The question all the survivors were asked was “where were you when The Great Southern California Earthquake of 2008 hit?” At the exact moment my fellow Californians were rocked with a 5.4 tremor, I was in a subway station in
I had just finished watching a matinee of The Dark Knight, eating a cupcake from Magnolia and India.Arie was cooing in my iPod, “it’s all about forgiveness… forgiveness… even if… even it you don’t love me anymore.” I was happy. I was peaceful. I was in the greatest city in the world. The day before, I'd had a successful meeting. I was staying in a beautiful hotel. I had an amazing run through
On the opposite side of the platform, the northbound train pulled away. And on the wall, previously hidden by the train cars, an eight foot long poster of Cooper’s face was suddenly revealed. His giant, vacant eyes stared back at me. You would think New Yorkers wouldn’t be jumpy at a crazy person screaming, “You gotta be fucking kidding me!” but to my surprise, about a hundred people leapt away from me. My blood boiled. My skin turned red. Every muscle in my body clenched. I stood there staring at the poster shaking for about ten seconds, before erupting in a ten second scream.
Cooper, as you may remember, was a passing love interest who began dating a 19-year-old go-go boy. But not before inviting me to the premiere of his movie and then showing up with another guy resembling a cylon.
I didn’t wait on the train. I bolted back through the turnstile, grunted up the stairs and back out to the street.
I called Ryanne. “Heeee…. Helllllo?” her voiced cracked.
"I just saw Cooper! Well, not really Cooper. But his face! It’s like the universe is screwing with me—"
"You do just realize we’re having an earthquake right now, don’t you Alex?! There are more important things than your wayward obsession with a F-list actor."
She hung up. An earthquake! The voice of Sharon Stone haunted me like a bad 1970s television flashback, “I have to ask myself, is that karma?”
Maybe
As I learned in The Dark Knight, “you either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” And I was apparently evolving into The Dark Alex.
If I were a villain, I think I would be called “The Abbey.” In addition to causing earthquakes, my special abilities would include turning water into vodka, getting out of handcuffs and a kiss of death.
I flew home the next day. As my plane careened over
Obviously I needed to get laid. I used to be a slut. A huge slut. But as I’ve gotten older, I really hate all the maintenance you have to do. It’s time consuming, all the shaving and waxing and tanning. Frankly, that’s time I could spend watching Mad Men. Besides, if I’m having sexy time with someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing, I don’t have the patience to correct them anymore. I roll off and say, “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”
But desperate times had called for desperate measures. Jen offered to help.
“I have a guy I want to set you up with. His name is Billy. He’s perfect for you.”
I told her as long as he had a pulse, we would be fine.
I was to meet Billy for a drink at Here Lounge (because I’m nothing if not a predictable cliché). He was thirty minutes late but I was going to see this thing out because waxing, shaving and tanning had taken place.
He arrived. 'He’ll do,' I thought. A little shorter than my height requirement, but this was about pure, raw, animal sex, not runway.
'Sorry I’m late. My class ran late.'
I asked him if he was an actor, assuming it was an acting class.
'No, biology.'
Oh, you’re pre-med?
'No, just the core.'
Oh… you’re in college?
'Freshman.'
I leaned against the bar for support. 'How old are you?'
He smiled, taking a sip of the Heineken I had just purchased for him. 'I’ll be 19 in eight months.'
I was on a date with a fetus. Is this what my life had come to? I’ve gone through all the available and sane men in
My eyes began to race around the bar. I accessed all the exits and scanned the room for anyone who may have recognized me, because you know damn well that after all I’ve said about guys my age dating chicken, I wasn’t about to get caught. I would have thrown this kid into on-coming traffic before admitting what was happening.
'I love older guys. You’re really hot for forty,' he said.
'
His face fell. 'Oh.'
'Oh!? You’re not even old enough to drink!'
'It’s cool. I’ve got a fake I.D. No offense, I’m just into older guys. I mean, you’re still old enough to be my daddy.'
And scene. I knocked back the rest of my martini, slammed the glass on the bar and said, 'I’m sorry, I can’t do this.'
I spun around and heard a familiar screaming voice outside: “Where is she!?” Ryanne. She was dressed like Jackie Brown meets Memoirs of a Geisha.
