Saturday, July 26, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
A Brush With Fame in Sheboygan
This is a completely true story.
So I'm in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, Stop 2 of my 4-city research road trip through the wilds of Wisconsin and Chicago. Distracted by a winsome lass, I let a wee bit of tomato fall on my white trousers. "Fuck!" I think. "They were so pristine!"
I make my way back to my hotel (Which one? Stay tuned.) and wait near the desk to ask for some salt (to remove the stain, you see). The desk clerk is occupied checking in a number of short, older men who are obviously in some band. They have loads of guitars with them, and a road-worn 'I've seen a million hotels' look. I'm checking the head honcho out, and just can't place his face.
He leans over the desk, and says, "So, they say that 'La Quinta' is Spanish for 'Next to Denny's'. Is there a Denny's or some other place to eat nearby?"
The desk clerk is completely unamused by Rock Dude's wit. I'm sure this got him laid in the early 70s, but I think if these two fucked they'd both have heart attacks.
Eventually, he leaves, and I spy the local weekly entertainment rag on the table. Rock Dude's face is on it, holding his guitar so the neck points right out at me--just in case I was in doubt about which one of us was the rocker.
And who was Rock Dude, you're wondering? Give up?
It was Rick Derringer! Mr. Rock and Roll Hoochie Koo! Yeah, baby! And he was staying at La Quinta!
Man, if I only figured out who he was when he was looking for Denny's. We could have scored so much Sheboygan pussy.
So I'm in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, Stop 2 of my 4-city research road trip through the wilds of Wisconsin and Chicago. Distracted by a winsome lass, I let a wee bit of tomato fall on my white trousers. "Fuck!" I think. "They were so pristine!"
I make my way back to my hotel (Which one? Stay tuned.) and wait near the desk to ask for some salt (to remove the stain, you see). The desk clerk is occupied checking in a number of short, older men who are obviously in some band. They have loads of guitars with them, and a road-worn 'I've seen a million hotels' look. I'm checking the head honcho out, and just can't place his face.
He leans over the desk, and says, "So, they say that 'La Quinta' is Spanish for 'Next to Denny's'. Is there a Denny's or some other place to eat nearby?"
The desk clerk is completely unamused by Rock Dude's wit. I'm sure this got him laid in the early 70s, but I think if these two fucked they'd both have heart attacks.
Eventually, he leaves, and I spy the local weekly entertainment rag on the table. Rock Dude's face is on it, holding his guitar so the neck points right out at me--just in case I was in doubt about which one of us was the rocker.
And who was Rock Dude, you're wondering? Give up?
It was Rick Derringer! Mr. Rock and Roll Hoochie Koo! Yeah, baby! And he was staying at La Quinta!
Man, if I only figured out who he was when he was looking for Denny's. We could have scored so much Sheboygan pussy.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Wet Dream Myth Refuted
It might seem obvious, self-evident, even a tautology, that being one of the few men in a bar which is hosting not one, not two, but three bachelorette parties would be a wet dream come true. "Surely," you're thinking, "at some point all the women stripped down to their underwear and fought savagely for the opportunity to paw at one of the few men available." In fact, this scenario is nothing at all what an NC-17 version of Survivor might be. In fact, it was pathetic and nauseating.
Our story begins with our hero, Andrew Boyle, receiving a call from the gorgeous pianist Jana. "We're having drinks on the patio - me and two girlfriends - and we request your presence." Our hero finishes his dinner and slips into something deadly. Minutes later, he enters the fenced-in patio of the Wooden Nickle. The idea of a fence around a gated community is, of course, to keep the undesirables safely outside. Arguably, the fence around the patio of the Wooden Nickle forms a rather different gated community, one where the undesirables are kept safely inside. Yes, the other name for that community is a prison.
