Cocaine By Association

Resolution: I won’t date women I meet in bars. ~ McCleary 01/01/2000

Coming to this decision at the time wasn’t too hard for me. That is not to say its practice wasn’t without difficulty. Back then, I was working quite a bit as a dj at clubs around Hollywood. When asked by friends what that job is like, I usually said the following, “Well, you get to play whatever music you want to hear all night. You get free drinks and are encouraged to let customers buy you drinks. There is always the opportunity to meet pretty girls at work. And, at the end of the night, they hand you some cash and say, ‘I’ll see you next week.’” All in all, it’s not a bad deal.

Still, for me, the job was not without its drawbacks. Around that time, there was a huge influx of cocaine back into the Hollywood bar scene that went hand in hand with a big heavy metal revival at the clubs. I was finding more and more that I was getting requests when I was spinning by coked out retro metal kids. “Do you have any Iron Maiden?” “No,” I’d answer, “not tonight.” And they would come right back with, “Well, then how ‘bout some Judas Priest?” Look, if I don’t have any Maiden in my bag, then I sure as hell don’t have any Priest. Y’know? Still, this was becoming far too regular occurrence for me. Maybe I just wasn’t up with the times. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

“If God dropped acid, would he see people?” ~ Steven Wright

My whole thing with drugs my entire adult life, well, my life going back to high school when drugs first entered my world, has been that I have to observe somebody on it before I’d ever consider trying it. I remember in 9th grade a girl in my freshman Algebra I class having to be physically removed by school administrators because she was having a bad acid trip in class. That was enough to keep me away from L.S.D. for life. I noticed that kids who messed with heroin tended to fall asleep at inopportune times in awkward places, and when they woke up, if no one was around they were very likely to make off with pieces of your stereo equipment or easily pawned kitchen appliances. “Hey, where’s Barry? And, where’s my cd changer?”

“Nobody saves America by sniffing cocaine. Jiggling your knees blank eyed in the rain, when it snows in your nose, you catch cold in your brain.” ~ Allen Ginsberg

My experience with cocaine was much the same. First of all, snorting blow has got to be one of the least sexy looking ways to ingest a drug. Maybe it’s just me, but sticking a straw up your nose and putting your face down to a table top or mirror to snort a rail just looks depraved. I don’t get it. Cocaine makes you crap. Also, once people are coked up all they want to do is talk (and drink), which under some circumstances would be entertaining, but coke heads only really want to tell you the same story over and over six different ways. On top of that, they only want to hear it from their own perspective so there is no back and forth in the conversation or getting a word in edgewise. If they don’t have a story to tell you then they’re more than happy to tell you how great they are and how anything and everything else is bullshit. You become, very quickly, an unwitting prisoner to whatever it is they want to talk about… unless… the person that is holding the coke leaves the room, in which case your captor who is trying to reinvent the sounding board as some form of internationally banned torture has to go find them on the chance that they’re doing more blow and leaving them out. Yeah, I know I’m a big square, but I’m just not interested.

At that time, back in the late 90’s, I was noticing that the women I was meeting in bars were leading to far too many freak show encounters either later that same evening or down the road if I managed a date with them. One instance in particular sticks with me. I was dj-ing a Thursday night at The Viper Room for my friend Dean, who was mc-ing a Pussy Cat Dolls show (the original retro burlesque incarnation, not the Pop 40 act they are these days). Dean, gods bless him, brought over a stunning redhead named Jamie to the dj booth, made introductions, and left us to our own devices. I “bought” her some free drinks during the course of the evening (I did mention the perks of my job, right?), had some great conversation about soul music, and when last call came around I invited her to hang out after hours (I did mention the perks of my job, right?!).

After hours, we had another drink while I packed up my gear and waited to get paid out. Jamie mentioned that she needed a ride home, so naturally, I offered her one. On the way home Jamie asked what I’d be up to the remainder of the evening (wee morning hours). “Well, I’ll unload my records, and then I thought I’d watch a little Perry Mason before going to bed.” “Really?” she replied. “I love Perry Mason and I’m a little obsessed with Paul Drake. Mind if I join you?” Are you kidding me? So, we go back to my place and really never got around to watching any Perry Mason if you know what I mean.

In the morning, I wake up to call in late to work. I make the call and then retreat to the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash some cold water on my face to begin the healing process from a largely sleepless night. When I emerge, Jamie is sitting on my couch, topless, cutting a couple lines of blow on my coffee table. I’m not sure I’m actually seeing this moment correctly in my head, so I rub eyes and do a double-take. No, that IS what she’s doing. I’m not awake enough to make any coherent comment on the situation so I go and crawl back into bed. Jamie does her lines and then sequesters herself in my bathroom for an undefined period of time. I presume she’s taking a crap. At some point, I hear the shower running. When Jamie emerges from the bathroom she gets back into bed with me and has to tell me with a level of detail even the most marginally sane person would find unreasonable how impressed she is that I left the seat down on the toilet for her. Yeah. “My hero!” *Sigh* How do I get myself into these situations?

I dig down and get myself motivated, out of bed and dressed. I tell Jamie I need to drive her home so I can get to work. She gets dressed and off we go. On the car ride to her place in Hollywood, I get to hear a mile a minute story about why this woman doesn’t have a car these days. Apparently, she had a car which she bought from her cousin on payments, which she fell behind on because she’s only working part-time for a florist. How did I not notice this the night before? Thankfully, although there’s no hope of me getting any comment in whatsoever during her tale, I can focus on driving making her rambling a kind of substitute for talk radio. Long story short, her cousin, who lives in the valley, repossessed the car from her without warning, but told her she could have it back, for free, if she would do a couple scenes in a porno he was producing. Classy.

When we get to her place, right away she mentions, “You know, you haven’t even asked me for my phone number yet.” “Really?” I reply, “I’m sorry. Crazy night. Yes, of course I want your number.” I come up with a scrap of paper and a pen and she jots it down for me. Then she produces her cell phone and gets me to give her my number which she keys in. I give her a kiss goodbye and get on my way to the office. When I get to the corner of her block to make my turn, I notice her number lying on the passenger seat. I pick it up, crumble it and toss it out the window before heading on my way. These are problems I do not need. Four or five days later I come home from work to a message from Jamie on my answering machine calling me every form of asshole one can imagine for not calling her. Still, I can’t help but think I got off easy.

After some reflection on my dating fiascos of the late 90’s, I decided that bad light and alcohol was not the way to go about meeting people. Making my decision about not dating women I meet in bars was not a difficult one. For the most part of the 21st century, I have stuck to my Y2K resolution. I noticed right away in the year 2000 and then again in 2001, that the qualities of the women I was dating were much more outstanding and appealing and a lot less freaky and frightening. I don’t think I went out with a single woman during that time who would go anywhere near a line… and I wasn’t complaining, so I’ve stuck to it (for the most part ~ nobody’s perfect) since.

