Turning 26

I approached my 26th birthday with apprehension.
A year ago, I sat at at an outdoor table at the Maritime's La Bottega with about 10 of my best frends and my sweet hot boyfriend. It was a great night because I felt a lot of love, and I was in New York where I felt I belonged.
...BUT the EX and I broke up a month later. I now live in city I have mixed feelings about and I've been dating a string of "nice" but stupid guys.
So I knew right off the bat this birthday would be different.
No big party, no close group of friends, and no EX to carry me home after one too many shots of Patron.
What I had was two options.
1. Spending my birthday with my parents. Oh dear god.
2. Spending my birthday with my few friends in LA who all are on the brink of marriage and whose sense of adventures seems to have died.

So I looked at those two options and booked a flight to San Francisco...where at least I had Jake, my bartending hottie, where GAY PRIDE festivites filled the city, and where I thankfully DID NOT HAVE TO DRIVE.

25 was a hard year for me. I lost one of my best friends and my EX and I broke up. I left my bar job, and moved to LA.
So I sorta wanted a low-key birthday, and I knew that would happen in SF.

I slept alot and attended very few Gay Pride activities becasue frankly the event scares me.
I used to throw gay parties at Stanford for the gay community; so one of my best friends suggested that I should look into planning a city's gay pride event.

My response:
oh dear god jules, i hate gay people, i mean i like myself and my
friends, but the rest of them are awful.
if i planned gay pride parades, id have to institute dress codes and
exclude all sorts of ridiculous embarassments.
if you wear assless chaps, then you won't be allowed to march.
think more marc jacobs and less cirque du soliel.
----

But don't listen to this queen, because GAY PRIDE is supposed to be about loving thyself and self-expression...it's just that I find the whole affair to be tacky and slightly ironic.
And I'm all for costuming... but assless chaps?

Whatever.
I can't even write about GAY PRIDE without feeling conflicted about it. What's GAY PRIDE even mean anymore?
We're catty shits to one another. We propagate vicious body facism and elitism. We're fairly segregated along class and racial lines, and most of us live in gay ghettos.
And we celebrate pride over what? The new season of Queer Eye?

Most of the guys I know use Gay Pride as an excuse to go to big parties, get fucked up, and hook up with a couple of out-of-towners. Which I'm all for and while it is an excercise in faggotry, I don't know if its anything we should be calling Gay Pride.

But whatever, this rant isn't anything new to anyone.

I ran into my old hairstylist, Jay, at GIANT, the tea-dance, and he blessedly now seems off the crack because he has stopped shaking.
A hideous looking tranny walked by to which he remarked, "Look at the tranimal."

So that my friends is the word of the week, "TRANIMAL."

I woke up Monday morning to about 15 messages from friends, family, and my EX. All very sweet voicemails which reminded me that I'm a very lucky guy.

I may not have spent this birthday with my posse of friends, nor am I in the city in which I love, but after my stupid car accident last week, I'm very thankful to be alive and to have the great friends that I do in my life.

And SF was a suprisingly refreshing break from the ugliness of LA. Who would have ever thought I'd be happy to be in SF?! But I was... so I'm taking this opportunity to thank my friends for extending their love to me on my birthday. It means a lot to me.

Character Description

"Elliot: 25ish, American, happy-go-lucky, intelligent, but a bit geeky,
lives for the moment, good looking, but unaware of his looks."

My first reaction: "A Big Geeky??"

Jules' first reaction: "When are you not pretending to brood or unaware of your good looks?"

In Entertainment.

On my way into the gym on Sunday night, I ran into Chris, a former child actor turned television producer who I've had a slight flirtation with for the past several years.
I met Chris at Crunch on Lafayette where him and his buddies would usually hold court near the water fountain.
He's incredibly sexy with big arms, a big mischevious smile, and crystal blue eyes, but he's also a total player.

And I also made the biggest ass of myself with him right after we met.

While my buddy Kyle and I were walking into the gym, the subject of who we'd screw at our gym came up.

Me: "Well I think Chris is really hot, but he's a huge player, and really short. I mean he's like 5'6."

Kyle: "Um, what?!"