You might think that a prison that served booze, had pool tables, and a mixed population with a very favorable (to me) female-to-male ration would be pretty sweet. So did I, before last night. Things started off pretty well. Jana was in her usual exuberant form, and the bachelorettes at the table next to us were charmed by her friendly wit. But things took a turn for the tawdry when a black charter van (The 420 Party Van - no, really) pulled up. The driver, who affected a chauffeur-meets-hitman style in an attempt to make his job look cool, got out of the 420 Party Van, walked around to the back, and opened the door, a gesture that I can only-if hyperbolically-compare to the opening of Pandora's box. The noise that issued was not too different from what I imagine it would sound like if a Chippendale's dancer, bound and gagged, were deposited in the midst of a pack of drunken real estate agents.
"Who do those bitches think they are?" asked the bachelorette nearest me. The conversation at their table had stopped entirely. All eyes were on the 420 Party Van, waiting to see the rival bachelorettes step out onto the pavement. And step out they did, or rather, stumble out, in their drunken penis-hat wearing glory. Another pack of local volleyball players, ready to show that imminent matrimony was the perfect time to stage a spontaneous group audition for Girls Gone Wild. "Oh, those girls are skanks. Not classy like us," said my bachelorette neighbor. The group scoff from her crew signalled agreement.
"WOOOOOO! We're having a bachelorette party!" the 420 Party Van girls shrieked, as if the bridal veil and penis hat on the sturdy dairy princess walking toward us didn't tell us that already. "So are we! WOOOOOOO!" said the 'classy' bachelorettes. Now this is the part where you're probably thinking that dresses were ripped off and a sexy pillowfight ensued, but you would be wrong. Because a third bachelorette party was also making its way into the Wooden Nickle's patio, and it just went downhill from there.
I won't recount to you the pathetic goings-on, and I won't try to extract a moral or a li'l nugget of homespun wisdom for you, because you already know what that would be (Be careful what you wish for? Too much of a good thing? Get the fuck out of that town, Andrew?). I noticed in a panic that Jana had vanished, probably still in a 20-girl line for the toilet, leaving me alone with the bridezillas and their vulgar ladies-in-waiting. And then I saw one of the few other men in the place being shown to the door, then returning to file a complaint with the bouncer, who did his job with gusto, sending the man backward onto the sidewalk. The crack of his skull hitting cement silenced the shrill din.
I knew it was only going to get worse. I found Jana and said goodnight. I almost escaped unscathed, until a drunken lesbian hairdresser demanded to know where I got the fabulous trousers, and admired the plaid with both hands. All those horny small-town bachelorettes, and I get felt up by the alcoholic lesbian.
I'll be in Hong Kong by August. That is my new mantra.
Our story begins with our hero, Andrew Boyle, receiving a call from the gorgeous pianist Jana. "We're having drinks on the patio - me and two girlfriends - and we request your presence." Our hero finishes his dinner and slips into something deadly. Minutes later, he enters the fenced-in patio of the Wooden Nickle. The idea of a fence around a gated community is, of course, to keep the undesirables safely outside. Arguably, the fence around the patio of the Wooden Nickle forms a rather different gated community, one where the undesirables are kept safely inside. Yes, the other name for that community is a prison.
You might think that a prison that served booze, had pool tables, and a mixed population with a very favorable (to me) female-to-male ration would be pretty sweet. So did I, before last night. Things started off pretty well. Jana was in her usual exuberant form, and the bachelorettes at the table next to us were charmed by her friendly wit. But things took a turn for the tawdry when a black charter van (The 420 Party Van - no, really) pulled up. The driver, who affected a chauffeur-meets-hitman style in an attempt to make his job look cool, got out of the 420 Party Van, walked around to the back, and opened the door, a gesture that I can only-if hyperbolically-compare to the opening of Pandora's box. The noise that issued was not too different from what I imagine it would sound like if a Chippendale's dancer, bound and gagged, were deposited in the midst of a pack of drunken real estate agents.
"Who do those bitches think they are?" asked the bachelorette nearest me. The conversation at their table had stopped entirely. All eyes were on the 420 Party Van, waiting to see the rival bachelorettes step out onto the pavement. And step out they did, or rather, stumble out, in their drunken penis-hat wearing glory. Another pack of local volleyball players, ready to show that imminent matrimony was the perfect time to stage a spontaneous group audition for Girls Gone Wild. "Oh, those girls are skanks. Not classy like us," said my bachelorette neighbor. The group scoff from her crew signalled agreement.
