LA Revisited: The Final Chapter (I think)

Sorry I've been MIA, but I was back in LA in November and since that trip I've been doing some serious thinking about where I go from here in light of a meeting I had with an agent out there...and I've been wildly distracted by a street racer-turned-model that I met on that trip.

So, first things first, I had a very eye-opening meeting with this agent about how famous he could make me (and he actually had the track record to back it up) and what it would take to go that far, from letting ghost writers pretending to be me pump content out all over the internet to drive people back to my blog, to letting some random guys in LA completely take over my identity/look/public persona, from endorsing/promoting high end products/brands I could not care less about and pretending to care about celebrities that I also could not care less about so they'll start promoting me on twitter. And I guess it's true that the grass is alway greener on the other side because by the time we were half an hour into the meeting, all I could think about was how nice my life was when I was a corporate lawyer living my quiet little workaholic existence. All I had to do to was show up, be crazy smart and hard working for hours on end and at the end of the day (no matter how long it was) I could always go home with my integrity intact and my privacy.

Also, of course this guy wanted to know how willing I would be to give more details on the girls I've been with, out the tragic hollywood closet cases I know about now, tell some of the stories I've heard about lilo and other famous people, etc., and I would never do any of the above because I would never betray somebody's trust, which he "totally respected" because everyone in LA tells you what you want to hear. As delighted as I was that he "totally respected" how principled I am, I'm wise enough to know that that conversation would never really be done and the more time and money was invested in me, the more pressure I would be under to compromise my principles. By the time the meeting was over, it was pretty clear to me that I had way too much character and integrity to play the fame game. But still, ever since I started my blog, the idea of it blowing up and me becoming a famous blogger/author has been something that, at least at times, I thought I really wanted...

Suffice it to say, that after this meeting the only thing I was completely sure of was that it was time for some serious drinking and thinking, which was precisely what I was doing when I noticed this absolutely stunning woman standing alone at the bar because she was so gorgeous that nobody dared to approach her. And I wouldn't have either, had it not been for the fourth (or fifth?) patron seeping into my bloodstream combined with the growing awareness that this woman, who wouldn't make direct eye contact with anyone, was sneaking little peaks at me whenever she thought I wasn't looking. For all the times I have acted as a gateway drug in my life, I have never had such an acute desire to be one woman's gateway drug, ever (though I would later learn that somebody beat me to it and this woman was out in high school, but ended up back in the closet after a traumatic episode that involved her being expelled from school because she kissed her girlfriend), so I finally took a deep breath, walked over and asked if I could get her another drink.

The next thing I knew, my offer had been accepted and this woman's ice facade had been replaced with a big giddy smile and warm, twinkling eyes that were just locked on mine as she laughed out loud in response to every stupid joke I made...even crazier? I said something about a car I had seen that day and instead of giving me that blank, I don't care about cars look, she had more to say about cars than I did. That's right, on top of everything, she is a total car freak who spent years street racing mustangs outside San Diego. As if I wasn't taken enough with this woman, she then completely won me over by adamantly refusing to believe that I was a corporate lawyer because I was "way too funny and interesting," prompting me to give her the backstory about being laid off and my roadtrip and basically that I had spent more time stealing a woman who would "f*ing die for me" from her place of employment in LA, hiding behind garbage cans in Seattle and giving lesbian lessons in Paris than actually practicing law over the last six months. "Okay," she said with a huge smile on her face, "that makes much more sense...I just knew you weren't some boring corporate lawyer."

Half an hour later I was buying this woman, who hadn't been with anyone in years, a second drink from the minibar in my room and I had to ask (this is where you can tell that I'm a lesbian and not a straight guy) why me? "Well," she said, "I'm obviously not interested in guys and the only lesbians I meet are models I work with and the only thing they have going for them is that they are hot." Now I held up my finger to stop her for a second, "if you're about to tell me that you don't want me for my body, I would advise you to do so very, very gently." When she was done laughing, she explained, "no, hot is a must, but it's just not remotely enough. I guess I'm here with you because for all the hot lesbians that I could have been with over the years, not one of them was half as smart and funny and sweet and sincere as you." "Okay," I said nodding, "I think I can live with that" (thinking I might have just won the biggest victory ever for east coast girls-turns out all the perfect tans and anorexic tendencies in the world are no match for a little raw intelligence and a firm grip on reality).

A couple days later I got a message from her about how she couldn't stop thinking about me and the things I had said to her that night (I basically read her the riot act about how important it was to be out on this new reality show that she beat out multiple Victoria's Secret models to possibly be on, though she probably won't do it now that she is dealing with coming out) and she asked me if I would support her through the coming out/divorce process (because she is technically married to a closet case we call Tom Cruise Jr.) because she was scared she didn't have the courage to see it through alone. Completely incapable of saying no to this woman, I said yes. And though it has definitely been like a part time job for the last month, I have been richly rewarded with skype shows and surprise visits for 24hr intensive lesbian refresher courses.

So, I think this is going to be my last post (at least for the time being) because (a) between putting my car away for the winter this weekend and being so highly distracted by my street racer-turned-model I will definitely be short on fun stories (...that I'm willing to share) and (b) having been chewing on it for a solid month now, I don't really have any doubt in my mind anymore that whatever fame and fortune I could have maybe leveraged this blog into, wouldn't be worth half of the sacrifices I would have had to make to do that, particularly with regard to my integrity, sanity and privacy.