Me: "What do you mean, what?! Whats wrong with you? Chris is short, I mean he's not a midget, but you said yourself that he's not as hot as he could be becasue he's on the shorter side."

Kyle: "Hey Chris, how are you doing?"

I turn around and of course Chris is standing there.
In a panic, as I'm turning I drop my cup of coffee on his shoes. I help Chris clean it up and I go hide in the bathroom for the next 15 minutes.

Well he was shooting a pilot at Crunch here in LA and he apparently forgave me for my horrible transgression. He asked me if I'd be interested in being an extra.
I said yes not realizing that being an extra really sucks.

They shot a scene where a newcomer to LA runs into his friend at the gym, with gay men working out around them. I was on the flys and after about 45 minutes of having to do the same exercise repeatedly, I was ready to go home. Maybe Chris was punishing me?

I gave Chris my number but I sincerely doubt I'll be hearing from him; he's flirty but he's like that with everyone; it's the way he interacts with people. And he probably remembers what a dick I was.

In sort of related news, I recieved an e-mail from a guy I tricked with last October.
He's a British actor who resides in London, and had been visiting New York for a week.
I met him at my bar,and after a brief conversation, we ended up hooking up.
We hung out for the next couple days while he was in town, and had a really fun time.
Well, he wrote me letting me know that a play that he wrote has won a series of awards and is being performed at a festival. And that the crux of the story is a british actor going to New York where he meets a sexy American.
So he was writing me to let me know that his play has a character based on me.

How very sweet? I havent read the script yet but I hope I don't come across as too much of a slutty lush.

Crash

On Friday night, on my way home, I ran a red light and crashed into a BMW.
My cell phone had fallen onto the floor in front of the passenger side and when it rang, I went to grab it.

I don't know how I missed the fact that I was about to drive through an intersection.
I'm stupid. I'm so fucking dumb. And I'm so incredibly lucky I didn't kill anyone.

I remember looking up and realizing I had just run a red light and was headed right for a car.

The next 10 minutes were completely unreal. The sounds of two cars crushing each other, the feeling of the shards of glass raining on my face, and the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline.

I immediately panicked. Is the other person ok? I couldn't open my door so I climbed over the airbags and out of the passenger side window, and ran to the BMW.

Inside I saw a terrified woman hysterically crying. I asked her if she could get out.
She couldn't.
I held her hand and cried. I cried for her pain, knowing that I had caused it all.

The police came, she was able to get out of her car, and thankfully she was fine.

Said "If there's any car you ever want to get in an accident in, it's that one."

She gave me a hug, and reminded me that we were both alive.

I'm so very sorry.

Throughout it all, the only person I wanted with me was my EX. I wanted his embrace more than anything. I wanted to feel safe again.

I called him and he stayed on the phone with me until I got home and into bed. My body aches, my nerves are fried, but god damn, I'm still alive.

Voicemails from Sample Sales

"Amazing, amazing, amazing.
Green bathing suit, green sleeveless hoodie top, and a tank top.
Ash got pants and some other shit.
Simply amazing"
That was the message Tom left me on my fucking voicemail after leaving the Y-3 Sample Sale in New York.

I live with a couple from the Midwest. I've called them trashy before, but that's because they are trashy.
Uneducated, racist, and fans of demolition derbies.
I'm not saying they're evil. Quite the opposite actually. They're sweet people who just happen to like Bud Light, cigarettes, and hawaiian shirts. It's sort of like living with the Simpsons or relatives of the Bundy's.

Last night they came home from a dinner party. They were both drunk, meaning one of them was behind the wheel intoxicated of course.

They were in the midst of a tense fight, ignoring each other and only speaking to me making me the medium by which there dumb angry comments were filtered.
Btw, don't do that to people, if youre fighting don't drag others into it. It was horribly akward for me....Ok, i'm lying...i thought it was really entertaining. Imagine Jerry Springer Live in your living room. Priceless.

She then ends the game by informing him that she was going to make a microwave pizza. He demands that she not eat anymore, and come to bed so they can have sex.
She refuses, I go to my room to laugh, and I hear him telling her she's in "deep, deep trouble."

She then pops open two bud lights and motions me to join her out on the building's balconies to smoke a cigarette.