"WOOOOOO! We're having a bachelorette party!" the 420 Party Van girls shrieked, as if the bridal veil and penis hat on the sturdy dairy princess walking toward us didn't tell us that already. "So are we! WOOOOOOO!" said the 'classy' bachelorettes. Now this is the part where you're probably thinking that dresses were ripped off and a sexy pillowfight ensued, but you would be wrong. Because a third bachelorette party was also making its way into the Wooden Nickle's patio, and it just went downhill from there.
I won't recount to you the pathetic goings-on, and I won't try to extract a moral or a li'l nugget of homespun wisdom for you, because you already know what that would be (Be careful what you wish for? Too much of a good thing? Get the fuck out of that town, Andrew?). I noticed in a panic that Jana had vanished, probably still in a 20-girl line for the toilet, leaving me alone with the bridezillas and their vulgar ladies-in-waiting. And then I saw one of the few other men in the place being shown to the door, then returning to file a complaint with the bouncer, who did his job with gusto, sending the man backward onto the sidewalk. The crack of his skull hitting cement silenced the shrill din.
I knew it was only going to get worse. I found Jana and said goodnight. I almost escaped unscathed, until a drunken lesbian hairdresser demanded to know where I got the fabulous trousers, and admired the plaid with both hands. All those horny small-town bachelorettes, and I get felt up by the alcoholic lesbian.
I'll be in Hong Kong by August. That is my new mantra.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
The Date from Hell
No really, this is. I've had some pretty awful experiences, but none of them come close to this one.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Dealbreakers
See, I'm still here.
A few weeks back, the NY Times ran a great piece about literary dealbreakers. I imagine that to some people, the idea that a person would terminate a relationship because of the other person's reading habits might have seemed snobbish and harsh. I say that sometimes a relationship must be terminated on these very grounds. If a woman tells me that her favorite book is Atlas Shrugged or Who Moved the Cheese? or The Celestine Prophecy or, worst of all, Eat, Pray, Love I put my drink down right there and head straight for the door. There's simply no reason to continue talking to a person like this.
What other things are dealbreakers? Of course many of these are obvious. Being born-again, being fat, or thinking that W. isn't such a bad president are unambiguous cases. But there are many that might seem less so. To help you cross the minefield that is modern dating, I'm offering you the following, which is by no means a comprehensive list. But to make sure that there's something for the ladies here as well as for the lads, I've consulted with my friend Samira, who, like me, is no stranger to the horrors and pitfalls of dating.
I'd like to point out, before I get started, that none of these items is fabricated. Life is sadder than fiction. And now, in no particular order:
1. If you're trying to impress me with your musical knowledge, and you say anything like 'You know, I learned a lot about music from hanging out with metalheads. Like, I can tell when a song is in 5/10 time.' For those of you out there who are not musicians, the problem with this is not that she learned from metalheads. Actually, that part is cool. See how tricky this can be! No, the problem is that there is no such fucking thing as 5/10 time, you idiot! Busted. Deal broken.
2. If we are on our first date, and the conversation eventually turns to your anger, bitterness, and confusion about the fact that you aren't being pursued round the clock by eligible suitors, the problem isn't that everyone in the dating pool is blind to your obviously superior qualities. No, the problem is that everyone in the dating pool knows that you're angry, bitter, and confused. How surprising, then, that you're single! Thanks for dinner, but deal broken.
3. I think it's great if you love children, love working with them, and want to have them. I won't even mind if you get all goofy when some little blob is pushed by in a stroller. But if you say anything remotely like 'What I love most about working with children is how much they teach me. Like, how important it is to play, and how adults forget that so easily.' If I hear you say anything this insipid, I will probably say that as I haven't yet had a vasectomy, things aren't going to work out. Then I will drive you home. Deal broken.
4. Now one from Samira. Guys, if you don't want to be a loser, get your bed off the fucking floor. Nothing says 'I'm a helpless slob looking for a woman to take over where my mom left off' like having your bed on the floor. If you have a job and you don't live in Japan, where sleeping on the floor is common, get a bed. No self-respecting woman out of high school is going to think that it's really cool to sit on your mattress and listen to 'Misty Mountain Hop' over and over again. If you attempt this, the deal is broken.
