Dont Mince Words

Tex and I were strolling back from our walk to the coffee shop on Melrose. We were in the home stretch, the last block, where Tex always lags behind. He’s not slow because he’s sniffing everything. He’s just old and tired. His hips try to keep up with his mind, but often fail him.

Half-way up the block I noticed an old man going about the same pace as Tex. As we got closer, the 80-something had on a blue wife beater, a full adult diaper, and gray-blue loafer slippers with dark blue piping on the top, just like my dad used to wear. He was holding a bush with each step he took as he headed north to Santa Monica Boulevard. I said good morning as we passed. His face looked like he had not shaved in a week. I remember that old man look from my father. Why bother when you are ill and the folds in your face make it even harder to shave? As I fed Tex, I called the West Hollywood sheriff and explained there was a semi-ambulatory old man with dementia out for a stroll on my block. I’d never seen him before and didn’t know which building he came from. They said they’d send a patrol car over. Tex retreated to his day bed to look out the front door.

The old man shuffled past two more houses before he stopped to rest on a brick wall. Approximately 40 minutes elapsed and his caretaker had finely come out to find him, about the same time the patrol cars rolled up. I walked out and talked to one of the sheriffs.

“Thanks for coming. I realize this was a less-than-desirable call, but I just couldn’t let this guy wander on Father’s Day,” I told him.

“God, I hadn’t thought of that,” the sheriff said. He laughed and continued with “it did look like he was making a break for it didn’t it?”

When Tex becomes incontinent and in pain, he’ll get the shot. My dad, when he realized his life was tied to a dialysis machine, elected to discontinue treatment and fade away. But I think the cruelest death is living in a shell of a body not knowing who you are and reliant on others while you look for life.

The wandering old man deserves to be in a better place.

Los Angeles is full of creative people, so it was only a matter of time before I’d have a date with a musician. Who knew it would be a doubleheader. I’ve dated musicians before, but they’ve had day jobs which puts them in the frustrated artist category. These guys were “real” musicians.

Friday night was a 40-something artist that sang and played numerous instruments. He was from the south and still had the accent. That made him even more endearing until he handed me his CD and told me he’d be on the road in a few weeks. I’m never sure if that is ego or an invitation to be a panty-throwing roadie. As I was half-way through my Moscow mule, Friday requested to read my palm.

“Your life line doesn’t look right. You need a liver cleanse,” he told me. No, I just needed to finish my half-empty glass and self-cleanse.

As he continued to dominate the conversation, I prepared my exit speech. Thanks, I don’t need another. It was nice meeting you.

Saturday’s date was with a slightly shy 31 year-old composer/producer. After nearly a month of e-courting, he nutted up and asked to meet me. By the time I had finished my second beer, I managed to wow him with the theatrical merits of Beerfest versus Pineapple Express. He thought I was a genius. I knew I was just appealing to my demographic and it was a struggle. This cougar thing is tough work.

As a writer, I have a strong appreciation for the creative mind. However, in the dating world I still need to find my happy medium between crazy artist and humble CPA.

A close girlfriend got out of a 2.5 year fakelationship and nearly immediately got back to the online dating business with some mildly successful results. I found her get-back-on-the-horse determination inspiring enough to return to the game also. My out-of-the-gate experience left a friend in New York saying, “can you move to San Francisco? Even with the gays, it has to be better dating there.”

I have a dog for companionship and a vibrator for sanity, so dating in Los Angeles is becoming more difficult to do the older I get. I make it very clear with my prospects that I’m not looking for anything casual and really want to make sure there is chemistry and good friendship long before the cock meets the vag. Fucktard said he understood.

We had two great dates with good, engaging conversation in addition to some obvious attraction. However, a day later, he was screwing a stranger. He sent me a morning-after confessional email stating he had made a “mistake” the night before and he felt “horrible” and was “scared shitless and confused.” It was clearly an open and shut case of Jewish guilt meets undefined needs. The one thing he did get right is I deserve better.

One day I’ll meet a man in LA who knows what he wants and it is consistent… from day-to-day and week-to-week. But I have to say, this is the first time I’ve meet a man who was so intimidated by me that he broke his 14-month celibacy and fucked a stranger 24 hours after our second date. Yes, this is one for the LA record books.