Fast forward to this past July, and if you’ve been keeping up with my writings at all, then you know that I have had no shortage of bad, bad dates lately despite not meeting any of these women in bars. My disaster quotient for dates has got to be higher than any of my single friends. Whenever I’m at a dinner or party with friends and the topic of conversation turns to bad date stories, I can always tell the winning tale. I generally don’t have the heart to relive my worst ones, so I tend to settle on a story that is only marginally more awful than the ones told by the other guests. If someone chimes in after me with a story that is worse, then I always have an ace left in my back pocket with which to trump. As my most recent serious ex told me recently when complaining about what’s out there in the dating pool these days, “All the normal ones are taken.”

One Friday in late July of this year, I found out quite suddenly that I was being laid off from my job. Specifically, I found out at 4:00 p.m. that I was to be out by 4:30. Yeah, thanks for the heads up. Sheesh. Rather than rant and rave or cause a scene, I decided that it was for the best and that the only thing for me to do really, in the short term, was to go out that night, tie one on and howl at the moon. These jerks, my former bosses, were doing me a favor. I wasn’t happy there anyway. I was having a very good day.

I made some calls and decided the only place for me to go that night was the Burgundy Room in Hollywood. I know bartenders and the dj there and that a few of my friends would be going. Also, their mixed drinks are large and effective. I get home, have dinner and throw back a couple beers while watching the Angels game. I shower and get myself dolled up, check the mirror to make sure I’m happy with what I see before heading out to Hollywood at bar time on the subway.

At the Burgundy Room, I quickly locate my friends at the shallow end (closest to the door) of the bar. It takes me all of a minute to tell them my unexpected layoff story and have a cocktail (Stoli tonic) and a shot (Jagermeister) placed in front of me. Post time. And they’re off… I was having a very good day. Shortly after downing my shot and starting my cocktail, I notice a pretty young woman who I don’t know hanging on the fringes of my circle of friends, but is definitely checking me out. She’s a tall, maybe 5’7”, but it’s hard to tell because of her heels, slim, brunette and wearing jeans and little white top that tastefully reveals her cleavage. I work my way over to where she’s standing, say hi and introduce myself. She tells me her name is Victoria and that she’s friends with one of the bartenders there I really don’t know that well. I run through the names of my friends that work there or are regulars and we quickly discover we know a lot of the same folks.

Soon after this, she’s distracted by some of her own friends and drifts away from our conversation. I go back to my friends, down my cocktail, order another and then go out front to have a smoke and chat with my friend, Torrance, the doorman. While I’m out there, Victoria appears to have a smoke and right away we start chatting again. I can tell there is chemistry working between us. The attraction is definite and present. Victoria lets me know that she just popped in that night to say hello to a friend and that she has to be on her way. I don’t even consider my rule about not meeting women in bars, let her know I’d like to see her again, and ask for her number. She smiles and gives me the digits which I key into my cell phone. I was having a very good day!

The night continues and the cocktails flow from the glass to my stomach and into my bloodstream where they do their work… most effectively. Before I know it, I’m quite drunk. At around a quarter to one in the morning I realize it’s time for me to start thinking about heading home. The last train from Hollywood to Koreatown leaves around 1:05. I start saying my goodbyes and making my way to the door. Once outside, I need to say goodnight to Torrance, but he’s distracted by a group of people he’s holding court with. While I’m waiting for Torrance to finish talking to whoever he’s talking to, I notice another couple girls hanging out front, and one of them, once again is definitely checking me out. Well, this is more like she’s undressing and raping me with her eyes. This woman is very petite, Asian, wearing tight leather pants, three inch heels and a little tank top. Wow.

Rather than wait for Torrance to finish, because often times there’s no telling when you can grab his attention, I decide to bolt and head for the train. While I’m walking up the block my internal monologue becomes a dialogue and starts fighting with me. “I need to get home.” “No, you need to go talk to that Asian girl.” “I already got a promising number tonight.” “So go get another. What if Victoria doesn’t work out?” “I’ll miss my train.” “Oh c’mon, you’re a resourceful mofo, you can find a ride.” At that point, halfway up the block I stop dead in my tracks, turn on my heel and head back to the bar. What the hell? So what if I have to take a cab home. Wasn’t I having a very good day?

Inside I quickly locate the sexy Asian girl and her friend and make my way over. I’m greeted by a huge smile. Introductions are made, drinks are bought, rather, free drinks are “bought” all around, it turns out we all know the same bartenders and have many of the same friends. LA is a small town in more ways than you’d think. The Asian girl, Roni (short for Veronica) and her friend, Mandy (short for Mandingo, ok maybe not) are out with the same intentions as I am that night, to howl at the moon, and from what I can make out, they are doing as good, if not better, a job at it than I am. As if on cue, the dj shifts the music from punk rock to 80’s dance and electro. Roni and I quickly find some open space in the tiny, crowded bar and start getting down. We spend the better part of the last hour the bar is open dancing very, very close to each other. Our hands are all over each other. It’s on and I’m into it. I was having a very good day!

At last call, I let the girls know that I am without a ride, and if they could swing by Koreatown on their way home, then I’d really appreciate a lift. What’s this? A ride? No problem. After last call, we are allowed to stay after hours at the bar while they close up (one of the perks of having friends that work there). Roni and I have another drink, which for me, was totally unnecessary, but certainly passed the time. Mandy had stopped drinking an hour or so earlier as she’s now the driver. Sometime around 2:30 a.m., Roni gets a text message letting her know there is an after hours party going on in West Hollywood at one of her friend’s places. It takes her and Mandy all of 5 seconds to decide they’re going. Would I like to come with? Well, lemme see… I can take a cab home… or I can continue partying with this girl I am very attracted to… hmmm, that’s a tough one.

Roni, Mandy and I make it to the party in WeHo and right away I can tell that this is not exactly the place I want to be. I recognize quite a few folks from the cocaine crowd that hangs around the Burgundy Room, including a dealer. Still, I’m out to party that night, there’s good music playing and I’m with a pretty girl. Things could be worse. I manage to locate a couple beers for Roni and I (Mandy is taking her driving responsibility seriously) even though I’m totally blasted at this point. Hey, I’m out having more than my USRDA of fun. At some point later on, we’re all sitting in the living room, well Mandy and I are sitting, Roni is sitting in my lap, when Roni leans into my ear and whispers, “Do you wanna go in the bathroom and fuck?” Have I mentioned I was having a very good day? “Yes,” I quickly reply, “Let’s go.”

