yes Virginia, the rock opera does still exist but it might hurt you

So I had the strange and bizarre opportunity to experience an actual rock opera recently. And yes, it almost hurt me. But I have lived to tell the tale.

First, lets lay the blame on Summer shall we? Who, of course, will pass the buck to Jack her erstwhile co-worker and carpool bingo partner. Jacks pal was going to be playing with this band, the Kooks, at Mr T's Bowl and it was certain to be a hoot. Or at least this was how it was reported to me. Well, I am game for just about anything and Jack is a nut. Yipee!!

So we head out on a rain swept night to see what this was all about. For those of you who don't know, Mr' T's Bowl is an actual bowling alley although it is rarely used as such. But it comes equipped with a black lit bar that shows everyone's undergarments through their clothes. Good times! And to add interest to the setting, the bar seems to be staffed by this odd woman who looks like she came over on Ukrainian sex trade boat. But I will say she can sling the drinks. (Summer will contest this.) Once we entered, acquired Jack and some cocktails, we began to take a look around. We started to notice that the crowd was more varied than usual. You have a good grip of the swing vintagey types, the sorta indie rocker types (that are trying soooo hard to fly the freak flag) and then the requisite neighborhood winos who are in love with the Ukrainian bartender who is probably selling it out the back door. The odd part is the high percentage of people yammering away in German. German? Well, apparently the band opening for the Kooks is a German swing band. Hence the swing types. I have no idea what their name was but I can say in all honesty, they were good. Really good. And long winded. They played for what seemed like forever. Finally they wrapped it up and it became apparent that the majority of the patrons were going to be leaving. Oh dear.

Summer and I venture into the bar to replenish before the Kooks. It is around this time that I learn that they will be performing an original rock opera based on the book of Genesis. Huh? I will admit that my bible knowledge is rusty (read non-existent). I consider ordering a double to steel myself against what might be coming but Summer and I are rapidly running out of dough. Hmmph. We hold our drinks in a death grip and head towards the stage. The smallish stage is populated with a very strange group of people. The lead guitar, who is seriously wishing he were Sebastian Bach. A keyboard player who appears to have just finished administering a junior high algebra test to his students. A bass player who looks like a bloated Vince Vaughn. On drums was the person we knew, Coprock. There was another person tucked in the back by Coprock but for the life of me that is all I remember. And then there are the singers (ahem, vocalists). The male portraying Satan appears to be a down on his luck Rob Zombie who is clutching the lyrics for dear life. Lillith is embodied by a woman who seems to have been plucked from a Renaissance Faire (I hate that fuckin "e" on the end. And don't get me started on shoppe!!!!). Her corset is really tight and her boobs are trying to spill out the top. Satan is really hoping they do too. And so they sing. There is some narrative to try to hold things together and let the audience know what the hell is going on. Well, we don't care. It sucks and we are trapped. So what do you do in this situation???? Scope the room for wacky people, of course!!! After a cursory sweep of the room, one person came to all the girls attention. Indie Hot Guy. What the hell was he doing here? Seemingly alone?? Was he foreign? Lost? Really incredibly bored??? We speculated for quite a while but never came up with a satisfying explanation because we were immediately distracted by "the dancers". Somehow some people had managed to pour enough Heineken down their throats to think that this particular rock opera was danceable!!!! Holy Hats!!! Initially it was just a couple. They were sorta gyrating. Sorta wobbling. But they were soon joined by Really Drunk Scary Girl, who thought they needed company. I was sitting next to Paige and we were transfixed. This woman was defying all laws of gravity staying upright. She was less than three feet from us and we thought she was goin down for sure. I started to position myself to block the falling body, glancing nervously at Paige. Raised eyebrows. And then as quickly (or not) as it started, it ended. Lillith was spent and couldn't breathe in the corset. Satan needed to take his heart attack pills. We clapped enthusiastically. More out of surprise that it had been fairly brief (as far as rock operas go) than actual appreciation for their musicianship.

So, yes Virginia, there is still rock opera out there. Stay the hell away from it!!!

why tiki ti, why?