5. Basic dating etiquette: be honest. If you're a guy, don't say that you're 6', 35, and single when you're 43, 5'6", and 'working through a tough time' with your wife. If you're a woman, don't say that you're slim, educated, and love sex if you're a fat illiterate slob who lies there passively during sex. Do any of you think that these little distortions of the truth will go unnoticed? Dream on. Deal broken.
6. One of the basic truths of dating in the post-college years is that we all have histories. It is one of the basic skills of being an adult that we learn to manage our histories in the right way. Talking about exes is tricky--they are part of our past, but we don't want them to dominate our present. Make sure, minimally, that you have taken care to remove the visible traces of past relationships from your living environment. No, I'd rather not use the 'extra' toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, thanks, even if your ex-boyfriend only used it once. No, I'd rather not see pictures of your ex on the bedside table. Samira once spent the night at a boyfriend's house, only to wake up to see his ex standing at the foot of the bed, holding a Christmas gift for him. Samira had had a night of great sex, but failed to heed the warning sign of the mattress on the floor, and found that waking to see the ex bearing a fern kind of killed the mood. The ex dropped the fern and ran out. Then she called, about 80 times. Samira left. The deal had been irrevocably broken. Not even the 3 AM drunk calls could change her mind. You go, Samira!
7. Drunk calls. No, not the 'I'm drunk and I want to fuck' kind. Sometimes that's fun, though Samira thinks that even this is a dealbreaker. I suppose that if your Significant Other only wants sex when drunk, and refers to you as a nympho the rest of the time, the sexy drunk call is uncool. Also seriously uncool are the drunk calls that come at 3 AM, when I have to be up to teach a 9 o'clock class. You're not calling because you miss me, or you want me, or you love me, or whatever. You're calling because you want to make me jealous, to call me names, to berate my exes and friends, and to tell me that I'm an asshole, because you could have fucked 100 guys by now and I'd never know it. Is this supposed to make me jealous? It makes me violently ill. Luckily I'm quick-witted enough to reply that I'm not jealous because I trust you. You can't really attack this, because you don't want me to think that you're not worthy of my trust. But now it's painfully clear that you're not worthy of my affection. Deal broken, bitch.
8. Here are some dealbreakers which should be obvious, but are so frequently committed that they must only be obvious to the enlightened: hairy legs (on women), a dirty bathroom, saying that although you love me, Jesus is your first lover, bad shoes, baseball caps (especially white ones), cheesy tattoos that you think are really great, not voting because 'politics is boring', not reading because 'reading is boring', wearing sweatpants out in public, not owning any shoes besides flip flops, being addicted to television, and not answering the phone. I could go on but I don't want to sound like I'm ranting.
9. Here's another collection of dealbreakers that were all committed by one person: using your hot daughters as bait, being really into NASCAR and snowmobiling, driving a kidnapper van, being my age but looking 20 years older (and I know I'll look better than this person when I'm 20 years older), smoking, and using the online nickname 'Mom In Search of a Mate.' Yes, I know that it probably upset her to see me with my beautiful and fashionable younger girlfriend. But seriously, if we saw each other in a bar, there would be something like mutual species non-recognition. I wouldn't look at her twice for fear of courting depression, and she would probably think I was gay. Don't think that your chances are better online.
Stay tuned for more soon. In the meantime, anyone care to share some of their dealbreakers?
A few weeks back, the NY Times ran a great piece about literary dealbreakers. I imagine that to some people, the idea that a person would terminate a relationship because of the other person's reading habits might have seemed snobbish and harsh. I say that sometimes a relationship must be terminated on these very grounds. If a woman tells me that her favorite book is Atlas Shrugged or Who Moved the Cheese? or The Celestine Prophecy or, worst of all, Eat, Pray, Love I put my drink down right there and head straight for the door. There's simply no reason to continue talking to a person like this.