It's there that we have our first real conversation since I moved in three weeks ago.
She tells me of her failed relationships, the friends she's lost, and the heartache of her current situation.

She showed me pictures of her circle of friends back in Chicago, of her father, and of her ex-boyfriends.
She's really lonely out here since she moved out here to be with her current boyfriend; a guy she met while waitressing at a TGIFriday's type restaurant.
She has no friends here, and her life is basically her administrative job and her boyfriend. He's kind of a jerk to her; telling her what to wear, demanding sex every night, and telling her she's lucky to have him.
I've heard firsthand all of his bullshit, and up until last night hadn't said anything.

She asked me what I thought she should do.
I told her to break up with him because she's in an abusive relationship. She deserves better than that.

I don't doubt that the guy loves her. He just needs to understand that he can't treat her like shit.

Blowjob on Aisle 4

So last night I stumbled upon a phenomenon that others had warned me was prevalent in Los Angeles; grocery store cruising.
I was buying my oatmeal, golden delcious apples, and reduced-fat peanut butter when a college kid wearing a UCLA sweatshirt gave me the look. I brushed it off and continued on with my shopping, getting my Silk Soymilk and turkey burgers. I had had a long day and wasn't feeling particularly sexy in my post-gym smell. Especially because someone had swiped my year-old sneakers while I was in the shower. Yeah, I don't get that either. I go to a gay gym so either one of the custodians took them or some fetish queen into smelly gym shoes. Whatever. have fun with them.

As I was checking out, the guy ahead of me in line gave me the unmistakable look over and smiled. I don't know what was making me so appealing last night...maybe guys are into b.o. Maybe he liked what I had in my basket.
This guy was in his early thirties, wearing the kind of casual clothes that are made to look casual and expensive at the same time. Deconstructed pima cotton polo, madras shorts, and haviana flips.
Really polished and styled. But looking to get it on as he was checking out.
He waited for me to exit the store and in the parking lot, he introduced himself with his business card. I was slightly freaked out and intrigued.
In a city like LA where you don't walk by people on the street, do people shop for prospective dates by shopping for food?

Well yesterday was one of those unexplainable days when you get lots of attention despite feeling like you look your worst.
On my way to the gym earlier that day, an ederly man entered my apartment building's elevator with his dog. He turned to me and said, "Youre quite the attractive man."
He kept looking at me, creating an incredibly akward moment. As he exited the elevator, he turns to me and smiles, and then the elevator door shuts on his face, the dog goes beserk, the old man falls back, and I have to then help him up.

He was totally embarrased, but I was so flattered. I was that much of a knockout for the guy.

Mysterious Skin

I saw Greg Araki's latest film, Mysterious Skin, a couple weeks ago with my friend Brian from New York. Brian used to work in the admissions office at Columbia, and he was the guy who would decide which bootlicking egomaniacal applicant would be offered a spot in the undergrad program.
Like many LA residents, he moved out to the city of angels to pursue his dreams of being in showbiz. Brian is an aspiring director; exactly the kind of guy who I like to watch movies with because I like to tear movies apart, and do it who has an educated opinion about it.

Mysterious Skin examines how childhood molestation affected the life trajectories of two young men. One's a hooker, the other a mama's boy dweeb. The hooker gets off on the dangers of turning tricks, the mama's boy has blocked out his molestation experience, and believes that the missing time in his life is due to an alien abduction.
The juxtaposition of the two tales bothered me because the hooker's story was dark, and the other boy's situation a comedy of errors. I thought it fucked with the pacing of the film, but others have loved it.

The movie really romanticized male prostitution, and I found myself wistfully reminiscing about my own experiences.
Like other sex workers, I too, was molested, and of course I can't help but wonder how much of that played into my decision to do it.

I know that I have had complicated feelings toward older men. A part of me had wanted to be eroticized by them, the other was disgusted by them.

That conflict is largely resolved. I think being a hooker was strangely therapeutic for me for a great number of reasons despite the fact that it does fuck with your head.