I pushed the child in front of me, blocking Ryanne with his body. 'I know she’s here!' She bellowed as she pushed her way inside. She slammed her purse onto the bar and began pulling wadded up dollar bills out. 'Give me a Long Island Iced Tea!'
Ryanne grabbed a young kid by the scruff of his neck, holding him about a foot off the ground. 'I can smell her cheap perfume on you!'
'That’s my appletini!' he cried. She tossed him aside like a building in Cloverfield and locked eyes with me.
“What are YOU doing here!? You told me you were staying home and watching Shear Genius (because I have a deep, inappropriate love for Rene Fris) and eating coffee ice cream—"
"Who are you looking for?" I asked innocently.
“Lisa Chang!”
As you may remember from my last column, Ryanne had gone in search of fabulous
One of Lisa’s gays, a “double” (friends with both Ryanne and Lisa), informed Ryanne that Lisa said something to the effect of, “that C-List wannabe isn’t even relevant!” And hell hath no fury than a fag hag questioned irrelevant.
“Who does she think she is calling ME irrelevant—“ her voice trailed off, spotting my young ward.
“Well, hello there,” her voice dripped like poison.
“I can explain,” I started, but she was already running her three inch ruby red nails through his hair. “You’re awfully… sweet,” she said as she stared into his eyes. “If I were to cut you open and count your rings, would I make it to twelve?”
She turned on me, flames shooting from her eyes and her nostrils flaring.
“I know you are not on a date with this minor! There are laws and you’re too pretty for jail, Alex!”
Before I could explain that he will be 19 in eight months, two has-been reality stars who shall remain nameless, one gay actor I have not dated, an underwear model and a shirtless bartender from the bar next door arrived. They looked like the Gay Injustice League of Santa Monica Blvd.
“Are you Ryanne?” one of them asked. (I can’t tell you which one, but his name rhymes with Leichen.)
“Who’s asking?” she spun.
"We’re here to ask you to cease and..."
"WHERE IS SHE!?" she screamed grabbing two of them by the testicles. They immediately dropped to the ground.
“She’s not here! She’s gone back to Portland!” the youngest one cried before running away with the others still standing.
“Bitch is crazy” was heard as they fled from one of them.
“That’s right, girls! Bitch is crazy! Pass that message along!”
During the altercation, Billy scampered away, distracted by the aged ex-husband of a former television star. Truth be told, I hope I look half as good at his age. He’s 39. Or at least that’s what he’s been telling people for the past twenty one years.
“You have to let her go” I told her. “You have to let go of this anger or it will consume and destroy you.”
I know. I heard the words coming out of my mouth and I couldn’t believe them either. It was like I was possessed. I wasn’t sure if I should call The National Enquirer or a priest. In that moment, I realized all the anger I was holding on to had been misdirected. I realized I wasn’t angry at Cooper. I was angry at myself for even entertaining the thought of Cooper. For becoming fixated on “why didn’t he like me?” And for allowing myself to think I wasn’t good enough for someone like him. Not just Cooper, but all the men I’ve had, have in some way contributed to the mask and body armor that I wear into the battle that is dating in West Hollywood. And the only war I’ve been waging is with myself.
We stood there staring at each other in stunned silence, while a Leona Lewis dance remix of “Bleeding Love” blasted from the speakers. I silently told myself, “it’s our song,” then realized Cooper and I never had a song. Cooper and I were never together. Cooper probably hasn’t thought about me since the day I hung up on him. And all the anger and resentment I was holding on to was toxic.
She put her hand on my forehead. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked.
We took a stroll down Santa Monica Blvd. We considered popping by a psychic and having our cards read, but opted for Pinkberry instead, because unlike psychics, fake frozen yogurt has never disappointed me.
I walked Ryanne home and we hugged good night. She promised not to threaten to beat up girls she’s never met. I promised to let Cooper go. I’m trying to use my powers for good. I’m trying to not let the dark win. And maybe even one day I’ll meet a guy that I can actually show the face behind the mask.
Perhaps it is all about forgiveness. Forgiveness. And sometimes the hardest person to forgive is yourself. But I’m warning you, West Hollywood, if I don’t get laid soon, I will render forth a fury this world has never witnessed.
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