Dont Mince Words

It’s that time of year when the tops come up on the prickmobiles and single men in Los Angeles realize they don’t want to be alone for the holidays. I call it boomerang season.

Michael, the 48 year-old margarita puker, contacted me to see if I’d be interested in a second date nearly eight months after our first date. He “missed” me and claimed he had tackled his personal problems and was ready to date again.

I don’t think so.

Alex, a computer programmer, was also known as “A Tale of Two Starbucks.” We never met on our first date because we ended up at different Starbucks on Ventura. He contacted me five months later to see if he could finally meet me. Once again, an unavailable man wants to see if I can be available for him.

I don’t think so.

Henry, a bipolar former gynecologist, and I stopped dating nearly two years ago after I realized he enjoyed playing to the whiny Jew stereotype. He sent me an email to which I responded with general niceties. His response was, “I really wished you had called me instead of emailed.” This is another example of a man in LA that wants to be chased.

I don’t think so.

My trifecta of fools makes me wonder. If you get what you give, why are all these losers coming back for more? Is it a lasting first impression or a simple black book random dial?

I’m going into winter dating hibernation. No more boomerangs.

I didn’t think it was possible to top my weirdest date ever (see 3/2/04 blog), but this is Los Angeles where dreams are created and crushed daily.

Huff was four days into his 40th year when I met him for happy hour. He was east coast bred and came out here several years ago to pursue screenwriting with sci-fi and horror as his genre of choice.

I was half-way through my margarita when it was apparent we were talking all business. Then he asked me if I’d be his writing partner. Since I don’t mix the money with the honey, I went into full-on business mode, cancelled all romantic notions, and talked about some of my creative ideas.

“God, you are intelligent. I know we can make this work,” was all he had to say to get me back to his place to review his screenplays and other business ideas.

When I sat down on the sofa, I thought he had an inordinate about of liquor in his apartment. But, so did Hemingway. Shortly after getting me ice water, he ran to his bedroom and came back with a Snoop Dog big ass bag of pot. The last time I saw this much weed it was in the back of a trunk on COPS.

I gave the “I’m good” sign while he fired up. He proceeded to tell me his big business idea. Like most creatives with no business sense, his idea was flawed. I went easy on him and tried not to use the big SAT words, but I did inquire about the basics: target market and revenue stream.

Though stoned, he got even more excited. “You really do know what you are talking about,” he said.

He ran to the bedroom again and came back with a shopping bag. He got a goofy look on his face and said, “I’ve got 600 whippets. Do you want to do some? They are totally legal. I got them off the internet.”

Now I was in an interesting predicament. I opted to put my game face on and to get out the door shortly there after. Of course, the COPS-watching train wreck side of me knew if I’d stay a little bit longer, I’d have a great story.

I chewed on my ice while the stoner huffed on his N20 cartridge. About a minute later, the drug had set in. I smiled at him and feigned interest when I realized he was focusing on my tits. And then he smiled. He reminded me of the Dennis Hopper character in Blue Velvet.

“You seem like a pretty open-minded woman. I have a question… .or a proposal for you. I have a 19 year-old Asian submissive I spank. She has daddy issues and says she needs a mommy. Would you be interested in joining us?” he asked.

There you go. Thanks for that nugget. THAT made this evening worth it. A 40 year-old unsuccessful screenwriting stoner huffer with dominant tendencies has asked me to beat up an Asian girl one year over the age of consent.

“You know, I’m not really into threesomes, but I’m flattered you’d consider me,” I said.

I channeled Meryl Streep a few minutes longer and eventually got out of my real-time horror story by stating I needed to get home to finish editing a piece (his!).

Writers since the dawn of time have used drugs to induce and enhance creativity. Huff smokes pot and inhales whippets to get his horror and sci-fi ideas. I just date and I get material.

Are bad dates my high?

I’ve applied the three-strike-you-are-out rule to my dating. It really comes in handy. Annoying but overlooked first date habits can be re-evaluated prior to firing the potential boyfriend. That way, I am not in month three of the season realizing I recruited the wrong player.

Spicoli admitted on our first date that he was unemployed. That would concern most women, but since I’ve been there, I was sympathetic. In addition to applying for jobs, he tries to surf five times a week. I knew he really was a surfer when he used the word “gnarly” several times. Who still uses that word? I looked behind me to see if Mr. Hand was going to tell us to do our homework.

On the third date, more gnarlies passed between his lips in addition to admitting he had two kids, ages 13 and 3, from two separate women. He’s never been married, and I’ve never met a white baby’s daddy.

Dood, game over. You are out.