Sex is rarely ever just about sex, and in the case of prostitution its rarely just a financial transaction.
Most male hookers don't do it because they need to; you can get a real job, you aren't a gimp. But it's a hell of a lot easier to make 250 an hour sucking an old man off than it is working at Subway for minimum wage.
But it goes even beyond that. Hookers do it because it gives them a sense of affirmation, a sense of danger, and it makes them feel special. And I suspect that for some it gives them a way to deal with molestation.

Through my experiences, I think that most men hire prostitutes in order to feel intimacy. There are a lot of lonely people out there, and the need to feel someone else is basic. We as human beings need to feel affectionate touches. As I've gotten older, I don't demonize the older men who hit on me becasue they aren't the men who molested me as a child...no, those are pedophiles. Men like Michael Jackson who are sick, depraved, and need intense therapy and castration.

In the end though, I'm trying to fully exit (I still occasionally do it for the extra cash, and the rush I'm sure) the sex industry for several reasons.
One, it is dangerous. I never had that bad of experience, but shit happens because people are fucking crazy. You can't even imagine how many men tried to convince me to have sex bareback. Or to do crystal with them. Retarded.

Two, it makes you total crazy and inappropiate about boundaries. You start to completely seperate sex and emotions, and you end up fucking up your romantic sex life. You think that having group orgies on a regular basis is okay, and bascially debase the spirtual connection that makes sex so wonderful. If you're having sex with other guys more than your own boyfriend, then there's something wrong there.
If you need to proposition men for threesomes on a regular basis, then there's something wrong there. Sex should ultimately be about sharing an intimate experience with the man you love. And no, I doubt you can love half of Chelsea and West Hollywood, although you wouldn't be able to tell that by my own past behavior.
I'm not saying I'm about monogamy, because child, I'm not about to make myself a hypocrite, but as a full-time sex worker, you're basically having sex all the time.

Three, because of the amount of money you make, you strap on the same golden handcuffs that afflict bartenders. No job will ever pay you as much money as the sex industry will, and you'll end up wasting years of your life with no credible career momentum.

Interestingly enough, Raging Stallion approached my bartending hottie, Jake, in San Francisco yesterday to see if he'd be interested in being a model for them.
He thought it was funny that they said "model" instead of porn actor/star as if the euphemism would somehow fool him into being interested.
Like I've said before, this isn't the first time he's been approached off the street. Falcon and Hot House have both tried to scout him, but he has no interest in doing it. Says he doesn't want that kind of attention in his life, and doesn't want to have the type of extreme sex shown in movies. Which is part of the reason I think Jake is so hot; he's a porn star without having made a movie.

I had a second date last night with this Crunch hottie named Matt. Buffed tattooed and sweet, Matt is another guy that on paper should work out perfectly, but I feel as if he's hiding some dark secret.

I met him a couple weeks ago when he was working on his chest. He has gorgeous green eyes and an array of beautiful tattoos on his biceps and shoulders.

On our first date he showed me pictures of a trip he took his mom on, and beautiful dark wood furniture he made himself.

So even though his anxious shy demeanor stifled our conversations, I gave him another chance because I know that Matt has a good heart and spends time creating. (I fall hard for artsy types) That and he has the best ass god ever created.

He had been out celebrating LA Pride this past weekend, so he was yawning all through out our date. He eventually fell asleep while watching a bad movie. Now that's cute if you've been dating for awhile, but this is our second date. Muster up enough interest to stay awake.

I couldn't help but feel a little jipped. He knew our date was coming up and yet didn't make the effort to be rested up for our encounter.

He also let it slip to me that he doesn't change in the locker room, because he's uncomfortable with gay cruising, hates any form of gay PDA, and is seemingly annoyed by fey gay men. So in short, he has some issues with outward expressions of homosexuality.

For most people, that would be enough to drive them away.
For me because im clinically insane, I find it endearing. Matt is hiding a lot behind his good looks, a lot of internalized homophobia and somehting else i can't put my finger on , and I can't help but feeling like I should help him.
But thats why my dating life is a complete horror show.

You don't date projects.

I'm actually going on a second date with Ryan, the med student, in a couple days. The stalker, Phil, has called me literally 11 times since Saturday.

So what does this all mean? I really need to get that fucking dog.

