Dont Mince Words

As you get older, sometimes you change.  I’m shocked that some of my friends have become republicans or born again.  I’m happy to report that, other than my sagging boobs, I haven’t changed.

One of my unemployment projects has been ensuring all of my CDs have been ripped and added to iTunes.  Yes, even Morrissey.  The media was then going to be donated to my college radio station for a write off.

While I was going through my notebooks of CDs, I ran across some of my DJ days that my ex-boyfriend had digitized from very old 90-minute TDK cassette tapes.  I had a two-hour show at my school as well as at an all-boys college down the street that craved female talent.

I had fun listening and realized, with the exception of a few one-hit wonders, I had incredible indie/alternative musical taste, a bit of a sense of humor, and a slight accent.  Now, as I continue to listen to The Cult, Siouxsie & the Banshees, and Concrete Blonde, I can smile and know I was on to something and ahead of my time.

I shipped my notebooks back to school in a wine box sealed with Warhol-ized Jesus tape.  “I can’t wait to see what you have,” said the music director in an email.  Hopefully, he’ll see I have eclectic musical tastes and a warped sense of humor.

As of today, I’ve lived in Los Angeles seven years.  It’s not really something to celebrate more than mark the time in awe.  It has flown and yet it has stood still.  I spent the afternoon with a New Yorker that relocated three years ago.  She’s still adjusting, but mocks the place just like I do.  It’s can’t-put-your-finger-on-it weird here.  After a bottle of wine, we concluded we liked the weather.

Dating is still hard.  Finding work is harder.  I’ve got the seven-year itch.

Once in a while I venture out of my zip code.  Tonight was one part music – The Untouchables – and one part men, because when you leave West Hollywood it is like a field trip into straight-man territory.  That means lipstick and heels for me.

My girlfriend and I made it past the bouncer and discovered there were two opening bands, not one.  Thankfully, we found a booth we could sit in.  You know you are getting old when you panic that you won’t be able to stand for the headliner.  With a waitress and a comfortable seat, I was ready for a fun night of music and people watching.

There were couples and dressed-down, beachy singles, but most noticeable were age-appropriate men (+/- 10 years).  We watched one man help his very drunk date up the stairs beside us.  About five minutes later, she staggered out and he walked her to the door.  As he walked back up the stairs, he looked at me and came back down and leaned over the table to talk to me.  I assumed he wanted to know if the seat beside me was open.  After saying “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you” three times, I realized he was actually saying, “would you like to dance?”

I was stunned and automatically said no thank you mainly because I didn’t have the right shoes on.  It also gave me time to reflect and come to the conclusion I’ve never been asked to dance while I’ve lived in Los Angeles.  Never.  I realize there are obvious mitigating factors (my height, my age, the venue, etc..)  But it is sort of sad, right?

Once I came-to, I was thankful I said no.  The guy looked like the type that had a window-less white kiddy snatcher van and only got girls to go home with him by using roofies.  As my girlfriend said, “You have to be more careful now that you have the blonde highlights.”

As long as I continue to wear the wrong shoes, I think I’ll be safe.