We go to a bathroom in the back of the house and lock the door behind us. Roni goes to the sink and starts digging in her purse. I come up behind her, put my hands on that part of her little hips right above her ass and turn her around. We start to kiss for a few seconds before I reach up and cup one of her breasts. Right away, as if jolted by electricity, Roni pushes me away. “What are you doing?” Before I can answer there comes a knock at the door followed by an “it’s me!” Roni opens the door and lets Mandy in. I take a seat on the edge of the tub and start thinking, “Am I in for a three way?” Sadly, I wasn’t. Roni gets into her purse and produces a baggy of coke which she and Mandy share. At least they were polite and offered me some… I declined as delicately as possible considering the close quarters. “Thanks, but that’s not really my thing.” It was then that I realized what Roni had said in my ear was not “do you wanna go in the bathroom and fuck,” but “do you wanna go in the bathroom and do a bump.” I’m sure it was just a case of my intoxicated subconscious playing a cruelly unnecessary game of wishful thinking with me.

After that, I was pretty much ready to go, but that was not in the cards. I was out after hours with the cocaine crowd, and all they were really interested in was doing more blow… and talking shit. At the party, I found myself, once again being the sounding board for any number of people really only interested in the sound of their own voice. Eventually, it got late enough and the girls were ready to take me home. I think it was around 5:30 in the morning at this point. I’d finished that last beer around 3:30, shortly before Roni led me to the toilet. After that, there was no more alcohol in the house to be had, not that I really needed it. I was done.

“I've never had a problem with drugs. I've had problems with the police.” ~ Keith Richards

Mandy gets behind the wheel, Roni grabs shotgun and I pour myself into the back seat. We start heading south on La Brea, and at the corner of Melrose, we have to stop at a red light right next to a cop. When the light goes green and we pull away, the cop doesn’t even wait until we’ve crossed the street to light us up. Mandy pulls over and starts freaking out. “Oh my god, what do I do?” Roni reminds her to tell the cops, if they ask, that she hasn’t been drinking. In fact, at this point, it had been more than 4 hours since her last drink, so she was probably fine. The cop who comes to her window tells her she’s being pulled over because her windows are too tinted. What bullshit. Of course, he then asks where we’re coming from and if she’s been drinking. She says yes, but nothing since 11 o’clock, which isn’t entirely true, but she should have just straight up lied to the cop and said no.

The cops of course now have cause, so they get her out of the car to perform a field sobriety test. Roni starts freaking out. She’s sure Mandy is going to jail. I try to be the calming voice of reason from the back seat. I tell her that Mandy is fine. She hasn’t had a drink in hours. She’ll pass the test and we’ll be on our way. Then a couple minutes turns into 10 and then 15 minutes and Mandy still hasn’t come back. It’s then that I start worrying. I’m telling Roni that cops are just being pricks trying to scare her, but I can no longer help but agree that this situation isn’t looking good. Eventually, one of the cops comes to the window on the passenger side and lets us know that Mandy blew a .09 in the field breathalyzer and has been arrested. The cop then asks if either of us is sober enough to drive her car home so he won’t have to have it impounded saving Mandy an additional hassle with an already horrible situation. I’m shocked Mandy blew that high, but right away I volunteer to drive her car, provided I don’t get arrested too the second I put the key in the ignition.

The cop tells me, “No problem. I can give you the breathalyzer test before you drive to make sure you’re under the limit.” Really? Then he asks me, “How much did you have to drink tonight?” “A lot,” I reply. I also let him know I was drinking way later in the night than Mandy. Then I step up and blow a .03 on the machine. That’s less than half the legal limit. I can’t believe it. I almost want to ask him if I can blow again. The cop tells me that different people’s bodies process alcohol at different rates. I almost want to protest my drunkenness. I was on a mission that night. Now I felt cheated. Then again, once when I was in my early twenties I got pulled over for suspected DUI on a night I wasn’t drinking. I told the CHP officers who pulled me over that I wasn’t drinking, but when I blew in their field breathalyzer, I blew a .032. The cops told me that this proved to them, that while I was below the legal limit, I was lying to them which gave them cause to impound my car and take me to the hospital for an official blood test. Thankfully, that night it was just a scare tactic. The cops sat me along the side of I5, handcuffed, for about 20 minutes before cutting me loose and telling me to drive safely. Now, on this night, I’m wondering how I can have drink after drink and blow a BAC less than I did on a night I was stone sober. I’m convinced DUI, while dangerous and wrong, is a big money scam for law enforcement. The cop hands me Mandy’s keys and I go about getting Roni and myself home. She tells me on the drive east, “Thank god the blow is in my purse and not hers. She really could have been in a lot more trouble.” Hey, what are friends for, right? Needless to say, all those sparks that were flying earlier are now gone. Was this a very good day?

That Saturday, when I come to, I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach and punched in the face. 30-something McCleary doesn’t have the powers of recovery the 20-something version did. My hangover lasts all through Saturday and well into Sunday. .030? Seriously? Maybe it had something to do with not getting to bed until nearly 7 a.m. and it wasn’t as much about the boozing. Sunday evening, I realize that all was not lost. I have a hot number burning in my phone from Friday night’s debauchery. I give Victoria a call and leave her a message. I don’t hear back from her until Monday night, but when she calls she tells me that her and some girlfriends are meeting at Safari Sam’s to have a drink and see a band. Would I like to come out and meet them? Yes I would, provided I can get a ride home at the end of the night. No problem. Maybe that Friday was a very good day after all.

Once again, I get all gussied up and take the subway up to Hollywood. I find Victoria and her friends at the bar and settle in for some live music and a couple beers. This is the first chance at any extended conversation the two of us have had. Victoria tells me that she is 32 years old and is recently divorced from an eight year marriage. She has a two year old son from that relationship. She thinks she got married too young and the two of them grew apart as they matured, but now she is interested in dating again because, as she said, “Now that I’m not married, I need something in my life to complain about.” I laugh on the outside, but internally I don’t register this as a good sign. Victoria, once again, looks gorgeous. She’s wearing a nifty little black dress and heels that really show off her legs. Hey, what can I do? I’m a man… and us guys are visual… I like what I see, so I decide to ignore the warning signs and shift to offense. I make sure to laugh at her jokes, ask leading questions that show an active interest, and, whenever possible, start to breakdown the physical space between us by reaching out and touching her every so often to accent whatever point either of us was making.