The Story of the Marc Jacobs Bag

For some boys and girls their obsessions lie with shoes. For others its jewelry, and for me, as strange as it sounds its t-shirts. (yes, im trashy that way)

For my friend Josie, it's certain bags that carry her fancy. I think it started out back in college when she lusted after a coach saddle bag. then came the gucci bag, followed by the birkin. im not really good with remembering the types of bags out there, not like josie and her extensive knowledge of hobos and totes.
about a year ago, josie became obsessed with a certain green marc jacobs bag.
she talked about it endlessly like a new boyfriend. had me call her from a computer so we could look at it online together.

so when she stumbled upon one on ebay, the temptation was just too great. the photos of the green marc jacobs bag haunted her. it was the bag she so desperately wanted, and it would cost much less than if she paid retail. she placed a bid and anxiously waited for the results.

well josie got her bag. it was shipped to her within 4 days. but instead of getting what she saw on the photos of ebay, she got a cheap knockoff with a tear in it.

and that my friends is the other problem with trying to find dates online.
no matter what the product is, be it designer accessories or potential suitors, there's an element of advertising that's based on deception.
in the case of ebay handbags and online dating sites, the pictures are of products that are too good to be true; and more often than not, they are.

Men will always put their best pic up, tell you how hot and sexy they are, but I suspect that half of them are using someone else's pic, or are about 5 to 10 years older than they say.

The famous internet adage is that there is a difference between "internet inches" and real inches.

So if you find yourself cruising online, subtract about an inch from his cock size, add about 5 years, and prepare yourself for stalkers and tweakers.
What people should do is post their ugliest photos and tell the absolute truth about their statistic so that people will think youre more attractive when they meet you.

The Perils of Being Fresh Meat

As I posted a couple days ago, I had to work this weekend, and report to the office by 8am. Well, I talked them up to 9am, and that hour makes a world of difference.

Work has been easy despite the fact that I'm dealing with vicious female retail buyers who walk in their strappy wedge sandals with enough attitude to cut through Kimora's diamonds.
Buyers are used to being catered to since they wield in their well-manicured hands hundreds of thousands of dollars and the livelihood of designers.
They ask questions, don't grace me with eye contact, and since they know I'm new meat and thus lack experience, they'll ask me the same question repeatedly, hoping they'll eventually get the answer they want.
I'm used to dealing with this alpha personality, seeing as I tend to date and befriend it.
All in all, working this weekend has been fine. The job's not that hard, and I managed to go out for a bit last night, which was enough of LA Pride for me.
(Because frankly all PRIDES are the same fucking thing, plus or minus a couple of drag queens and GHB overdoses)

I met up with Ted, a buddy of mine from NYC. He's a law student who realized that being a law student in New York sucks. You're broke (even though his parents paid for his posh digs on the Upper West Side), you're saddled with a huge amount of work, and you're always missing some great party. Even JFK Jr. let the insanity of New York affect his studies while at NYU Law. The prince failed the New York bar twice.
Ted's trying to transfer to a LA law school, but for the summer he's interning at a firm downtown.
Ted and I have the same taste in guys- we like masculine laid back men who are comfortable in their skin- and that often means guys in their thirties.
We hooked up about a year ago after I stopped dating one of his best friends, pussy boy.
Pussy boy got his name from an intimate experience where he demanded I fuck his pussy.
Afterwards, PB asked if he could fuck me. My response "You have a pussy, there's no way you're ever fucking me."
Anyways, Ted called me up yesterday asking me if I'd be down to meet up for a drink.
I said yes knowing quite well that I might be bringing a date along.

I have a confession: out here in LA I've started chatting on online gay sites with the actual intention of dating and hooking-up. Something I used to do back in high school. I much rather prefer meeting guys in real life because it's much sexier to met a hot guy in a bar, not know the exact dimensions of his dick and asshole, and discover a man's story before knowing his turn-ons.
But I've gotten lazy with work and the gym, and in an attempt to meet guys, find online chatting easy and convenient. And I suspect that online chatting is a big thing out in LA where the bars kind of suck.
In the past, I'd simply swap pics when I was bored, because getting laid off the internet is just way too easy. Easy sex for me = boring.
And on the internet, you'll find your share of meth heads, sex addicts, and completely socially inept losers who's life is wholly comprised of the gym and sex websites.
You'll often find guys who have 14 pictures of themsevles with a long edict as to appropiate chat behavior, exclusionary clauses, and overuse of abbreviations. (No Fats, Fems. Be Masculine. Hot, worked out, you be too.PNP, BB, WS, FF for e.g.) To those people, I say walk the fuck away from your computer and walk out your door.

