Men's ability to flirt has done a dodo. Even the Los Angeles Times has noticed the appalling trend—though to be quite honest, the article they ran on the subject some months ago was a reprint of something that came from the ever-edgy Washington Post.
If one is truly in need of male approbation—perhaps your cat just died, and you're feeling blue?—one can always make the rounds of the county's finer saliva swaps such as Pierce Street Annex or Chester Drawers Inn. But the flirting going on in these establishments tends toward the lower-grade, like a cut of beef that's really only good for stewing. There, the men just paw you incoherently as you're minding your own business and trying to do a perimeter check. You are a U.S. Marine, ensuring your company's area is free of desirable men before settling down to guard a tree; they are dirty Chinee trying to infiltrate. Hey! I am not racist! It's perfectly okay to call people “Chinee” or “gooks” or “wops” when our fearless leader is about to bomb them back to the Stone Age. Did someone say, “New Cold War” to boost our flaccid economy?
But that is not the point! I'm pretty sure the point is that men (even the physically attractive ones, of which there are admittedly many) in these sodden environs don't look into your eyes as though you're the prettiest woman this side of Simon LeBon and say clever and self-deprecating things about how they're undeserving of the time and company of a stunner such as yourself. Nope. Just paw, paw, paw and maybe a moment taken to demand your name (but never offer their own) and inform you that they wanna get wit' you before they stagger off to the men's room to puke.
Those places really are a lot of fun—though I must suggest attending in packs. They're not for the weak-of-heart nor for a single girl. It would be like baiting bears by leaving KFC in your campground. See what I mean? Not recommended!
So when a handsome, charming, clever man does flirt with you, how can you possibly resist? How can you keep from gazing into a man's eyes when he's gazing into yours? How can you stop your heart from racing when he leans in close to tell you something, and you're the only thing in the room that he sees? Well, if you find out, let me know.
Because at Linda's Doll Hut Friday night—at a party thrown for the birthday of her pretty niece Ashley—immaculately unavailable men were swooping down from their great heights of six-foot-12 to say charming, clever, self-deprecating things to little old me whilst I tried frantically to calculate which of the cool-looking (and gorgeous) blond rock chicks my homegirl Arrissia had said they were going out with.
The party was a picnic of delicious snacks of handsome rock stars—all Ashley's favorite bands—from the corn-fed and brilliant prog. rock of Nebraska-grown Square, laying down solid chops on songs about never learning their lessons (I believe them. For one, the singer/keys player Sean has never learned his lessons about wearing underwear and wearing a belt and insists on showing to the world a plumber's crack that would have been right at home on Schneider from One Day at a Time) and girls who blow up Carl's Jr.restaurants, to a reconstituted-for-the-occasion All the Madmen doing a lovely acoustic set between Glen's never-ending song introductions, which went on so long they were practically performance art. We missed Jay Buchanan, but please to know that his band, too, is full of rock-star goodness—even though I always mix up Tai and Todd because they're both equally tall, smiling and handsome as well as equally taken. What's the use of telling them apart? Just do what I do, and call everybody “dear.”
Arrissia was wanting to catch De Facto at the Lava Lounge, so we headed out halfway through Square's set to see members oflast year's band-with-the-most-buzz (national buzz, not just Rich Kane buzz!), At the Drive-In. The band broke up right when everyone from Rolling Stone to . . . uh, Meanstreet was hailing them as the year's best. While At the Drive-In was loud and angry and loud, De Facto laid down luscious, swirling grooves with Arab accents that had all the LBCelebs in the house practically belly-dancing. Well, all the LBCelebs except the ones who just stand on the dance floor like Medusa's had a go at 'em, watching the music. People who watch music are lame. Even lamer are the people who hang out and drink by their cars, thus forcing the fabulous Lava Lounge to limit its shows to Fridays and Saturdays. People move to SnoopTown from all over the country for its music scene, but the clubs—except for the odious yuppievilles on Pine Avenue—are dwindling. The new DiPiazza's—home of the old Captain's Quarters—is having to shut its doors at midnight on weekends and 11 p.m. during the week due to some City Council mucketymuck who's fixing what ain't broke. According to owner Mark DiPiazza, they've never had a complaint to the police—not even for noise.
Sunday's trasherrific Trailer on the Track party at the oceanfront apartment of Scott and Josh was a picnic of a more prosaic kind than the one at Linda's; there were no rock stars, just Ding-Dongs and a repulsive dessert that featured cubes of Spamfloating in chicken Jell-O in an Easter bunny mold. Martha Stewart, watch your rear! While the Long Beach Grand Prixattracts such stars as a doughy William Shatner to drive in the celebrity race, Scott and Josh attract nice and flirty gay men (and a few nice dykes) to watch for crashes from their windows. Heineken? Fuck that shit! I want Pabst Blue Ribbon!
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