Victoria’s friends were all very cool and funny. One of these ladies even went to Hamilton (that’s where I went to high school), so there was no shortage of things to talk about even if I didn’t have my date's undivided attention. Her friend’s band was wild as hell, so all in all it was a good time. After the band finished its set, I get Victoria to give me a ride home and was very pleased when she accepted my invitation to come up stairs for a nightcap. We settled in on the couch with our drinks. I put some T-Rex on the turntable and started thinking that while there might be some things here that I’m not going to like, that right now, in this moment, things could very well be ON between us. After a couple songs, I see a nice opportunity, so I lean in and give Victoria a slow, sweet, somewhat passionate kiss. She kisses back for a few moments and then pulls away. She looks deeply into my eyes and says, “Y’know, I thought those bumps I did earlier tonight at the club would keep me awake, but I’m just really tired.”

Are you kidding me? I mean, are you kidding me?! This woman has a two year old and she’s going out on a Monday and doing blow. How on earth do I find these women, over and over? Then she asks me if it’s ok if she spends the night because she lives out near Pasadena and has to come back this way for work the next day anyway. Her kid is with his dad. Well, ok. I give her some sweats and get myself changed and into bed while she’s in the bathroom presumably doing the same. Quite possibly, she’s taking a crap. I grab my phone and delete her number. She comes out of the bathroom and slides into bed next to me. We talk a little bit while drifting towards sleep. Meanwhile, my internal dialogue starts its arguing again. “Go to sleep.” “You should try to hump this woman in bed next to you who you're never going to see again.” “Go to sleep.”

Gunfight at the RWST Corral

9/25/08

"Sweating in any form just makes me feel so alive." Lines like that in an email tend to catch my attention and drag it (merrily, merrily, merrily) into the gutter. I'd "met" this woman online and although we hadn't actually met in person yet, we were very much into the e-flirtation part of the courting process, which is so much a part of 21st century dating.

For my married and recluse friends, let me breakdown the differences between dating in the 20th century vs. this one. In the 20th century, it was boy meets girl. They fall in love. Boy loses girl, but can't get over it, so he begins stalking her. Girl files a restraining order. Nowadays, things are a little different. You just can't go up to a woman and say hello without running the risk of being looked at like you're an A#1 creep-ola. So, boys and girls meet online because, and this is going to sound strange, it feels safer. You send emails back and forth for an undefined period of time, and if both parties are comfortable with the subject matter, levels of wit, spelling, grammar and punctuation, eventually phone numbers are exchanged. From that point, you can pretty much refer back to what dating was like in the last century.

Another thing meeting women online has forced me to do is expand my dating perimeters. For those of you who know me, then you probably know that for a long time I limited my dating radius to women who reside in the 213, 323 and 310 area codes. I wouldn't take my show on the road to the Valley, the I.E. or behind the Orange Curtain. Now I just exclude women who list their favorite book as either Catcher in the Rye (I haven't read anything since high school) or The Da Vinci Code (I only read it because everyone else did, or I just the saw movie and really think the films of Ron Howard are more than just populist crap).

Let's get back to sweating and how alive it makes one feel, eh? Well, this woman, Allison, was talking about how much she likes to workout, so get your minds out of the gutter. She was, however, definitely flirting too, and that's always appreciated. After the appropriate amount of e-flirting back and forth, eventually we exchanged numbers and began chatting on the phone. Allison lives in San Dimas and that might as well have been on the moon as far I'm concerned. I still don't drive. All I know is there is a major water park (Raging Waters) there and the town is the primary setting for the 80's classic, Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure ("Strange things are afoot at the Circle K").

"Los Angeles is 72 suburbs in search of a city." ~ Dorothy Parker

By some twist of fate or miracle of serendipity, the fact that I don't drive doesn't seem bother Allison in the least. Rather, she finds my urban lifestyle choices fascinating. She tells me, "LA just seems so exotic to me. I've lived here all my life, but I've only been out there a couple times to hangout, and then just Santa Monica at the beach." Apparently, she grew up in the HB (Huntington Beach for those not up on their OC lingo) and moved to San Dimas a few years ago to attend nursing school. I share with her some of the magic and mystery that is Koreatown and before I know it, a date is made. She wants to come out to LA and for me to take her around and show her a good time. I can do that.

On the evening of our date, I'm debating whether to take her to Korean BBQ (there are no meats she excludes from her diet) or Korean Sushi (not the place with the still living lobsters I wrote about a few months back). I've already decided not to take her to either of these places on the subway. Allison arrives at my place, and right away I'm stunned… in a good way. This woman is prettier than her picture, and lemme tellya, she's got some eye-catching pics posted on her page. She's wearing heels, a skirt and a sleeveless top that shows off the muscle tone in her arms. Have I mentioned how alive sweating makes this woman feel?

I'm almost thankful she excuses herself to the restroom (and extremely thankful I had cleaned it earlier that day) when she gets here to freshen up after the long drive. It gives me a moment to collect myself. All I can think is that I hope I don't screw this date up. When she emerges, we start talking about where to eat. She tells me, "I've had the strangest craving for pizza all week. Is there any place good around here to get some pizza and maybe a glass of wine?" Can anyone say, Mr. Pizza Factory? Love for women? "I know just the place," I respond quickly then begin fearing this just might be the point where I screw things up. Korean pizza may be good for fashionable Koreans and weird white guys like yours truly, but I'm not so sure about pretty young ladies from suburbia more accustomed to BJ's or CPK.

We drive over (she drives, naturally) and she is immediately taken by the décor, the ambiance and the whole surreal experience that is Mr. Pizza Factory. I order us a salad and a bottle of white wine to share. As for the pizza, I go Nude. Shrimp Nude, that is. I'll spare you all the details as to just what's on that pie. Ok, ok, I'll tell you this much: shrimp, corn niblets, cheese Danish crust. Thankfully, Mr. Pizza did not disappoint. Love for Women! The food was, as it always is there, absolutely delish and Allison was completely enthralled with the whole experience. She thinks my world, K-town, is equal parts Blade Runner and Breakfast at Tiffany's.

The conversation and the laughter flowed easily and naturally during our meal, so much so, I wasn't overly eager to have the check arrive and dinner end. On the way back to my place, Allison insisted on taking the leftovers back to San Dimas because, as she said, "My friends just aren't going to believe this shit!" We get to my place and I invite her up for a cup of tea before she heads back home. "Do you have any chamomile?" she asks. I do. "Well, then I'd love some." Perfect.

We head up stairs and I'm thanking my lucky stars I didn't screw this evening up by taking her to one of the two or three strangest restaurants I know. Feel free to ask me for the others… I put the teapot on the stove and some Isaac Hayes on the turntable (he had just passed at the time) and we settle in on the couch. Allison is telling me about how she is working as well as going to school to help support her parents because her father needs a surgery and can't work at the moment. Prettier than her picture and a saint too? Pinch me.