Saying that, I myself logged onto the internet, and after chatting for about half an hour, I met two potential suitors.

One is this recent Berkely grad who's a personal trainer. Ryan's about to start med school in the south, but is interning in LA for the summer.
He's sexy, has a great thick body, but is so cocky about being "the whole package" that he often comes across as a total tool.

The other kid I chatted with was Phil, a young gym bunny from Long Beach. Cute sexy kid, but it seemed thats all he really was. Perhaps too young and too aimless for my taste.

Phil and Ryan both asked to hang out last night, but seeing as Ryan was probably a better fit, I invited him to meet up for drinks before I was to meet Ted.
I figured that if Ryan was cool, i'd invite him along to meet Ted and keep things chill and casual. If not, I'd tell him I had to go meet my buddy.

Well a couple hours before I was to meet Ryan, Ted called me up to let me know that his friend Phil from Long Beach would be joining us. I laughed my ass off. Small fucking gay world.

Ryan, the gay med student, picked me up at my aparment and we started walking over to the Abbey. On the way over, we share dating horror stories, one of which is about a stalker of his. He tells me he's been hesitant to meet off the internet because he he had a really bad experience. Apparantly a guy he met off the net wouldn't take a hint and would text him 20 times a day, instant message him, email him, and call him. And true to stalker fashion, follow him home.

I stopped in my tracks, however, when Ryan mentioned that his freaky stalker was from Long Beach. The gay world got even smaller. Phil was in fact his stalker, Ted's friend, and my other online suitor.

I thought it was fucking hilarious. Of course this would happen to me. See what happens when you shop for dick online.

All in all, things turned out fine. We all met each other, Phil turned out to be crazy, but he was more freaked out by the whole thing than anything. Had a deer in the headlights look to him all night.
And I consider myself very lucky for having been warned ahead of time of a run-in with a lame guy with too much time on his hands.
But perhaps I too have too much time if I have time to chat with random guys on the net. Next time I get lonely, I'm going to get a dog, go to the park, and use that as a means to let guys talk to the "new meat" of LA.

Fighting Fists of Jealousy

its funny how hypocritical i can be with matters of the heart and my cock.

my EX and i had a friendly conversation last night in which we mentioned recent dates. this morning i saw that i recieved a text from him at 5am.

being strung out from exhaustion, i subtracted 3hours instead of adding them, and figured he texted me at 2am his time...thus assuming he must have been out hooking up with someone and texted me on his way home.

And impulsively I became jealous.
Ree-tard-dead.

Instead of bringing out the best in us as relationships should, too often they make us jealous jerks. And nothing, absolutely nothing ever good comes out of jealousy because its rooted in insecurity and mistrust.
If someone flirts with your boyfriend, why give a fuck--- someone just sees what you see in your man- and you need to trust your man to not do anything to hurt you.

Well in this case, I have no grounds to be jealous. We aren't together, havent been for a year, im still seeing the SF bartender and dating out in LA-- but there are still times I get caught up in jealously when it comes to my EX.

But if anything its an indicator that I still have romantic feelings for him despite everything.
With my other ex's, I could give a flying fuck if they showed me photos of them getting fisted by my best friends.

Family Ties

I'm so tired. I'm on my second cup of coffee and I've only been in the office for an hour.
Being tired at work is akin to chinese water torture. You keep looking at the clock, hoping that somehow time will speed up, and that the day will end...but it doesn't, and in fact the day goes by even slower. And off in New York, my old co-workers from the bar are still asleep despite the fact that they're three hours ahead. Lazy whores.