So I had dinner with Summer the other night. We met for drinks and dinner at Colombo's in Eagle Rock. It is a kooky old school steak house with paintings of naked ladies on the walls. You can see the appeal already. Summer was stuck in traffic so I was one up on her when she arrived. We sat down for dinner and began the usual dissection of how weird life is and our lives in particular. After a good girly dinner of salads and appetizer (and a 1/2 carafe of wine, nice hustle Summer) we wrapped it up and headed home to our individual estates to collapse into bed. OR NOT! By now I had a nice lube going and I wasnt feeling like heading home quite yet. (Summer is going to kill me). I took Sunset home for some site seeing. I saw the Tiki Ti!

http://www.tiki-ti.com/

If there is a parking spot out front, I am going in, I think to myself. I had my camera and decided this would be a great photo op. Of course the parking gods were on my side (or not). I went in and knew I was in trouble. It is a tiny place, 12 stools. And people were packed in. The air was thick with smoke. You can actually smoke there! I sidled up to the bar and tried to decide what to order. I asked the bartender (who looks like he just graduated from high school) what is the specialty? A "Rays steak" he says. It is loud in there mind you, but I nod and he begins the complicated process. A drink is placed in front of me and I pull out the card. Not so much. Cash only. I have to hustle to the Mexican joint next door and get cash. When I return, my drink is right were I left it. I look at my neighboring patrons suspiciously. Oh well. Sip. Delish! There is lots of shouting Toro Toro! I dont know why. I shout too. Everyone around me is talking to me at once and I am taking their pictures. There is another guy there with an ancient polaroid and he starts snapping away too. I finish my first drink. I learn that drink is not called "Rays steak" its called a "Mistake". Uh Huh. Next is the wheel of drinks where you spin the wheel and thats what you get. I ended up with a Brazilian culo, I think. Let me comment that all of the drinks taste pretty much the same. Rum Rum and more rum! But it was a party. Everyone loves a girl with a camera. It dawns on me that I need to pee. I head through the bamboo curtain into the bathroom. This is were we have the problem. The bathroom is narrow. I shut the door and set my purse on the floor (it looked clean). I do my business, wash my hands and decide to reapply gloss. I lean over into my purse, way over. I am wearing 4" platforms. I lose my balance and crack my head on the sink cabinet. I see stars. Little tiki stars with hula girls. DUDE! I straighten up and grip the sink. I am not going to barf. I reach back and check for blood. I am clear. I shake it off and head back out. My judgment might have been clouded before but now it was in a deep SF fog. Another drink. Lords knows why. There is lots of discussion about dirt bike riding (I have only been once), kicking heroin (never done it) and strangulation during sex (I take the 5th). I had to get out of there before it spiraled out of control. I said my goodbyes to all of my new best friends (again???)and dodged several offers for a ride to my car (we all know what THAT means) and headed home. I woke up the next day with a monster run hangover and the vague knowledge that I had given my number out to some Bulova salesman. Damn the rum!

The book thief

Whenever I think I am a good judge of character, I think about this experience and slap myself silly.

I do the internet dating. I am not wild about it but it is convenient and provides some sort of a filter for the multitudes out there. Not a very good filter but a filter none the less. Let me add that I have met several nice guys through the internet dating. I will expand on that another day. My profile is on the Nerve personals site. I choose Nerve because I thought that I would get someone who at least knows how to read.

So I get this email from someone called Hemingway Hero. My interest was peaked. Someone who actually knows who Hemingway is. Trust me, this is not a given with the general pool of males out there. He and I chat back and forth. His emails are charming. He quotes John Berryman to me. I am interested. Very interested. Back and forth all day (on the company dime, of course).

One thing about internet dating, I don't like a bunch of back and forth over weeks. I figure, lets get this show on the road. A couple of emails, a phone call or two (I often skip this step) and then meet somewhere. I always meet them in a public place and have my own escape vehicle. Now let me preface this story with this statement, I was coming off (6 months into singlehood) a 6 year relationship I had ended. My mental state was a little weird but I thought I was solid. Ooops!