What other things are dealbreakers? Of course many of these are obvious. Being born-again, being fat, or thinking that W. isn't such a bad president are unambiguous cases. But there are many that might seem less so. To help you cross the minefield that is modern dating, I'm offering you the following, which is by no means a comprehensive list. But to make sure that there's something for the ladies here as well as for the lads, I've consulted with my friend Samira, who, like me, is no stranger to the horrors and pitfalls of dating.
I'd like to point out, before I get started, that none of these items is fabricated. Life is sadder than fiction. And now, in no particular order:
1. If you're trying to impress me with your musical knowledge, and you say anything like 'You know, I learned a lot about music from hanging out with metalheads. Like, I can tell when a song is in 5/10 time.' For those of you out there who are not musicians, the problem with this is not that she learned from metalheads. Actually, that part is cool. See how tricky this can be! No, the problem is that there is no such fucking thing as 5/10 time, you idiot! Busted. Deal broken.
2. If we are on our first date, and the conversation eventually turns to your anger, bitterness, and confusion about the fact that you aren't being pursued round the clock by eligible suitors, the problem isn't that everyone in the dating pool is blind to your obviously superior qualities. No, the problem is that everyone in the dating pool knows that you're angry, bitter, and confused. How surprising, then, that you're single! Thanks for dinner, but deal broken.
3. I think it's great if you love children, love working with them, and want to have them. I won't even mind if you get all goofy when some little blob is pushed by in a stroller. But if you say anything remotely like 'What I love most about working with children is how much they teach me. Like, how important it is to play, and how adults forget that so easily.' If I hear you say anything this insipid, I will probably say that as I haven't yet had a vasectomy, things aren't going to work out. Then I will drive you home. Deal broken.
4. Now one from Samira. Guys, if you don't want to be a loser, get your bed off the fucking floor. Nothing says 'I'm a helpless slob looking for a woman to take over where my mom left off' like having your bed on the floor. If you have a job and you don't live in Japan, where sleeping on the floor is common, get a bed. No self-respecting woman out of high school is going to think that it's really cool to sit on your mattress and listen to 'Misty Mountain Hop' over and over again. If you attempt this, the deal is broken.
5. Basic dating etiquette: be honest. If you're a guy, don't say that you're 6', 35, and single when you're 43, 5'6", and 'working through a tough time' with your wife. If you're a woman, don't say that you're slim, educated, and love sex if you're a fat illiterate slob who lies there passively during sex. Do any of you think that these little distortions of the truth will go unnoticed? Dream on. Deal broken.
6. One of the basic truths of dating in the post-college years is that we all have histories. It is one of the basic skills of being an adult that we learn to manage our histories in the right way. Talking about exes is tricky--they are part of our past, but we don't want them to dominate our present. Make sure, minimally, that you have taken care to remove the visible traces of past relationships from your living environment. No, I'd rather not use the 'extra' toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, thanks, even if your ex-boyfriend only used it once. No, I'd rather not see pictures of your ex on the bedside table. Samira once spent the night at a boyfriend's house, only to wake up to see his ex standing at the foot of the bed, holding a Christmas gift for him. Samira had had a night of great sex, but failed to heed the warning sign of the mattress on the floor, and found that waking to see the ex bearing a fern kind of killed the mood. The ex dropped the fern and ran out. Then she called, about 80 times. Samira left. The deal had been irrevocably broken. Not even the 3 AM drunk calls could change her mind. You go, Samira!
7. Drunk calls. No, not the 'I'm drunk and I want to fuck' kind. Sometimes that's fun, though Samira thinks that even this is a dealbreaker. I suppose that if your Significant Other only wants sex when drunk, and refers to you as a nympho the rest of the time, the sexy drunk call is uncool. Also seriously uncool are the drunk calls that come at 3 AM, when I have to be up to teach a 9 o'clock class. You're not calling because you miss me, or you want me, or you love me, or whatever. You're calling because you want to make me jealous, to call me names, to berate my exes and friends, and to tell me that I'm an asshole, because you could have fucked 100 guys by now and I'd never know it. Is this supposed to make me jealous? It makes me violently ill. Luckily I'm quick-witted enough to reply that I'm not jealous because I trust you. You can't really attack this, because you don't want me to think that you're not worthy of my trust. But now it's painfully clear that you're not worthy of my affection. Deal broken, bitch.