For some god foresaken reason, I can't fall asleep before 2am despite the fact that I've been getting up at 7:15a. My over active mind keeps me up. I read, jerk off, read some more, and then drink a glass of wine.
Well last night I miracously nodded off at about 12:30....only to be woken up by a phone call from my drunk aunt Ricki.
Don't get my wrong, Ricki, is awesome. At only 5 years older than me, we grew up acting like siblings. She's crazy, outgoing, and a full on dyke.
She blessedly made my coming out easier because she was such a wreck.
I may have been a fag, my parents thought, but at least he's going to Stanford, not dating a stripper, and not riding a harley. (Little did they know that their golden boy just did a better job of hiding his dark skeletons)

In the middle of a night, I was awoken by my alarm clock.
Scratch that.
It wasnt my alarm clock.
It was my cell phone, and it was only 1:30a. I had been sleeping for one hour.

Me: "Uhh..hello..."
Ricki: "uhh.....(sounds of crying)...Hello?"
Me:" Yeah, whats wrong?!"
Ricki: "Oh, im just really drunk. I love you! (more crying)"
Me: "I love you too. Whats going on"
Nameless girl/probable new girlfriend: "I'm sorry, we're really fucked up. We'll call you tomorrow"
Click.

WHAT THE FUCK?!
Toxic, thats what that was.
Get your shit together, Ricki, and if you need to talk to me don't do it pissed drunk.
Yes, I'm a little callous, but I've learned (from my own behavior with my EX, mind you) that you can't coddle such behavior.
It's ridiculous, rude, and selfish.
And once again, I'm not saying im immune to such antics.

Dressing Your Age

Last night my mom called me while I was at the Coffee Bean refueling for the gym. As we chatted, a well-perserved 40-something trophy wife pulled up in her Lexus SUV wearing a tight tank top and True Religion jeans. She was a size 2 on a fat day and had her long blonde locks were pulled up in a pony-tail. Inside she pulled off her Louis Vutton sunglasses and revealed a face that only a plastic surgeon could have concocted. Tight shiny skin. Large bee-stung lips, and an obscenely narrow nose.

Instead of looking hot, she looked like a plastic whore with her bright make-up and heavy cleavage. But I think that pretty much sums up the look of the ladies of LA.
There's absolutely no subletly in fashion here.It is all vulgarity.
The prescription is for the tight items- and that applies to the men as well as the ladies.

An otherwise hot buff daddy at Crunch last night had cut his t-shirt down the middle to mid-sternum, creating a look that reminded me of the J.Lo green dress at the Grammy's. I totally gave him a puzzled look. Why make your t-shirt into a sports bra when you're a man? And a hot one at that?

I'm starting to believe that while the fashion icon of the ladies of the East Coast is still Jackie-O, the fashion icon of LA is Pamela Anderson.

And the men all think they're Ashton Kutcher- even at 40. I saw a salt and peppered man wearing cameouflage shorts at the gym with an abercrombie tank-top. Why is it that the older people get in LA, the more it seems they are more determined to dress like juvenile deliquents.

It makes me think that LA lacks real class. The ladies who lunch in New York are real cunts, but at least they were clothing that while appropiate for their age, is still gorgeous. Think Vivienne Westwood tops with chunky jewelry and Chloe Jeans.

And while men in New York strive for masculine looks; pinstripe suits and vintage t-shirts, deconstructed, and slightly baggy jeans, the men of LA tend to wear skimpy Urban Outfitter type tees with faggy jeans.
If you're a man, try to stick to simple jeans like Premium Levi's. The flashy adornments on the ass are touches of feminity that look ridiculous on most men. That rules out most of the designer jeans. I mean, that's just my opinion, but I think that guys (and especially men over the age of 30) look absolutely retarded in True Religion Jeans, your ass highlighted by oversized buttons on pockets with thick stitching.
Only if you're a fashion icon like Chow can you pull this shit off, because he'll pair it with his Adam Plus Eve thin cashmere sweater and his school boy jacket. Hot look. Down.
I know that with time, my own fashion tastes will be influenced by LA, and I'll end up buying too much Diesel, and looking like a man afraid of showing his age.

Cash Money Ho, PS.

Btw, why the fuck is gas so expensive? At 2.50 a gallon, I miss New York City subways...anything to not drive, get tailgated by that bottle-blonde bitch in her tacky beemer convertible, and then to have to gas up at 40 dollars a pop.

Cash Money Ho?

