Don't Mince Words

In the mail on Monday, I received one of those friendly reminders from the local Honda dealership telling me that it was probably time to change oil.  I realized I didn’t come close to hitting their high mileage estimate.

I have become the little old lady of West Hollywood.  Being laid off, there are days my car doesn’t move.  When it does, it is usually to drive to happy hour to met my other laid off friends, or to give Tex a courtesy ride.  I’m averaging 300 miles per month.  That’s just crazy low mileage in this town.  And it is empirical evidence that I don’t have much of a life.

I changed that immediately by adding the FourSquare app to my iPod.  I realize I’m a hypocrite for advising clients to get involved with geolocation apps and not participating myself.  What I didn’t anticipate is the motivation FourSquare can provide to get out of the apartment.  I’ve got check-in’s all over my neighborhood and I am now the Mayor of my apartment building and I’ve been awarded an Adventurer badge because I get out a lot.   I know it is all bullshit, but it is like a Weight Watcher’s weigh-in.  It’s all the motivation I need to feel like I’m making a change in my life.

Today is four square day (4×4 = 16).  It’s like Pi day except the math is so much easier and there’s drinking involved.  Check-ins at The Standard get two-for-one drinks.  The Viper Room has more FourSquare specials:  no cover, cheap drinks, and PBR swag.

I have said many times I don’t do anything unless it gets me a job or gets me laid.  Right now, getting out of the apartment is the first step.

Check-in.  Check me out.

In my next life, I want to come back as a gay addict.  The habit is TBD.  All I know is these 12-step meetings are one-part sobriety maintenance and three-parts hookup.  The gays in West Hollywood don’t need to online date.  When they have free time, they go to a “meeting.”

My Main Gay is constantly in and out of relationships.  I sit on the sidelines feeling tragically single and heterosexual as I hear about his exploits. Today we met for lunch and I got the ga-ga eyes and “oh, this one is for real” speech.

“This isn’t fair.  Is this another friends-of-bill hookup?” I whined.

“Yes, we met at a meeting.  We are so in love,” he proclaimed.  “He’s mine.”

I can’t even meet a straight man at the grocery store and Main Gay is seeking my advice on Valentine’s Day.  Fanfuckingtastic.   He’s thinking about a long, romantic weekend up in Santa Barbara.  I told him I wasn’t the girl to ask Valentine’s day advice from – it has probably been more than 15 years since a man planned more than a simple card and chocolates for me.

“Aw, my hag needs a real man,” he said.

Right.  We’ve seen how well that’s worked out for me in southern California.  I think it is easier to just plan on being gay in my next life – with a severe addiction to beer.

I think everyone has a love/hate relationship with New York. I have had three visits since leaving because I miss it so much, but need to stay away long enough to remember why I left six years ago. It’s getting harder to remember why.

Within 30 minutes of getting out of JFK, my incense-burning cab driver had me in the east Village for PubNight – a tradition I used to share weekly with my technology dotcom friends.  I was drinking drafts with a half-dozen old friends and another dozen acquaintances.  They all asked why I had left.

“I was committed to getting out before I was 40.  I didn’t want to become a bitter Woody Allen cliche,” I admitted.  But what I realized was I left a great social and professional network for a sun-infused lifestyle that leaves me feeling very isolated.

The next morning I attempted some early shopping at Century 21 until I could meet a Wall Street friend for beers at 10 a.m.  We talked business until I dashed uptown for a lunch meeting with a former LA friend.  In addition to tempting me with some freelance writing business, she rattled on all the benefits of getting out of LA and mentioned the isolation she felt as well.  After lunch, I walked 30 blocks just taking it all in.  I missed it.

What was most apparent to me during my visit was blatantly heterosexual men.  I saw men in bars and on the street that were quite obviously straight.  I suppose I’ve been tainted living in West Hollywood, but man it was nice to see real men talking business, not hair products and jeans.  Don’t laugh, but you know what else I miss?  Real Jews.  Seriously.  Not these Hollywood Jews-of-Convenience or my Russian Jews, but real, obnoxious Lox-loving Jews.  Smart, fast talking Jews.  God bless ‘em.
Straight guys and Jews aside, it’s still not the same New York for me.  I still have a habit of coming up subway stairs looking for the Towers to guide me.  Now I kind of resent having to travel underground.  I want to be above and see everything.  I don’t want to miss anything.  I’m not sure why I left.