8. Here are some dealbreakers which should be obvious, but are so frequently committed that they must only be obvious to the enlightened: hairy legs (on women), a dirty bathroom, saying that although you love me, Jesus is your first lover, bad shoes, baseball caps (especially white ones), cheesy tattoos that you think are really great, not voting because 'politics is boring', not reading because 'reading is boring', wearing sweatpants out in public, not owning any shoes besides flip flops, being addicted to television, and not answering the phone. I could go on but I don't want to sound like I'm ranting.
9. Here's another collection of dealbreakers that were all committed by one person: using your hot daughters as bait, being really into NASCAR and snowmobiling, driving a kidnapper van, being my age but looking 20 years older (and I know I'll look better than this person when I'm 20 years older), smoking, and using the online nickname 'Mom In Search of a Mate.' Yes, I know that it probably upset her to see me with my beautiful and fashionable younger girlfriend. But seriously, if we saw each other in a bar, there would be something like mutual species non-recognition. I wouldn't look at her twice for fear of courting depression, and she would probably think I was gay. Don't think that your chances are better online.
Stay tuned for more soon. In the meantime, anyone care to share some of their dealbreakers?
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Fear Not, Gentle Readers
Do not despair. I have not prematurely retired from blogging here. Life has kept me from writing about it lately, but all indications are that soon I will be writing from a far-flung location that will no doubt be the source of any number of stranger-than-fiction stories.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Why David Lee Roth Hates Me
This is a true story. Just like everything else here, of course.
Back before I went to grad school, in that place Diana and I vaguely refer to as Europe, I worked in DC for a television company famous for animal programs. One of the best things about that situation was that I could leave early and take the train to New York City should the need arise, which it frequently did.
At the time I had a friend, Evita, who was modeling and living in the East Village. She shared a studio apartment about the size of my garage with a sketchy musician named Pete. Nothing was going on between the two of them--theirs was an arrangement of convenience, though not convenient enough for Pete, if you get my meaning. Anyway, Evita called up one Friday afternoon to tell me that she was going to be in a fashion show that evening. If I could get up there, she would put my name on the guest list. If you've been reading this blog and paying attention, you'll know that the chance to mingle with fashion models in NYC would trump just about any other offer I might realistically get. So I checked out of work early, hit the train, and four hours later, I was in Manhattan, walking south toward SoHo.
The club was Life, on Bleecker Street. The plan was that I'd meet Pete outside the club and we'd go in together. When I rang, I described myself to Pete: I was wearing a black suit, with long hair. That description probably applied to a third of the guys who would be hanging about the club. So did Pete's self-description: bleach blonde hair, a blue shirt, and silver lamé trousers. I was standing outside the club for just a few minutes when Pete showed up. We cocked our heads at each other in that obnoxious cool-guy gesture of recognition, and went inside.
The show was for Japanese fashion designers and hairstylists, and consequently, there we tons of Japanese women there, ranging from ultra-cute to dead sexy. Pete was beside himself, and when I mentioned that I had lived in Japan and could speak Japanese, he was sure that we were both going to score, and that I was going to lead the way. I refused, ever the gentleman, but Pete was not above resorting to junior high tactics. He actually shoved me into a gaggle of Japanese women, so I'd have to apologize and thus strike up a conversation.
What Pete didn't know is that the conversation went approximately like this: "Oh, I'm so sorry! This loser I'm with pushed me into you. Seriously, don't listen to a thing he says. He's a poser and a complete idiot." They giggled charmingly and Pete gave me a conspiratorial smile. Little did he know I was charming them all to myself, and at his expense.
