Dont Mince Words

In the mail on Monday, I received one of those friendly reminders from the local Honda dealership telling me that it was probably time to change oil.  I realized I didn’t come close to hitting their high mileage estimate.

I have become the little old lady of West Hollywood.  Being laid off, there are days my car doesn’t move.  When it does, it is usually to drive to happy hour to met my other laid off friends, or to give Tex a courtesy ride.  I’m averaging 300 miles per month.  That’s just crazy low mileage in this town.  And it is empirical evidence that I don’t have much of a life.

I changed that immediately by adding the FourSquare app to my iPod.  I realize I’m a hypocrite for advising clients to get involved with geolocation apps and not participating myself.  What I didn’t anticipate is the motivation FourSquare can provide to get out of the apartment.  I’ve got check-in’s all over my neighborhood and I am now the Mayor of my apartment building and I’ve been awarded an Adventurer badge because I get out a lot.   I know it is all bullshit, but it is like a Weight Watcher’s weigh-in.  It’s all the motivation I need to feel like I’m making a change in my life.

Today is four square day (4×4 = 16).  It’s like Pi day except the math is so much easier and there’s drinking involved.  Check-ins at The Standard get two-for-one drinks.  The Viper Room has more FourSquare specials:  no cover, cheap drinks, and PBR swag.

I have said many times I don’t do anything unless it gets me a job or gets me laid.  Right now, getting out of the apartment is the first step.

Check-in.  Check me out.

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?