Ever notice that when you're broke, everyone else seems to be flithly rich.
Well that seems to be the case here in LA, but to the Nth degree. No one my age seems to be struggling at all...but I sincerely doubt that the greater Los Angeles area is populated entirely by trust fund kids and hotel heiressses. NO, my guess is that most people my age are living way beyond their means and doing so on credit.

Driving around in my rented hatchback Daewoo, I'm surrounded by SUVs, Beemers, and Hummers. The most common car I see being driven by people my age are Volkswagon Jettas and Golfs.

It's not fashionable or glam to be broke...in fact, you're never supposed to admit to not having money, because if you are truly a child of glamour, then the money will come to you... Where that pervasive line of thinking comes from, I have no idea, but I do know that among my friends the idea of dropping a thousand dollars at Lisa Kline on Robertson on a pair of jeans and a jacket is nothing to be alarmed at, especially if you've got the latest Farmer Jeans, that really cute Paul Smith Oxford hat, or that Etro Seersucker jacket in your bag.

One of my friends, I fucking forgot which, told me that back in the day (probably in the 50's) the theatre was attended almost purely by older people. Not because they were the only ones who wanted to attend, but because they were the only ones who could truly afford to go- Now that whole concept; that certain luxuries should only be taken with a decades-worth of hard work has seemingly escaped the supposition of the world today.
It certainly has been something that's taken most of my early twenties to notice.
Maybe it's because we live in a world that's a "live for today" mentality- which translates into instant gratification and induldgence.
Especially since we seem infatuated with young girls with more capital than most African nations. Girls like the Skeletwins (Linday and Nicole) and Paris who are young and get to live lavish lifestyles. It's not enough to be rich at 40, now what people want is to be rich, hot, and young. Or at least appear as if they are rich and young.
Alls I know is...I'm broke- and I need to worry about apartment deposits and cars before I even consider a new pair of Blue Cult Jeans.

Out by 10p

I dont think I've ever fallen asleep before midnight unless there were several klonopin involved. Well I slept ten hours and still managed to wake up by 7:30. Craziness.

So do I like LA more than SF? Well, there's certainly more stimuli for my ADD-addled brain, but the standard of living is not as high as it is in the Bay Area. But I'm liking it more and more. I don't have a great circle of friends, nor am I being invited out to many parties, but it's a refreshing break. My liver is recovering. My skin is clearing up, and I've managed to gain another five pounds of muscle.

The guys here are waaay to fucking primp-y even for this queen. I'm talking about Ken dolls, people. Waxed, brushed, plucked,and tanned. I like to look hot without it looking like I was groomed by a staff of twenty.

Everybody wants to come to Hollywood

Okay so it's been a week and in that past week I've:
-Eaten too much In-n-Out. I'm afraid my digestive system is permenaently backed up, and frankly, I think it's worth it.
-Have spent about 10 hours in traffic. It's really that bad. There have been times that I've convinced myself that I entered a black hole/space time continum vortex and have backtracked. And other times, I figure I might as well park on the 405 and walk home.
-Attended the Sunday T-Dance party at the Standard Downtown. Think NYC fashionistas with better tans and more coke. I saw a girl in a white thong with cellulite. My friend Joanne told me that the THONGed one asked her for a tampoon in the bathroom. Quelle horror. Our friend who's a manager for the Standard invited us to the "in-crowd" event where everyone sported labels and flesh. It felt like everyone was trying really hard to be cool, and I found the dancing on furniture and smiling to be annoying as fuck.
My favorite over-used phrase, "My goal is to be bi-coastal." Duh, fuckwad, but I doubt you'll achieve that by shoving a kilo of coke up your left nostril.
-Have met more crazy people than my last visit to grandpa's mental unit. Including potential roommates. One girl was a complete sweetheart, but she told me she's really into going out to gay bars and hasn't had a date since high school. She's now 28. I had to pass on that one. I'm not Will, sweetie, go become someone else's Grace.
I don't do fag hags. Period.
-My hottie bartender came down to visit, and of course every where we went people approached him and asked him if he wanted to be an actor, model, or porn star.
I was offered a drink.

Have to go back to work. It's my second day here. will report more later.