I'll spare the details of the show, since I haven't even gotten to my David Lee Roth encounter, but it was pretty impressive. At one point, four models wearing black plastic trashbags came out and stood in a row, looking bored. Then the techno music started and four of the coolest looking Japanese hairstylists came out, all with their styling tools in leather carpenter's belts. Four hairdryers descended from the ceiling, and the stylists began styling the models' hair in time to the music. The last act was an opera-singing drag queen with a gown and wig that trailed behind her on the floor. Then the stage went dark and the audience started to dance. Pete took the opportunity to lie down on the stage now that it was vacant--he was so irritatingly drunk by this point that I was close to having him ejected from the club.
He was saved by the appearance of Evita, who was waving me back into the Promised Land of the V.I.P. rooms. I left Pete to his fate and gave a 'yeah, I belong here' nod to the bouncer, and took Evita in my arm. Now I was back with the beautiful and the famous. Spike Lee was lounging against the wall and looking rather bored, until a lovely and adoring fan dared to approach him.
I looked around the room to see if there were any other famous people about, and who did I see but Diamond David Lee Roth himself. He was sitting in a booth with his aging rockstar friends and their groupie wives. I would have thought that leather chaps and no shirt would have been standard attire for Dave, but actually he was pretty nerdy: a blue and white striped button-down shirt under a mint green shaker-knit sweater. Still, as far as I was concerned, he was wearing chaps, and doing a flying split kick while Eddie Van Halen tapped out a blur of guitar-induced ecstasy.
That is to say, I was in awe. Starstruck. This man, this legend of a man, sung to me of a promised land after high school where the party never stopped and all the women were beautiful and sinful. I turned to Evita--"That's David Lee Roth!", I said. "Yeah, I know," she said, in the most apathetic voice possible. "He already hit on me."
"He hit on you? That's amazing! Fantastic! What did he say?" I don't think Evita really understood what it meant that Diamond Dave came on to her, but at that moment I was just hoping to steal some of his mojo, to learn one of his secret lines that made foxy women melt. "You looked really good up there," she said. "Really? That's it? That's excellent!" Disarmingly simple. A fake-out. Any woman who knew who he was would be expecting something really crass or cheesy, and would be surprised at such a simple and direct compliment. Then it hit me--why was she standing next to me, her lithe body pressed against mine, when she could be with him?
I wanted to go talk to him, to tell him how much I loved his music when I was in high school, how I thought those Van Halen brothers were assholes for kicking him out, and how Sammy Hagar, Red Rocker though he may have been, could never do a spinning high kick while singing "Runnin' with the Devil." But his look of complete disbelief and contempt stopped me dead in my tracks. For a moment I wondered just why Dave would look at me, but then Evita's hand on my back made me realize why. The woman he wanted, or at least one of the women he wanted, was with me, a nobody, a worm, when she should have been with him. That's how he saw it, and honestly, that's how I saw it. But I didn't say anything. I just turned back to Evita and asked her what she wanted to drink.
Dave and I never got a chance to patch over our differences. Maybe one day we will. And if, against all odds, the Man Himself is reading this, I'd like to say that I'm sorry, Dave. I really don't know what she was thinking either.
Back before I went to grad school, in that place Diana and I vaguely refer to as Europe, I worked in DC for a television company famous for animal programs. One of the best things about that situation was that I could leave early and take the train to New York City should the need arise, which it frequently did.
At the time I had a friend, Evita, who was modeling and living in the East Village. She shared a studio apartment about the size of my garage with a sketchy musician named Pete. Nothing was going on between the two of them--theirs was an arrangement of convenience, though not convenient enough for Pete, if you get my meaning. Anyway, Evita called up one Friday afternoon to tell me that she was going to be in a fashion show that evening. If I could get up there, she would put my name on the guest list. If you've been reading this blog and paying attention, you'll know that the chance to mingle with fashion models in NYC would trump just about any other offer I might realistically get. So I checked out of work early, hit the train, and four hours later, I was in Manhattan, walking south toward SoHo.
The club was Life, on Bleecker Street. The plan was that I'd meet Pete outside the club and we'd go in together. When I rang, I described myself to Pete: I was wearing a black suit, with long hair. That description probably applied to a third of the guys who would be hanging about the club. So did Pete's self-description: bleach blonde hair, a blue shirt, and silver lamé trousers. I was standing outside the club for just a few minutes when Pete showed up. We cocked our heads at each other in that obnoxious cool-guy gesture of recognition, and went inside.
