datetastic

The Cracking of the California Curse
& a Few Choice Words
by Monica Green.


*ahem* How difficult it is to meet decent people out here, and that's no joke. Usually some dumb-ass sleezebag that's on some kind of narcotic or methamphetamine decides to approach you, a complete stranger, and either tell you their life story, or worse, also want to take you out. Immediately. They're usually smelly, or have bad teeth- yesterday I got one that actually had his chin freshly split open before he sauntered around the corner to mumble incoherently at me and still had a stringy booger not just peeking out of his nose- oh no, nothing that subtle- but laying provocatively on top of his unkempt mustache. This, mind you, is while I'm standing outside of work at Lucky Strike Bowling Lanes at Hollywood and Highland... Hollywood, that mecca for dreams to come true until you get here and then see all the glittering refuse of the broken ones strewn abount the sidewalks... but I digress. As I was saying before I interrupted myself, the people that approach you are either drugged, retarded, both, homeless, all three, or just plain fugly. And when they aren't, you wonder exactly what's happening- beautiful people don't just approach you around these parts unless they think you can either do something for them or provide the key to something else, fill in your own blanks. That being said, I'm always wary of the "hitter-on," seemingly California's most abundant natural resource. They come with their snake eyes and shifty smiles, the greaseball in them just fighting to remain contained within their loins. Usually, accompanied with these traits also comes their urgent manner- this is why you have to immediately like them, and also immediately go on a date. Like right this second. Work?-hell no. On your way somewhere important?- not so fast. And turn them away? Good Lord help you if you try to tell them no, you'll have to spend the next half hour trying to politely excuse yourself from the situation while saying no about fifty-thousandy-million times; case in point, the other day I was waiting for the bus to take me home after a grueling 12 hour work day and within no more than 5 minutes, some ridiculous man with Little Richard ponytail syndrome circa 1988:

comes up to me with a mouth like a horse and starts blabbering on about how he's driven by me twice (which in any part of the world on a Friday night would be impossible, not to mention that if you know anything about traffic in Hollywood on Sunset Blvd, you'd have to be in an alternate universe for that to be true) and how he thought I was someone he knew so he just HAD to park his car down the street and come over to see if I was his long-lost douchebag or whomever he was "looking" for. Meanwhile, I had been there for only a few minutes and the bus was due at 10:03p. Fast forward to 10:35p. I'm still miserably enduring this man's ignorance. By this time, I've received his poorly printed business card, I've had to turn down no less than 6 offers of a ride home from him, I've politely referred to him leaving me alone, pretended to read a book in hopes that would deter him, listened to his cocamamie stories about his many "properties" and how he's got so many connections in the film industry, and suffered through the man flashing his abs at me, as if that would be the thing that would finally get me to yield to him and get in his car. I tell you, it is hard work taking public transportation around LA- not just for the reasons you'd think. First, there's the certainty that the bus will not be coming on time, if it comes at all. Then, there's the difficulty of traffic which takes much patience, not to mention bracing the close calls, terribly irritated busdrivers, homeless people, frail people, screaming children, and then to top it all off, this king of jamokes that can't understand disinterest, apathy, irritation, or the word "no."

Sigh.
Anyways, as I was saying, there's never a beautiful person around yelling things at you from moving cars. They never stop walking down the street to mumble something at you or about you, or even better, turn around and start follwing you immediately. They aren't the ones trying to find out where you work or live or the ones chasing you down for your number or the ones that offer to take you out. Alas, they are few and far between, but even when they make themselves present, they usually stink of pre-meditation, too much cologne, or utter bullshit (better or worse than randomness, extra concentrated B.O., or real shit- I'll let you, dear reader, decide). It's even worse when they do find you at work because then they know where you are for at least part of the week and check back in frequently enough for the staff to ask questions. However, there are the occasional people that aren't mentally impaired, phsically impaired, druggies, alcoholics, gang members, homeless, AND fugly that are decent and good people, genuine in character, free in spirit, and not so hard on the eyes. The percentage of these treasured and coveted people that are already taken is like 99.99% but, I believe- and I don't want to speak too soon, here- I could have cracked enough room into the shell of the mysterious vortex, which seems to follow me around everywhere through the streets of LA while spewing sub-par men in my midst, just enough to allow one of the .001% of the precious few through.


