Dont Mince Words

For all you breeders who have received gifts from me during the past 20 odd years, I’ve got one thing to say. Ante up bitches, I’m a mother.

Tex, my farting geezer foster American bulldog, has adopted me. Our six-week courtship was a blast and the experience made me realize I could handle going to the next level. While no dog will ever meet the hilarity and insanity of Kramer, my former funky hipster doophus schnauzer, Tex does fit my current lifestyle. He loves hiking, sleeping, and eating. The bonus is the old guy doesn’t bark. He is also quickly becoming the mayor of West Hollywood. Neighbors come outside to say hi to him when he goes on walks. The kids at Pinkberry give him yogurt samples. The trannie nurse in the mobile AIDS testing station jumps out of her RV to say hi. He’s just that special.

In lieu of stork presents, please make a donation in Tex’ name.

I promise the next three to five years will be good times for Tex and will also mark the longest LA relationship I’ve ever had! I no longer have to date bad dogs.

When you hit a certain age, you realize there’s no great place to live. You are either in the ‘burbs with the marrieds, or in the cheap area surrounded by young ones and Bud. What’s that leave me? West Hollywood.

I live in the least target-rich environment on earth. But the view is great. At least SOMEONE in LA has a relationship. I love the ‘moes. They do have the best neighborhoods. I’m several doors down from barely-yogurt Pinkberry as well as a one-stop leather shop. And, if I hit bottom, the 12-Step store is right next door.

However, when you live and work amongst the gays, you forget what straight men are. Tonight my libido was resuscitated in Barney’s Beanery, five blocks from my house. There were sports games on and men were watching. As I ate dinner with a girlfriend, I felt like horny teen girl again.

“Look at that one over there with the broad shoulders. He’s not gay either.”

On my way out, I was so dazed by the spectacle, I walked over to an age-appropriate guy, handed him my card and said, “Hi, if you are single and straight, give me a call and let’s get a beer sometime. I live in a gay neighborhood and I don’t see real men often.”

He smiled, introduced himself and said sure. He made my day. Maybe I made his.

After dinner, we walked another 1/2 mile to a work/movie party. There seemed to be an overabundance of straight men there, but they all had that homogeneous LA guy look: emo bedhead, 15 pounds underweight, trying too hard to look hip.

So who hits on me? A skinny, gay black guy with a Yankees cap on.

“Gurl, look at you. You got it going on with that hair. Who does your hair?” he asked.

What response could I give that would repulse him and make him go away, like tossing water on the Wicked Witch?

“Fantastic Sams,” I said.

I want to believe that gay guys have straight brothers or friends that I can go out with. But I think I’m going to stick with what I know: bars with pool tables and sports games are usually full of straight guys. Back to the Beanery I go.

I’m back on the subject of LA and cars, but before we go there, let me immediately digress.

I had the usual, traditional conflicted childhood. I was an individual who was different and didn’t blend in and yet I wanted to be like everyone else. And I didn’t. My parents’ delivered the usual fucked-up conflicted messages, “Why can’t you be like everyone else.” Or, “Why do you want to be like everyone else?” (That one they used during back-to-school clothes shopping season). All this was sorted out in college and grad school when I realized I got along with all types of people, but I was, indeed, very much an individual.

So here I am in LA. I’ve never really cared about fashion and usual err on the side of comfort. I’ve never been a conspicuous consumer. No bling-bling. No gottahaveit now. I’m pretty low maintenance. Cars in LA… that’s a subject a standup comic could analyze for days.

I am currently an owner of a 2001 Honda Accord. Is it the car I really wanted? Nah, not really, but I didn’t know what I wanted either. It is a reliable car and it will do for now. It is bigger than I’m used to (four scraped hubcaps to prove it) and CPA-conservative. When I open the trunk in the grocery store parking lot, I feel like I should be putting some cases of Similac in there too.

But I digress.

Today I went to a networking luncheon meeting for the International Association of Business Communicators in West Hollywood. I immediately bonded w/a graphic design agency sales guy named Joseph. I looked at his portfolio while I nibbled on my Mexican salad (“Would you like tofu or grilled chicken on that?” You know you are in Hollywood when tofu is first in the meat order). He’s also doing a short movie on the side about nuclear bomb testing in Utah. So, I immediately went into Pentagon mode and grilled him about the interviews and story line.

After we all paid the check, Joseph and I walked in the same direction together and he invited me to a rough cut screening of his film. We made it to my car and exchanged cards.

“Oh, this is you?” he said, looking deeply into my Honda’s headlights.

“Yes, as you can tell by my parking job, I’m relearning how to drive,” I said.

He walked away, promising to email when he knew the screening time. I knew he wasn’t going to email. I drove a Honda. He strikes me as the kind of guy that likes a girl that drives a Lexus SC430. When you see a woman in a 430, you think, “she must like anal sex.”

I drove down Santa Monica Boulevard chuckling when Joseph happened to pass me in his Cadillac Escalade. WITH A GOLD PACKAGE. A white guy with a gold package? Where I come from this means NO penis instead of small penis and you have a posse of “girls” working for you.

Do you think anyone will notice my new tires?