The show was for Japanese fashion designers and hairstylists, and consequently, there we tons of Japanese women there, ranging from ultra-cute to dead sexy. Pete was beside himself, and when I mentioned that I had lived in Japan and could speak Japanese, he was sure that we were both going to score, and that I was going to lead the way. I refused, ever the gentleman, but Pete was not above resorting to junior high tactics. He actually shoved me into a gaggle of Japanese women, so I'd have to apologize and thus strike up a conversation.
What Pete didn't know is that the conversation went approximately like this: "Oh, I'm so sorry! This loser I'm with pushed me into you. Seriously, don't listen to a thing he says. He's a poser and a complete idiot." They giggled charmingly and Pete gave me a conspiratorial smile. Little did he know I was charming them all to myself, and at his expense.
I'll spare the details of the show, since I haven't even gotten to my David Lee Roth encounter, but it was pretty impressive. At one point, four models wearing black plastic trashbags came out and stood in a row, looking bored. Then the techno music started and four of the coolest looking Japanese hairstylists came out, all with their styling tools in leather carpenter's belts. Four hairdryers descended from the ceiling, and the stylists began styling the models' hair in time to the music. The last act was an opera-singing drag queen with a gown and wig that trailed behind her on the floor. Then the stage went dark and the audience started to dance. Pete took the opportunity to lie down on the stage now that it was vacant--he was so irritatingly drunk by this point that I was close to having him ejected from the club.
He was saved by the appearance of Evita, who was waving me back into the Promised Land of the V.I.P. rooms. I left Pete to his fate and gave a 'yeah, I belong here' nod to the bouncer, and took Evita in my arm. Now I was back with the beautiful and the famous. Spike Lee was lounging against the wall and looking rather bored, until a lovely and adoring fan dared to approach him.
I looked around the room to see if there were any other famous people about, and who did I see but Diamond David Lee Roth himself. He was sitting in a booth with his aging rockstar friends and their groupie wives. I would have thought that leather chaps and no shirt would have been standard attire for Dave, but actually he was pretty nerdy: a blue and white striped button-down shirt under a mint green shaker-knit sweater. Still, as far as I was concerned, he was wearing chaps, and doing a flying split kick while Eddie Van Halen tapped out a blur of guitar-induced ecstasy.
That is to say, I was in awe. Starstruck. This man, this legend of a man, sung to me of a promised land after high school where the party never stopped and all the women were beautiful and sinful. I turned to Evita--"That's David Lee Roth!", I said. "Yeah, I know," she said, in the most apathetic voice possible. "He already hit on me."
"He hit on you? That's amazing! Fantastic! What did he say?" I don't think Evita really understood what it meant that Diamond Dave came on to her, but at that moment I was just hoping to steal some of his mojo, to learn one of his secret lines that made foxy women melt. "You looked really good up there," she said. "Really? That's it? That's excellent!" Disarmingly simple. A fake-out. Any woman who knew who he was would be expecting something really crass or cheesy, and would be surprised at such a simple and direct compliment. Then it hit me--why was she standing next to me, her lithe body pressed against mine, when she could be with him?
I wanted to go talk to him, to tell him how much I loved his music when I was in high school, how I thought those Van Halen brothers were assholes for kicking him out, and how Sammy Hagar, Red Rocker though he may have been, could never do a spinning high kick while singing "Runnin' with the Devil." But his look of complete disbelief and contempt stopped me dead in my tracks. For a moment I wondered just why Dave would look at me, but then Evita's hand on my back made me realize why. The woman he wanted, or at least one of the women he wanted, was with me, a nobody, a worm, when she should have been with him. That's how he saw it, and honestly, that's how I saw it. But I didn't say anything. I just turned back to Evita and asked her what she wanted to drink.
Dave and I never got a chance to patch over our differences. Maybe one day we will. And if, against all odds, the Man Himself is reading this, I'd like to say that I'm sorry, Dave. I really don't know what she was thinking either.
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