So after a day or two of emailing sexy poems we make a plan to meet for drinks. Friday after work at Pinot Hollywood. A dark, well populated bar with multiple exits. Now I had seen his photo on his profile. Cute, not too cute, bookish with a good smile. Glasses. I love boys with glasses. So I walk into the bar. Late (always be late so they get to see you walking in) and I scan the room. All the way across the room I see him. We make eye contact and he stands up and watches me walk across the room to him. Very chivalrous and sweet. I sit down and immediately I have a positive vibe. Hmmm. We order drinks and start the chit chat. Mind you we are in the darkest corner of the bar next to the fireplace. Very romantic. We talk about our families and work etc etc. I learn that he is a literary agent at William Morris. He then turns around and hands me a book. "I brought this for you". Its the Berryman he had been quoting. He then proceeds to open the book and read to me. I shit you not. Mind you, we were 3 cocktails into it but I was floored. We keep drinking and talking about books when he leans over and kisses me. I love it when the dude makes the first move.

It gets late, the bar had practically emptied and all rational thought left with the last patrons. I suggest we get something from a liquor store and head to the beach. What the hell was I thinking? No one has ever figured that one out. He is all for it. We leave his car behind (Note: always stay with your car! You can throw the guy out and keep on driving if you have to.) and head to Santa Monica....from Hollywood! We stop at a liquor store and he grabs a bottle of champagne (my favorite!). We find a spot on the side of the road by the Chart House on PCH and climb down to the rocks. He finds a flat rock and clears a spot for me. He shoots the cork into the waves and pours into the cups I "happened" to have stashed in my car. He holds my hand and we sit and drink the bottle under the full moon(seriously). By the time the bottle is empty, I am so shocked that this guy exists that I cant stand it. I ask him to come home with me. We head back across town to my place. We are stumbling and peeling off clothes as we bump down my hallway. We fall into my bed and I am stoked. Yes! Sex! No. He wants to wait. He is so overwhelmed with my wonderfulness that he just wants to soak it up. You can imagine my confusion. Isn't that supposed to be my line? A line I rarely press into service, by the way. Sex is good for you and should happen as frequently as possible, practiced safely of course.

That was unequivocally the most romantic night of my life. And this took place a few years back. We wake up the next morning. There is none of that next day weirdness. We didn't have sex so there is nothing to be really ashamed of. Except maybe all of the silly gushing at each other. I drive him back to his car and we make plans to get together that night. He comes over that same night under the pretense of watching Hitchcock movies. Once he is there it is evident that we wont be watching anything other than my undies flying through the air. He walked into my apartment, took my hand and led me straight to the bedroom. We never even turned the TV on. Yes! Sex! He stays over. The next morning he says all the right stuff. I am amazed at my luck. He walks down the apartment building hallway, stops and looks over his shoulder and gives me the strangest look. It was a look of confusion. I gaze back not really noticing.

Monday is the next day. I go to work and I do something I typically do before ever going on any date. I Google him. I am attaching what came up.

http://www.lapdonline.org/releases/1999/99_09/fcd2.htm

Holy shit!! He is wanted!! He is a rare book thief!!! The attached report does not show the mugshot that was originally included in the information. Which is too bad because it has the numbers under his head and everything. I am freaking out!! My whole family is in law enforcement! Why would he steal books? I pace around the balcony of my office and mentally prepare myself for the call. The call to find out what the fuck! I call him and get his voicemail. I leave a message that sort of goes like this, "Hey Zeke, I know this will sound weird but I Googled you and I have learned that you are a rare book thief. I don't know what to make of this. I thought you might have mentioned going to jail or being arrested or something. Anyway, if you could call me back and we could talk about it, I would love to hear about it." BARF!!!! I completely wheezed out but I liked the guy.

One entire day goes by, it feels like a month. Finally he calls me the following evening. He is like a stranger (perhaps because he is a STRANGER!!!!!) on the phone. In this weird monotone voice he tells me about how the cops (his word) broke down his door and found his stash of stolen books. How many stolen books did you have I ask? Oh, 5 or 6 HUNDRED!!!!!!!! What the fuck???? He gets sent to a halfway house for addicts. He is there for 6 months. The court decided that he had an addition to stealing. Whatever! There is a GIANT pause in our conversation. "Were ya gonna share this with me?" It is in the past, he says. I didn't think it would matter. Huh??? The fact that he was a convicted felon was not the issue here. That fact that it wasn't that "big a deal" was the sticking point. The conversation kinda dwindled. He said he needed to go and he would call me the next day. I never heard from him again. I had NEVER been rejected. I didn't quite know what to make of it. Shouldn't I have been dumping him cuz he's a felon? I wrote a letter to help with purging him from my system. I sent it to McSweeneys (thankfully they rejected it). I am attaching that at the bottom. Its pretty dramatic but it was in keeping with the overall experience. I have had therapy since then.

