I was surrounded by New Yorkers. And, sadly, I couldn't have been more miserable. They arrived, ready to carry their "scene" (whatever that is) but by day 3 had readily embraced ours. Not mine, or someone else's, but the vibe. Unlike the first day, it was all about LA's virtues. It took someone I didn't know to say
"LA is the old New York!"
That brought a hearty laugh to some, sullen looks from others, and a reflection to myself. I already knew this get together was a mistake, that I shouldn't be there, that I had no idea how I was even invited, the usual. Funny how even the "hippest" people just stop churning the machine around 11PM. They asked what I'm doing for "the holidays." As far as they know, I'm going to Mentone, Alaska, my hometown. Stunned looks. I complimented one man's girlfriend on looking like "A proficient milk vending machine." More looks. No words. They walked away like undignified telephone hookers. I hit the bricks.
Damn it. Give me a Old Style. Fuck these people. Ronny and Monica at the boat club...well, they can stay, even if they don't know me. Can we just shoot the shit?
"Not in this neighborhood, bucko. Only Amstel Light here on Melrose."
Diet beer? Am I in Delta Phi Fatfuck? Is this a Nifty Fifties boat ride?
We left, finding an all-night Chinese restaurant that served up mean drink. Rum and Rice. Microphones and gold chains. The night was salvaged. Lesson, as always? Don't help those who are helpless.
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