It's at around this time that the teapot starts to whistle, so I dash off to the kitchen to make the tea. It's shortly after this that I hear, very loud, very close outside, "Pop!" and then, "Pop! Pop-Pop!" I know right away what the sound is. As I dash back to the living room I see Allison heading over to the window saying, "What is that?" This is almost drained out by whole other slew of "Pops!" and "Bangs!" in rapid succession. There is a full-blown gun battle going on in the street outside my apartment. I scream at Allison to get the fuck away from the window. I'd guess there was between 20 and 25 shots fired total. From outside, we hear tires screeching and, "We're ROCKWOOD muthafuckas!" And then, "RockWOOOOOD! RockWOOOOOOD!"

Rockwood Street Gang is the name of the Latino gang that calls my block its home turf. For the most part, they're pretty quiet other than loud music and hanging out on the stoops of the buildings the gang bangers live in down the street (not in my building). They like to leave their tag RWST as large as possible on the wall of the church on the corner as often possible. They tag and then the church paints over it… and then they tag… and so on and so on. I did a little research on these murderers and future inmates and found they have a myspace page: http://www.myspace.com/lostangeles79. Click on it if you dare. When I first found the page, they had a great picture of my block taken from one of the rooftops here. Whoever it is took that pic down, but he's interested in meeting girls with whom he can talk without any "drama." Ladies…? Whaddya say?

"When I hold you in my arms and I feel my finger on your trigger I know no one can do me no harm because happiness is a warm gun." ~ John Lennon

Allison is noticeably, understandably freaked. She's now on the couch shaking, telling me that she's never heard gunshots so close and that stuff like this just doesn't happen anywhere she's ever lived. From outside, I can hear the sounds of screaming coming from the street, and this isn't someone screaming, "Rockwood." Allison is telling me she needs to get out of my apartment and now. I'm trying to tell her that it would be better to let things cool down outside before she tries to go anywhere when a whole armada cop cars come and block up most of the street.

Allison and I now go to the window to check out the goings on. We quickly identify the source of the screaming as coming from one of the gangsters who was shot in the leg and is lying in the street. A group of six cops, guns drawn, go to him, handcuff him and drag him to the sidewalk in front of my building where they deposit him. They also apprehend one of his homies who they bring up the street to the top of the block where they put him in a squad car. Eventually, an ambulance and two fire trucks arrive to join the dozen or so cop cars that are now blocking my street. We watch from the window as the cops interrogate the wounded gang banger in front of my building for about 15 minutes before finally taking him to the ambulance.

The arrival of armed authority in force has done little to settle Allison down. "Look, I just can't be around this. This isn't right. I need to get out of here. Now." I can see that there is nothing I can do to save what had been, up to that point, a near perfect evening and even less that I can do to get her to stay. While she gets in her car, I go to the cop whose black & white is blocking my alley and tell him that my girlfriend needs to leave to go to work and that we only heard the shots and didn't see anything. He lets her pass and she's gone without giving me so much as a hug. I give her a call the next day and then send her an email and don't hear anything back.

Thanks RWST. Sweating makes her feel so alive… and gunshots scare the living crap out of her.

Who Let the Dogs Out?

9/1/08

"So, do you have time for that lunch we've been trying for today?" Lori asked me. The lead up to the question had thoroughly extracted me from the somnambulistic reveries I surround myself with while I'm at the office. I was a thousand miles away, and then, suddenly, present chatting with the foxy cougar, Lori Lopez-Lopez, in my office who had stopped by my desk to catsup.

"Yeah, today works. What time you wanna go?" I ask eager for the chance to expand on the limited banter we share every so often around the office.

"How 'bout now? I'm starving." I'm in and we're off to the elevator lobby and on our way out for a bite. Lunch was going to be something simple. I had just had some dental work done and neither of us had a lot of time that day to really luxuriate away from our duties in the office, so we just went downstairs here in the building and found something easy.

Look, before I start getting a bunch of emails and comments chastising me for dating at work, let me just say that it is not something I do… anymore. I learned (re-learned) my lesson by making that mistake with a co-worker about 6 years ago. Things were great for a couple months with this woman and me and then, suddenly, things were far, far less than even mediocre with us for a couple months, which led, ultimately, to our breakup. This wouldn't have been so bad, we did have some laughs at the beginning, but now we still worked together and I was no longer laughing. Basically, she initiated a series of awkward, inappropriate and uncomfortable moments in the office over the next two years I worked there. Lesson learned.

Still, if the foxy cougar in my office today asks me to lunch, you better believe I'm going to say yes because even if she's not exactly swimming in my dating pool, that doesn't mean I'm not the kind of guy who wouldn't enjoy lunch and conversation with an attractive member of the opposite sex… and I hate my job, so further on down the road, who knows? Right? And, besides, where would I get the material for these little diatribes if I didn't accept an invitation here and there? You people, my so-called friends (ha!), are so lucky I am willing to suffer so that I might share later!

My primary goal at lunch that day was to keep the topics of conversation away from anything related to the goings on at work and to have some laughs. I can be, when inspired, amusing. After picking up some protein, fat n' fiber wrapped in a tortilla (we went for Mexican) and grabbing some seats, I managed to ask how Lori's weekend was. It seemed like a safe enough question at the time. She hedged quite a bit with her answer at first, when she simply replied that it was fine, nothing exciting. Of course, I couldn't just let it go at that, so I pressed a little for details. I asked, "Really? Nothing?"

And then Lori takes a deep breath as if she's downloading extra verbiage from the air between her head and the ceiling and launches into it. "Well, I have dogs. I have two dogs. The German Retriever is 14 and a Spritzing Spaniel who is 12." At this point I know I'm in trouble. There's no turning back. There is no escape. I'm going to hear all about it. And now, you, my (so-called) friends and (sometimes) readers are too.

"I've seen a look in dogs' eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts." ~ John Steinbeck

Clearly, Lori's dogs are getting up there in pet years. A 14-year run is pretty good for any pet I'd say unless you're the owner (keeper) of a tortoise or a parrot. Naturally, at that age, Lori's dogs are having problems. The Retriever has arthritis and the Spaniel has cancer. She tells me that her dogs are better off on a special diet which supplements the medications her veterinarian has ordered for them, and in the case of the Spritzie Spaniel, takes the edge off the animal's chemotherapy.

It's at this point I start thinking about the cats from my last entry here (Korean Sushi – Dait Bate). In reality, this encounter with Ms. Lopez-Lopez happened just days after I posted that story, so they were fresh on my mind. Sorry, I've been slow on the blogging. You can pay me half this month what you usually pay me for these stories! Specifically, I'm thinking if I should bring up the cats as an amusing aside or counterpoint to her sick doggies, but Lori is getting on a roll and I can tell now is not the time to try to steer the conversation anywhere other than where she's going with it.