The moral of this story girls and boys is you may think you know something but you don't know shit.
And always Google prospective suitors (before the date).

An Open Letter to the Man who swiped my heart and is walking around with it in his Kenneth Cole loafer.

I should have noticed it right away. I should have known. But excitement and adrenaline conspired to cloud my judgment. The lack of nervousness. The willingness to talk about difficult things with a complete stranger. This one should have been a red flag. I have been here before (Cliff). Why do you tell a relative stranger about the most difficult experience of your adult life, over Absolut and tonics at Pinot Hollywood? I am sorry your mom died. Man, I hope that wasn't some type of ploy to suck me in. But apparently this is how things are done. You reel them in, and then kill someone off. Yes? Who else would recite poetry to a girl (yep, that's me) on a first date? A blind date no less. And in keeping with this theme, who buys champagne and woos a girl in the moonlight on the beach in Malibu. Never mind that this was my suggestion. Don't listen to me. I am crazy! Clearly, it is a girl that has left her brain in the jar, that falls for all of this. It didn't help that you are nothing like my ex-boyfriend. So completely unlike him, it is as if you patterned yourself after everything opposite. I am weak. Admittedly, you had the advantage of the literary background. I am a sucker for readers, especially ones with glasses. You were chock full of amorous quotes like a twenty dollar whore with condoms. If I could just erase you from my memory. Just whiteout the excitement of kissing you. Completely eliminate how "just right" you were. When did I become Goldilocks? Of course next comes the kicker. You didn't want to sleep together the first date! WHAT? "Can I hold you for 24 hours and then ravish you for 24 days?" Promises, Promises. Did you really say that? I think so. The things that came out of your mouth. God, I should have known. Even the next morning, as I blinked at you over the pillows, I was melting inside. You knew it too. Somehow, I thought the same thing was happening to you. We had breakfast and made plans to see each other that night. Yipee!! The girl who is full of glitter and vinegar had suddenly donned rose tinted Oliver Peoples wraparounds. I bought it. All of it. At full retail none the less! I spent the rest of the day in a minor panic that you might not come back. Why was I so concerned? Why couldn't I keep you at an arms length like the rest? But you came back. Amazing and charming again. This time there was sex. And it was great! Was this some sort of cruel joke? More promises of "never leaving" and "not being able to hold me close enough". No one has stared at me for so long that I couldn't stop smiling with the pleasure of it. No one has ever said that I was remarkable or amazing. The funny thing is, when you left on Sunday and I watched you walk down the hallway I had a feeling I wouldn't see you again. Why? You had done nothing to make me think anything was wrong. Just hours before you had told me that we "felt so right". Then the next day came. Monday. The day that I learned that you were a convicted felon. A serial rare book thief. Would you have disappeared if I hadn't found out? Are you embarrassed or ashamed because I know? I was willing to accept it as being part of you and your past and move on. It was a shock initially. Now I hate that feeling of the blood draining from my fingers. I spoke with you that night. You told me about being in jail and meeting Henry Hill in addicts rehab. You said, "I will call you". I have been told that the experience of you/ the lesson of you is good for me. Laugh. But I know now that I have the capacity to love unreservedly again. That was in question before. But why did this happen and why with you? Where did you go? One minute I was lying next to you with the soles of your feet spooning my calves. The next minute you are gone and it hurts so much that I have to blink a few times. I am certain now that I will never know. I find that incredibly frustrating, almost infuriating. But I would appreciate it if you would take the little piece of my heart that you have claimed and give the rest back. Just take your left shoe off and hand it over. I was thinking of making a hat out of the remains. Something with ribbon and a little veil.