The other night I was supposed to go to a musical munch. Ostensibly, the kinksters were to meet, chat, maybe dance. But I got to the place — a 45 minute drive — and found no one from the group was there.
Fucking flaky LA!
I swear, this town is le dernier cri in fickle behavior. For someone to organize an event and then i) not show up and ii) not email anybody is the height of rudeness. I did have other stuff I could’ve been doing — stuff involving my family and friends. But no. I had to go to the event that you FLAKED OUT ON LIKE SOME KIND OF TOASTER STRUDEL, YOU FRIVOLOUS FUCKS.
The first little while by the bar was kind of uncomfortable too. I sat beside this woman who’s was completely and utterly LA. The first thing she asked me (and I kid you not) was: “How old are you?” I blinked a whole bunch of times and told her that was a singularly odd question. But I was honest — I told her straight out. One reason was that I was already tipsy. The second was that she looked like she’d had work done and I wanted to see what she’d say. So I told her and then pointedly did not ask her age. She pointedly told me. I pointedly did not say “you look good” because while she did look youthful, it was in that Botoxed way that reminds me uncomfortably of Cabbage Patch Kids. She told me she was 50. I believed it. She pulled out her phone and texted right in the middle of our conversation. She talked about nothing but facelifts and how she’d never have one done. She said “I get happier every year I’m alive” and in my head I was all: yeah, and you came to this bar on a weeknight. Alone.
Despite all this, I managed to have a decent time. I forgot when I ordered my drink that it was two for one Tuesdays, so before I knew it there were two gimlets sitting on the bar. For the uninitiated, a gimlet is just basically vodka and lime juice, although the mandarin-flavored vodka gives it an extra twist. So that was a lot to drink.
I sat at the bar, texted people, read the LA Weekly and found a bunch of cool things going on. When I started to feel too tipsy I chowed down on pulled pork and salad greens. All of it was very good. I even struck up a conversation with the guy next to me, who was seemingly totally absorbed in cell-phone blackjack. But George Reynolds turned out to be a really nice guy. He had this dream about sailing around the world and actually knew so much about it that it seemed like he could pull it off. We talked navigation for awhile, as well as the routes and times of year he’d have to go to make the trip. It would be a five month tour. I wished him luck. He gave me a hearty handshake and a kiss on the cheek for my trouble.
There was a club on Boardners’ patio afterwards rife with gay guys and hipsters. The opening act was an 80’s-style synthpop band. They sounded good but bounced around too much for hipster-looking dudes. Chill out hipsters. You’re supposed to act like you don’t care.
However, I so have new ideas for karaoke. Watch out Little Tokyo. I’m comin’ to GIT ‘cha.
Featured flaky image via the-confectionist.blogspot.com