"I spent a couple hours Saturday afternoon shopping at Ralphs and then Trader Joe's for the ingredients for the dog's meals for the week," she tells me. Can you tell where I'm going with this? "And then I went home and spent the evening chopping, prepping and cooking for them." Yes, she prepares and cooks all her dog's meals. In her defense, what she was cooking for the dogs didn't sound too bad. It was some kind of beef, vegetable and grain stew. I think there was bacon in it too. Maybe I'm just projecting. Ok, I hope there was bacon in it too. What man or beast can resist bacon? I could do without the special fish oil she had to go to three stores to find.

Here I am, trying to remain active in the conversation, but I'm still quietly thinking about the cats. Now I'm thinking telling her about them might not be the best idea, but I really want to get them in there somehow. Originally, I was going to frame it in the context of the troubles a (crazy) misguided, well-meaning pet owner can cause to an otherwise healthy animal. Then I tried looking at it in terms of the folly of spending thousands of dollars at the vet, but I can't come up with a way to inject it into the conversation without sounding judgmental in relation to Lori's dog situation. I decide to let sleeping dogs lie (sorry, I couldn't resist squeezing that idiom in here somewhere).

Instead, I ask, "So what did you end up making yourself for dinner that night?" Her answer comes quickly, "Oh, I just heated up a can of lentil soup from Trader Joe's." Even more quickly comes my retort, "Let me get this straight. You spend hours cooking for the dogs, yet your dinner comes from a can." Damnit, I was trying not to sound judgmental. Smartass. I'd have been better off bringing up the cats.

Lori dives further into the care her dogs require. Apparently, she won't let them be left alone for more than 4 – 5 hours at a time. She has a neighbor go to her house everyday at lunchtime to see they're fed their special diet and medicated. She goes straight home from work every night to care for their needs. She uses much of her sick time from work to taxi them to and from the veterinarian for their various ailments. The Spritzer needs his chemo after all. She sums up her current relationship with her animals by telling me that if she ever felt the special care for her dogs wasn't helping their suffering or taking too big a chunk of time out of her life then she'd consider having them put to sleep, but she hasn't reached that point yet. Clearly, there's still some fun left in her puppies, but, like the cats, I keep that thought to myself.

Korean Sushi: Dait Bate

6/13/08

"Maybe it would just be easier if you told me what you willfully exclude from your diet." Getting to this point had not been without its challenges. These are the questions you need to ask if you want a date in this town. I'd been trying to get together with Cheryl for dinner, coffee, cocktails… whatever… since I met her at a friend's party about three and half weeks prior.

"Well, I'm a vegetarian, but only sorta kinda," was Cheryl's reply. At that party, Cheryl had been a lot of fun, very cute and not without her own special brand of charming neurosis. In short, I was very attracted to this woman. We had spent a great deal of time bantering back and forth, making eye contact and flirting within the group dynamic of the party. At some point later (many cocktails later) in the evening, we'd found ourselves alone together in the kitchen. Cheryl had said something to me along the lines of, "you just seem so cute and kissable," so I did what seemed natural in the moment, which was to move over close to her, put my hands on that nice part of the hips where the ass merges with the waist and kiss her. At first, it was just a semi-sweet kiss on the lips… no tongue, but not entirely without randy intentions.

"I said you looked kissable, not that I wanted to kiss you," was her reply after our lips parted. This led immediately led to an irresistible spark of electric chemistry between us and a full blown make out session… right there in the kitchen. Cheryl boosted herself onto the counter so she'd be a little closer to my height and we lost ourselves, alone there in the kitchen for more than a few delightful moments. Eventually, we were interrupted. It was bound to happen. The kitchen was where most of the booze was and we were at a party after all. Cheryl scooched herself off the counter and we went out to rejoin the ruckus. On the way out of the kitchen, I spied a lime wedge smashed onto the ass of Cheryl's blue jeans from our little make out moment. I laughed and swatted it off for her. Thankfully, she laughed too… and gave me her phone number before she left. Talk about your first impressions.

Since that night, we talked quite a few times on the phone and got along what I thought was pretty well. There was no shortage of laughter during our conversations and I always consider that a good sign. Still, we were unable to get our schedules together to make plans largely because of: a) the massive time commitment her job requires; b) a friend of hers having really bad timing for when she'd be in need of an intervention; and c) the amount of care and attention demanded from her by her cats. We'd tried for drinks, live music and/or happy hour on a few occasions only to have something come up at the last minute and postpone our plans. Now it was a dinner, Friday night, I was driving at.

"So, what does a sorta kinda vegetarian eat?" I asked with a bit o' apprehension. Cheryl replied that she eats eggs, because those are unfertilized (personally, I eat them because they're delicious and good for you) and sometimes fish because she just can't relate to (chew, swallow, digest) god's creatures that have four legs or feathers. What, no bacon? The horror! Then she makes everything easy for me and tells me what she's really been craving lately is sushi. Cool. I can handle that. I tell her I know a tasty place in my neighborhood for Korean sushi. Very fresh! Perfect. Plans are made.

That Friday rolls around and Cheryl is running late. She got hung up at work, but assures me she'll be by just as soon as she runs home to feed her kitties. The kitties had already been their own source of problems as far as Cheryl and I making plans had gone. One of her cats, Cosmo, had been in a sickly way for the better part of 8-10 weeks. Cheryl had had him for a number of years already, so naturally she was quite attached. She had taken him to a couple different vets already and neither of them was able to diagnose exactly why it was the cat was not eating. One of them even kept the cat at the clinic for several days and did an exploratory surgery on the animal to make sure its digestive tract wasn't obstructed. This procedure had effectively cancelled one of our planned rendezvous. Instead, I got to hear, on the phone, all the tearful details on how the cat (I'd never even met, but was told was just toooooo precious for words) was doing. The last I'd heard prior to that night was that her other cat had stopped eating too and she was afraid the problem was kitty contagious. God forbid!

Eventually, Cheryl makes it to my place and is well worth the wait. She looks absolutely fetching in her vintage yellow summer dress and heels. There's a flower in her hair and a smile on her face at the door. "Let's eat. I'm starving," she says in way of hello and we head out the door and around the corner to Ginza Sushi (Wilshire and St Andrews) for dinner. I'd been to Ginza a few times, but never on a weekend… and it is packed. Fortunately, just as we get there, a couple seats open at the end of the sushi bar, so we grab them rather than wait for a table.