Enter Matt. Matt K, as we'll call him, is a disarmingly gorgeous 31 year old man with dark curly locks and the most incandescent green eyes I think I've ever had the pleasure of gazing into. I realize I'm describing him like he's fresh out of the cover of a bad seventies romance novel, but fie on your mockery! He's really like that. If I had to describe, I'd say he's the perfect marrying of Patrick Dempsey and the guy that plays Detective McNulty on The Wire. Regardless, he and his friends entered the Studio Wardrobe Department, the vintage thrift and costume rental shop I work at, in the mid-afternoon looking for outfits for an 80s themed double-decker bus party (like the Bustonian, for all you Massholes out there *woot woot*) while I was either on the phone with my adorable, heavily accented Italian grandmother or pouring over The Onion's weekly crossword. In any case, I wasn't paying attention (good thing my boss won't read this, eh?) and then suddenly, as if Zeus, himself, shot a lightning bolt fresh out of Hephaestus' smithy right at the glass case I was sitting by, a smiling and charming gift from the Gods interrupted my stupor and asked me where the 80's band t-shirt section was (which, believe it or not, is actually a section at my store). I was dumbstruck and completely helpless under the piercing look of the gentleman grinning before me. I think I said something incoherently and vaguely pointed in the direction of the band t-shirts, and with my jaw wide open, I watched him and his friends walk away. As soon as he left the area, I snapped out of it and realized I hadn't really explained where things were very well, but too embarrassed and scared to follow, I instead climbed up on the stool I had just been sitting in and then stood on top of the cash wrap shouting "hotter and colder"-esque type directions. Then, when I told him there might be a Bon Jovi t-shirt in there somewhere, he yelled back at me that if there really was one, he would kiss me and buy it. Amazing: beautiful, charming, and only hits on me from the opposite end of the warehouse. So far, so good.

Anyways, they come up to pay- there was a Bon Jovi t-shirt, but it was from a 90s tour. An impartial judge declared there was no kiss to be had, unfortunately- and then all 3 of them seemed to linger for a bit, chatting about the east coast (he's from Jersey), how I find life in LA thus far (it just gets better and better with each passing moment this man engages me in conversation), what do I do in my spare time for fun (work, ha ha), until his friend calls my attention away for a second to question me about a belt buckle with his name on it from the 70s. When I look back at my smiling, intriguing gentleman, he has suavely already slid his business card over to me, which I notice out of the corner of my eye while I try to falteringly answer his friend's queries, and slip it just as suavely into my coat pocket (it was your blue velvet jacket, by the way Gaby- it's debut, in fact) without his friends taking note. Success! They leave after a bit more humorous banter, at which point I quickly take out the business card to study and analyze:



I was beside myself- how hilarious is this card? But also, what kind of person carries around a business card like this and isn't a womanizer? Certainly, I was intrigued. Intrigued enough, in fact, to immediately send a text message to this Matt's number, against all my better judgement. Simply put, I just sent a "yes" and signed it Boston, since this is what he insisted on calling me once he found out I was from there. I was immediately rewarded with a reply and he insinuated that he would like to see me at some point that evening. I told him I was working a grueling 14 hour day and that to see me, he'd have to find me at Lucky Strike under the watchful eye of my fellow employees and security guards (all of them under instruction to check me when I left to make sure I wasn't drugged and also to pay close attention to detail so they could all pick him out in a lineup if necessity called for it). Which he obliged (and so did my friends, they dutifully came over one by one to be introduced and asked a slew of interview questions). And thus commenced one of the best nights I've had to date during my time here in California, not to mention one of the best days of 2008. So, have I broken this curse of being surrounded by idiots? With friendly and humorous conversation, has the door to something worthwhile been pried open? Only time will tell, I suppose, but so far so good. Let's all keep our fingers crossed for the advent of a good time, moron-free!