Ladies and gentlemen, you are in for a special treat. My friend in California “J” wrote a guest post for my blog today about his experience with women in L.A.
A cute girl, I’d say a seven and half. Cynical and sarcastic as the whole city of LA is want. While we were waiting in line to a hyped restaurant stranded in the middle of warehouses in Hollywood/ Wilshire/ Miracle Mile proper, she told me she didn’t really like her family. Boring. Not much animosity directed at them per say. Just the rueful quality of not providing an inspiration to a young girl. Nothing to live up to. Her dad sells real estate, and her mom hasn’t worked for ten years. In the movie American Beauty the young girl protagonist bemoans that to be normal is the worst fate. I guess normal depends on where you are located at a particular place in time. Here in LA this normal girl was boring me a little, mostly from her lethargy. Not the dumb blond cheerleader disease- more like the too cool for school crowd. It just didn’t seem to differentiate her as she is sitting here in front of me now, complaining, or in her view, having a normal conversation.
At once I wonder if a place of ambition such as LA is doomed to be bored by itself. The poor souls cannot find anything that fulfills them, that is why they come here, live here and are always trying. To be somebody they are more excited about. The point is we are talking and she is boring me talking about what is boring her, which is her life. I don’t think she sees the irony in the situation. The fun side of her perpetual gloom is that she will pull out incisive, cutting remarks that shock and humor me. “Babies are disgusting to me because I look at the two parents, and pity their na¯¿½ve optimism. Like that is what is going to make their lives better. Do people expect that adopting a retarded person into their home will make their life better? No. Then somehow we’re supposed to be impressed by their irrational decision? Oh, I see that making yourself happy didn’t work. Good luck with the live in retard.”
I did enjoy the fashion shows. She worked for a company that produces big budget fashion shows. “It feels really weird to weed out girls that have better dimensions than I do. If they’re under 5’9″, or have more than a thirty inch waist, I throw out the cards. Oh, and we don’t do Asians or boobs. Most of these girls are really young, and can’t speak English well. Intelligence is not a requirement.”
Tantalizing- at face value what appeals to me and everyone with something brag worthy swinging, is not at all diminished in my opinion that these girls are awkward babies that don’t speak English. Maybe better this way, I’m not ready to challenge god’s design here.
Fashion show, as we shall call her, invites me to a fashion show. They look good, painted and trotting, a bit unstable on high heels, and in bathing suits. They look preoccupied posing for the long shot down at the end of the runway. Tall, full bone structures, spare filling. A little deflated, like a sinking rubber raft. I’m talking with an especially Anglo-perfect model after the show. She seemed flighty and hungry. I don’t think she saw me. At least she had a hard time looking directly. The dinosaur bone on her back showed when she walked across the room. Hott I thought.
Fashion show took her time to arrive. She wasn’t working this one, so her apathy sinks its teeth in deep. I’m looking to maximize my meet and greet model time before she shows and blocks my soft-core betrayal. Free alcohol second floor, DJ, wannabe model bartenders. In our rush to reach an alcoholic plateau, we (friend wolf and I) meet in line two ladies in the industry. Two creatives for Guess. “So my friend Levi here is devastatingly single and eligible. He is torn between his Jesus sworn chastity and asking for your number sultry Miss Guess number two.”
We dance, change positions and I reach for my cell phone. I have another text from Fashion Show, she is almost here. I have ten minutes to get a number from this girl who is excited to talk about her fashion school experience. FITA, or something like this general acronym is quite popular in LA. A finishing school for the trendy girl with a passion for dress. Young, red cheeked and doused in a light blue, tight fitting mod dress and matching big plastic earrings. About ten minutes into the conversation, she interrupts, so I want to ask, “Are you gay?” Damn. She’s earnest. How does this happen? I think maybe I’ll check out my posture in the mirror later. “So, I was until I started talking to you, and now I want to try being straight. Do me the pleasure?” And, I’m getting her number.
I notice Fashion Show at the bar, giving me furtive glances. A little aggressive. I’ve ignored a few texts. She’s jealously standing, sipping.
“It was nice to meet you lovely.” I’m moving toward Fashion Show. Smiles and a slightly inward leaning hug. “Hitting on my friend are you? I went to school with Angela at FITA.” “Yeah.” And, I’ve recovered, or there was nothing to recover in the first place.