Once we're seated, Cheryl launches into all the updates on her cat situation. This isn't exactly my preferred topic of conversation, but I'm attracted to this woman, so I do my best to feign some interest… y'know, throwing in little aside comments every so often like, "really?" and "oh my gosh" and then asking questions that show I'm actively listening, but still keep the story moving forward. At this point, her cats are not my favorite. I don't care how cute she thinks they are.

We order our miso, sake and sushi. Cheryl drives ahead with all the details surrounding the Cosmo situation. I'm doing my best to roll with it because, obviously, this woman has spent a lot of time and energy worrying about her animal and thinks it important I know all about it. To condense it into a cube, the animal suddenly stopped eating and started dry hacking sporadically. Cheryl got worried and took him to the vet. No problems were found, but the vet gave the cat some medicine that didn't fix anything and maybe even made it worse. This led to more concern, more vet visits, and eventually the exploratory surgery on the animal. All this led to no answers. Then, her other cat started exhibiting similar symptoms and she freaked and rushed him to the pet ER. She tells me it just breaks her heart to see any animal suffer.

Then, she reveals to me the following crucial pieces of information:

a) That since she considers herself a vegetarian, she decided her cats should be vegetarians too and had started feeding them only vegan, dry cat food a few months prior.

b) Cosmo hated the new cat food so much that he just flat refused to eat it, which was the sole cause of all the weight loss, hacking, vet visits, etc…

c) Cheryl had spent over $5000 on her cats at the vet in the time since she decided to make her animals vegetarian like her only to be told the answer for her sick kitties was just to give them plain ol' normal, moist cat food from the supermarket.

Are you getting sick of hearing all about this woman's cats yet? I know I was… and I knew that she had just revealed several pieces of information to me that there was no chance I would ever be able to get past. I don't care how hot n' sexy you are. Paying $5000 to vets when the problem is the lifestyle choice you're trying to make for your pet is just too much stupid for me to excuse.

It was about at this time, that the first of what turned out to be several orders of live lobster sashimi appeared at the sushi bar. Yes, I said LIVE. Very fresh! I wouldn't have even noticed what was going on behind the sushi bar had the order not been placed a foot from my head when ready to be picked up by the waitress. The first indication I had that something had suddenly gone very weird was the look of abject horror creeping across my date's face.

"There he goes. One of God's own prototypes. Some kind of high powered mutant never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die." – Hunter S. Thompson

"That thing is still moving," she had to look away before she could get the words out of her mouth. I looked and she was right. That thing WAS still moving… quite a bit. In fact, it looked like it was going to crawl right off the tray into my lap. Very fresh! I was shocked, but not horrified. When the waitress came and whisked the platter away to a waiting table, I noticed the still living lobster was just a garnish for a very large plate of sushi and sashimi.

Finally, I had my means to change the topic of conversation away from her gotdamn cats. Luckily (ha!), that was not the last to be seen from the still living lobsters. It wasn't more than a few minutes later that I noticed one of the sushi chefs grabbing another one from the tank. I tried to draw Cheryl's attention to the preparation of the dish, but she was too horrified and grossed out in general to look.

Basically, while the lobster is still living, the chef removes its tail and claws, sets the head aside (still living), sashimis the tail and claw, combines it with more sashimi and sushi on a platter of ice, then takes the hollowed out tail and the still living head and rejoins them atop the platter to give the illusion that the lobster (now a garnish) is still whole. Very fresh! The lobster, still living of course, now is faced with the prospect of spending its last breaths watching itself be eaten by fashionable Koreans.

Have I told you that things are never a moment away from going weird in K-town?

Cheryl, my date is not coping with the freak show sushi well. At least she's not talking about her cats anymore. Thank god. Instead, she switches to all the factors that went in to her deciding to become a vegetarian in the first place. I have a feeling live lobster sashimi has now been silently added to that list. Very fresh! Our sushi arrives and Cheryl seems to be over her hunger. Aside from the California roll and some of the kimchi appetizer, she barely touches the food. During the meal, at least three, maybe four more of the live lobster platters come out of the sushi bar, right next to my head. Each lobster is greeted by my date with a mix of horror, sorrow and pity. Apparently, this is a popular dish with large Korean dinner parties… and not with sorta kinda vegetarian white girls.

After dinner, which I enjoyed and Cheryl barely touched, we walked back towards my place. Cheryl announced that she has to leave early, so I walked her to her car and got a very limp handshake that half turned into an awkward sort of hug. I knew I would not be hearing from this woman again. For that I am eternally grateful to the lobsters that bravely gave up their deliciousness and then their lives. Very fresh!

Suzie, pt. 2

1/10/08

Ok. Ok. OK!!! I heard you. I heard all of you. It seems my last post about Suzie Wong and the fiasco of a date we had back in November has piqued the collective curiosity. And, from what I've heard from you, my readers (aka so-called friends), is that you want to know how the story ends. I have enjoyed the nicknames some of you have hung on this girl. My favorites thus far are 2) "The Kissing Is Gross Girl" and 1) "Betty Book Club." More importantly, you all have questions that I've failed to answer…. Ok, hush yo'mouf, read on, and the answers will follow… after the obligatory explanation why I haven't added more to the original tale sooner.

I chose to write the story, or should I say, have it end where it does, because for the purpose of the tale being told (I like to think of it as widely based in fact) that was the point where I felt my own personal humiliation had maximized. That is to say, the story wasn't going to get any funnier, so I ended it. Or, at least so I thought until the questions and comments began rolling in.

Thank you to all of you who expressed outrage on my behalf for having a woman behave like that in my apartment on a date. I've had to remind a few of you that it wasn't just a piece o' the fortune cookie that I was denied. I didn't even get to first base. In fact, up until that night, if you had asked me when the last time I just tried to kiss a girl and got rejected was, then I wouldn't have been able to tell you. For those of you who enjoy basking in my humiliation, you'll be happy to know it has happened again since (different girl).

Ok, those of you who know me, know I am not one to kiss and tell. What I'm saying here is if you don't kiss, then I'm sure to tell and am likely to write a blog about it… maybe two.

Lunch was whatever that day. YES, I did get my book back. I know that is a big relief to a lot of you who had asked. Suzie did bring her uptight friend along. I was especially surly during lunch because a) I'm guessing she brought her friend along as a buffer, so I might as well be a lil' randy to at least make the buffer chick earn her lunch; and b) I got my book back right away, so I had nothing to lose. So, I ordered the veal as it seemed the most politically incorrect/offensive thing on the menu and then I spent the rest of the hour injecting the word "cock" into the conversation as frequently as possible… because if one thing was certain by that point, I wouldn't be injecting any cock into either of them.

