It’s my personal opinion that one hasn’t had the LA experience until a person has done the following. Walk on the beach in Malibu and watch the sun go down, schmooz with the Hollywood types at the Belmont, and then after giving it your best shot at fame… find someone nice and settle down. Gross…I’m pretty sure that this is the ideal for a middle American vacation to the West Coast. In reality the essence of the LA experience is avoiding traffic, cutting down the other guy to get ahead and fucking someone way out of your, all while basking in the presence of those who have had the sun set on their careers long ago. So far I’ve only done two of the four so far and if you’re reading this, I’m sure you’ve caught on that is wasn’t the ones that lead to the success or the sex.
What was supposed to be a night out with friends to see a band unraveled into a series of awkward interactions involving some of Hollywood’s finest has-beens and never-weres. Granted I’ve gone through a total 22 years of life that have amounted to the equivalent of diddely-dick-shit, but at the same time I feel that after these encounters I have as good a right as any to mock these bastards.
The evening started innocent enough. We walked into the house, checked out the scene, and it wasn’t bad. An outdoor stage, a giant BQQ spread, followed by a buffet of liquors and beers…all the kinds. There was even a crystal chalice of weed for those who wanted to partake. Not a bad setup; everything a party needed, except for partygoers. The place was relatively empty for such lavish accommodations. For that I was thankful, I was still sporting my classic Saturday hangover so the mellow scene was enjoyable. It wasn’t until the crowd actually began to show up did things start to get…well LAish. The average age of the party patrons were along the lines of 35-40, clinging to their youth by mostly dressing like 8th grade boys or 80’s hair metal whores.
The first man I encounter was a 300+ pound mafia movie stereotype who went aptly by the name of Fat James. When I said I met him, I mean; when I was getting a hamburger, he made fun of me. “You’re putting tomatoes underneath the patty? The fuck is the matter with you?” “What is that a veggie burger, what are you going fag? This guy!” I a miffed at first; I thought, maybe this a single incident type situation. I’m sure everything is going to be okay. Then when going to get a drink I passed by the “weed chalice” when a man wearing a turtleneck and rocking a ponytail/mustache combination which involved Vanilla Ice like lines, shaved into the sides of his head, tried to explain to me that “It’s all in fun man…it’s all in fun.” What’s all in fun? What the fuck are you talking about turtleneck man? Get your hand off my chest! Just when I thought the party was taking a turn, it found new life when word spread that a contestant from Rock of Love was going to be at the party. Oh goodie!
After that, I got roped into a half hour conversation with a 45 year old man, about his own personal musical journey. First he explained to me who the Beatles were, using his Beatles t-shirt as a reference point, “see this guy here…this is Lennon.” This was followed by an enlightening story on his new concept album about a band of insects who teach children about conflict resolution. He did all of this without ever really looking me in the eye. At least I don’t think he was looking me in the eye. I couldn’t tell due to an oversized, multicolored hemp hat which covered his eye line. I told him I was going to grad another drink, and just bailed on the conversation; leaving him with two unsuspecting patrons. As I turned to leave, his brain must have hit some sort of reset button, he simply turned to the left and the whole scenario began to play out again just with two entirely different people. Those poor, poor bastards.
There was a culmination of San Fernando Valley hell when I saw a scarf doting 65 year old man who looked remarkably like Truman Capote, flirting with the aforementioned Rock of Love contestant. It wasn’t so much that he was flirting with her as her being pretty into it.
All the people in my age bracket found a small corner of the house and posted up. We had our own party, telling jokes and drinking beers. Just kicken it. We lounged on the couches we couldn’t afford and drank the cheap beer that we could. The night finished rather uneventfully; but it got me thinking. Is this what lies ahead? Am I going to be 50 years old, slicking back my male pattern baldness and propositioning Chlamydia laden, reality hoochies? Or will I just be a Chlamydia laden reality hoochie? Is this all that I have to look forward to? God I hope not. If it is, that suicide pact that I made on St. Patricks day a few years back for when I turn 50 could really come in handy. I’ll deal with that road when I get there. For now I’m fine, sitting back and making the most of it. Finding my small corner, and making it happen.