Since I have a dog to walk, I’m outside a lot and have met many of my neighbors as a result. I’m in West Hollywood, so I can safely assume all my neighbors are gay. While it’s not a target-rich environment, I’m still my smiling, giggly self – a female minority in a sea of dripping hot homos.

A few weeks ago, two tremendously good looking guys walked out of a house five doors down as Tex and I were crossing their path. I smiled and said hi. They replied with the same back. Today, the same tall hot guy got in his car as I walked by. He drove north, turned around, and slowed down when he passed me. He made a u-turn and came back and parked in front of the house and jumped out his car. Tex and I were in the gate when he ran to the driveway.

“Hi, excuse me. I have a question I need to ask you,” tall hottie said. If I were in a straight neighborhood, this is when I could expect the “does the curtain match the drapes” question. But, in West Hollywood, I had no assumptions.

“Sure,” I said then we introduced ourselves.

“Do you have any satin pajama bottoms I can borrow? I have a party to go to and I’ve spent the day at the Abbey and I’m too fucked up to drive,” he explained.

Satin pajama party. That’s gay, right? The Abbey is a wonderful bar and restaurant, but it is the epicenter of queer in WeHo.

“I’m sorry, I don’t wear pajamas,” I responded.

“Oh, OK. Ah, do you have a light,” he asked holding his Parliments. He looked me up and down and followed-up with “you don’t smoke do you?”

We said our good byes and he got back in his car, turned around, and parked the car in front of his house.

A few minutes later there was a knock at my door while I was making Tex’ dinner.

“Hello again,” I said when I opened the door.

“Hey, so I’ll pay you to drive me to Ross to get the pajamas. I really can’t drive. Do you party?” he asked, pointing to his nose.

“I’m more of a wine girl. I actually have to meet a friend in a half hour for dinner, so I don’t think I can drive you,” I replied.

“I can tell you are a good, wholesome girl. Ok, no biggie, just thought I’d come back and ask,” he said.

“Where’s this pajama party?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s at my house. Why don’t you stop by 812 later when you get back,” he suggested with a raised eyebrow. His follow-up question was even more straight, “do you live alone?”

At this point, Tex had a very timely and audible where’s-my-dinner-bitch groan. I told tall hottie I had a house boy living with me right now doing chores and supervising contractors.

We hugged out and said goodbye.

It wasn’t until I put Tex’ pan of food on the floor that I realized that I had been hit on. I repeated the story for my girlfriends at dinner.

“You wholesome?” they said doubled over laughing. “He obviously was on drugs.”

And those drugs delivered the best and most convoluted pickup line/strategy of the year. Now that I know there are some token straights in the hood, I’ll have to start working other blocks. Hopefully Tex can pimp out his wholesome mommy to some sober guys.

For all you breeders who have received gifts from me during the past 20 odd years, I’ve got one thing to say. Ante up bitches, I’m a mother.

Tex, my farting geezer foster American bulldog, has adopted me. Our six-week courtship was a blast and the experience made me realize I could handle going to the next level. While no dog will ever meet the hilarity and insanity of Kramer, my former funky hipster doophus schnauzer, Tex does fit my current lifestyle. He loves hiking, sleeping, and eating. The bonus is the old guy doesn’t bark. He is also quickly becoming the mayor of West Hollywood. Neighbors come outside to say hi to him when he goes on walks. The kids at Pinkberry give him yogurt samples. The trannie nurse in the mobile AIDS testing station jumps out of her RV to say hi. He’s just that special.

In lieu of stork presents, please make a donation in Tex’ name.

I promise the next three to five years will be good times for Tex and will also mark the longest LA relationship I’ve ever had! I no longer have to date bad dogs.