I didn't really choose lunch with Suzie and the retrieval of my book over lunch with Luke Skywalker. Like I said before, this story, and all the other ones I write, are widely based in fact. The lunch w/ Mark Hamill that was originally scheduled with my friends that same day had to be postponed to the following day. No, I didn't make that one either, but I will have the opportunity again to meet everyone's favorite Jedi and learn the ways of the Force. If you start getting subliminal msgs from me telling you to, "let go" or "go to Degobah. Seek Yoda," then you'll know my training is coming along nicely.

A few days after the lunch, I got another email from Suzie saying she can't remember ever laughing so hard during a meal, and how she really wants to sit down with me over drinks again and discuss the book (because we couldn't talk about that at lunch because she had brought her uptight friend). I wrote her back and said that I'd be happy to talk with her about the book all she wants… after we fuck.

* Please remember this wasn't the first very direct email I'd sent this woman.

Apparently, she thought I was kidding because she wrote me back saying, "hahaha. You're too funny." Who's kidding? Anyway, I deleted her response and moved on. Then, a couple weeks later I got another email from her inviting me to come hangout with her and some of her co-workers for some holiday cheer at some bar after work downtown. I replied with something along the lines of, if you want to share some holiday cheer, why don't we just meet up at my place? I've got something special to slip in your stocking.

She wrote me right back, "I'm not sure I understand this new way you have of joking with me."

I responded, "Seriously. Who's joking?"

The end.

My Love Life as (tragic) Comedy

11/15/07

The name of the guilty here has been changed for no good reason. I don't think she has a myspace acct and I doubt she'll ever read this...

So, I met up with this woman, we'll call her Suzie Wong (in honor of the 1960 William Holden movie), for after work happy hour two Fridays ago at Library Bar in Downtown, which is a new-ish place right near, you guessed it, the Downtown LA Library. I thought things were going swimmingly. We had several rounds of drinks. The conversation flowed easily and she really only wanted to talk about two things; sex and sexuality. There was plenty of laughter and flirting happening back and forth. I was starting to think, "Hey. It's on. I'm going to have my hands all over this pretty Chinese girl later."

Had I been paying closer attention to the more obvious signs, I would have marked her drink order, Malibu and Diet Coke, with a big red flag: DANGER: MOST LIKELY LAME.

Eventually, the conversation turned to my apt and some of the odder nuances of my roommate-less situation. She told me she'd really like to see my place sometime, so I suggested we go back there immediately for more drinks, music and whatnot. She agreed. I went over to the bar, happily picked up the tab and we were off.

Had I known then what I know now, I would have been better off sitting on the sidewalk and burning 70 dollars.

We go back to my place. Suzie drives (naturally), stops for cigs on the way, parks her car in my garage and upstairs we go. Once inside, she spies my record collection and digs right in. I pull a book we were talking about earlier off the shelf, Illusions by Richard Bach, pass it over to her and then retreat to the kitchen to make a pitcher of frozen mango margaritas. When I come out with the drinks, she asks if she can borrow the book and give it back to me next time. "Of course!" I reply. Meanwhile, I'm thinking, "Next time! Yes!"

I don't loan out books (or records, cds, dvds, etc…). I know better. They don't come back. And this was a hard cover 1st edition. I guess we already know what I was thinking.

Anyway, we tear thru the better part of a bottle of tequila, all the while getting closer and more touchy-feely on the couch. Suzie, at some point, brings the topics of conversation to things like how much she enjoys anal sex, so long as it is only every once in awhile and how she's heard that semen is good for your skin. Yeah. I think Isaac Hayes was singing about "The Look of Love" on the turntable about then. I lean in to kiss her and get flatly re-ject-ed.

And, lemme tellya, there was nothing smooth about this rejection. Imagine trying to give a spoonful of poor tasting cough medicine to an eight year old. Arms extended straight out, head twisting to and fro… quite possibly my least sexy moment of the 21st century… certainly top 2.

Suzie informs me that kissing is gross. News to me. What's more, she just doesn't do that and how she thinks her and I are "just friends" (ouch). Oh, and hugs make her uncomfortable… and dating too (but not a dick up your ass?!, or letting me pay for everything, or drinking all the booze in my house?). Anyway, I remind her to look at her surroundings… man's apartment after 11pm, drinks, sexy music… I mean, sheesh! Whaddya expect?

So, she takes my book, leaves her cigs behind and splits. When I realize the book has left with her, I think I'm more upset about that than not getting to break off a lil' piece of her fortune cookie.

Mentally, I kiss the book goodbye. Then, a few days later I get an email from her saying how much she loved the book and how she wants to get together again to discuss. I write her back saying I'm glad she liked the book, but I'm not really interested in hanging out with her again if all she has to offer me is conversation. Otherwise, I'd be happy to just walk by her office one day, meet her outside and collect my book.

I thought my message was pretty clear. Apparently, it wasn't. I get an email back from Suzie saying she thought I was just trying to "humor her" when I tried to kiss her and how she had so much fun hanging out with me and how she wants to see me again, but NOTHING PHYSICAL (because that makes her uncomfortable). Say what? I start to think of ways to try to explain myself more clearly and then I figure, "what's the difference?" delete her email and move on.

Fast fwd to the beginning of this week, I get another email from Suzie saying she wants to return my book and take me out to lunch at Ciao's (the semi-fancy Italian place on 7th between Fig and Flower). Ok. I'll go for the book and the free fancy lunch, but really just for the book. I'm perfectly capable of making my own lunch, but I really want that book back just so I don't feel like such a sucker every time I see the empty dust jacket sitting on top of my bookshelf.

We make the date for today. Suzie calls yesterday to confirm. "Yes, I'm in. Don't forget the book."

Then, last night, a good friend calls and tells me to call in sick to work today and meet her in Venice for an informal business lunch w/ one of her partners and a new possible investor in their group, Mark Hamill… yes, that Mark Hamill… Luke F. Skywalker himself. I mean, oh my god are you kidding me? I don't get too excited about many (hardly any) celebs, but name me one person our age that wouldn't want to have lunch w/ Luke Skywalker? I'd so want him to teach me the ways of the Force just so I could go home and float knick-knacks around my apartment… while doing a handstand. I'm sure I could find a practical, 21st century application for the Jedi Mind Trick as well…

Of course, I can't go… because I'm meeting the lame Chinese girl for lunch… ok, and because I do have work that needs doing on my desk today… now Suzie tells me she's bringing one of her friends along to lunch as well… surely as some kind of buffer. This isn't going to go well… somewhere, god (Yoda?) is laughing at me… and if I don't wrap this up here I'm going to be late meeting them.

Luke F. Skywalker. Sheesh.