real men and women.

Despite the seedy underbelly of Brennan's Turtle Racing, I am glad I went. I almost hate to write this post and spoil the shock for others. I left in utter hysterics over just how deceived we were, just how low some girls will go to get attention, and just how much I didn't miss by going to a trade/art school in the city.