That said, I really want to thank you all so much for reading and keeping me constantly entertained with your emails and comments, and if you want to be notified when my book is published (probably a couple years down the road when nobody is looking and it won't be too disruptive to my career) click here: 

Be well,
Ketch

Adventures in LA (Part II)

...so, it was 1:30am and I was in an elevator leaving a rooftop club with my Hostess when the guy with the gorgeous Sofia-esque woman (we'll call her Sofia Jr.) started peppering my hot Hostess and I with obnoxious questions about whether we were together, whether we were lesbians, and they just got more intrusive from there. Under any other circumstances, I would have told him to f*** off, but I was very aware of Sofia Jr. just standing there quietly looking me up and down with a great amount of interest as I fired back witty responses to her obnoxious little friend. When we got to the ground floor and were about to go our separate ways, she finally piped up and asked where we were headed next. I couldn't help smiling because now I knew for sure that she was digging me and ready to do something about it, but I had a flight to catch in a matter of hours and I was with my Hostess who had left her car at my hotel, so I told Sofia Jr. we were done for the night and heading back to my hotel. Not to be deterred, she immediately responded that she had a key to the pool at my hotel (apparently members of the in crowd in hollywood have this key because the pool is totally secluded, so they like to party/skinny dip there in the wee hours of the morning) and that she would drive us back to my hotel and hit the pool with us.

Of course the oblivious guy (who had flown down from San Fran just for a second date with Sofia Jr., the lesbonic closet case) objected, but all the girls knew what was going on, so we just ignored him while we set off to try to find Sofia Jr.'s black Range Rover (since she had no idea where she parked it, or rather she had at least ten ideas on the subject, all of which were wrong, the biggest wrong idea being that she had driven to the club that night, which she hadn't). We spent the next 15 minutes drunkenly wandering the streets looking for the RR, with Sofia Jr. and I walking 20ft ahead of the guy and my Hostess while she clung to my arm whispering to me how much she wanted to come back to my hotel to "party" with me, but that we had to get rid of this guy who thought he was going home with her since he came all the way to LA just to visit her. Finally, the guy gets annoyed and comes up to us and starts whining about how tired he is and suggests they give up the hunt for the RR and walk or cab it back to Sofia Jr.'s place. Seeing an opportunity to get rid of him diplomatically we both say (probably with way too much enthusiasm) that we totally understand if he wants to cut out early to get some sleep and Sofia Jr. says she'll call him in the morning. 

At this point, the guy starts to furrow his brow because he is slowly comprehending that something is going on, but he's not quite sharp enough to figure out what. So, he puts his arm around Sofia Jr. and says he thinks she should come with him and of course she says no, she wants to hang out with us. They go back and forth a few times and finally she shoots me a "save me" look, and since things couldn't possibly get any more awkward I say something like, "listen, the good news is your friend found someone she really wants to go home with tonight, the bad news is it's not you...but I'm sure she will call you in the morning." Suddenly he understands half of what's going on and as his face turns red and the veins start popping out of his neck, he grabs Sofia Jr. with both hands and starts shouting at her like she's deaf, "this D*** wants to F*** you! Do you get that??? Do you get what's going on??? This D*** wants to F*** you!!!" If he thought she would scream, throw her hands up in the air and run off into the night as fast as her legs could carry her, he was incorrect, except for that last part. What happened next all happened very fast: Sofia Jr. was shouting at the guy not to touch her, I was saying something snarky to him about my being pretty sure the feeling was mutual and my ridiculously awesome Hostess was trying to talk the hot pocket of rage down when all of the sudden Sofia Jr. grabbed my hand and took off sprinting away from this guy as fast as she could in her killer heels, dragging me in tow. We sprinted hand-in-hand for about two blocks (with the hot pocket chasing us for the first block, screaming at Sofia Jr. about what a B**** and a W**** she was) until we found a cab we could jump into. 

When we finally stopped laughing long enough to breath, it dawned on me that we had left my poor little Hostess with the hot pocket from hell and I told Sofia Jr. we had to go back for her (even though we were definitely risking another altercation with the hot pocket). Praise be to Jesus it took us so long to get back to the corner we had left them on in our drunken haze, that by the time we got there, they were gone and shortly thereafter I got a text from my Hostess saying that she had grabbed a cab, remarking on what a "really fun night" it had been and what "a delight" I was (you can imagine my surprise when I called her the next day to apologize and she informed me that her text hadn't been sarcastic at all and proceeded tell me that she had never met anyone quite like me, explaining, "you're like this hot, hilarious rockstar...but you're so smart and such an awesome person at the same time," leaving me to ponder for the rest of the day how highly she must have thought of me before I ditched her with the hot pocket). At any rate, after three more loops in the cab trying to locate the RR that had never left Sofia Jr.'s driveway, I finally put my foot down and told her I was calling off the search over her emphatic objections. I gave her the option of being dropped off at her place or coming back to my hotel with me, prompting her to grunt in frustration (because she was convinced her car was going to be towed), hold her hands up like claws and hiss at me through her clenched jaw, "I just want to punch you, tear you up and kiss you all at the same time." "Okay," I said, "so, I'm gonna take that as a yes on my hotel."

It wasn't long before we were snuggled up in bed with a bottle of wine and she was telling me all about her existence as a gorgeous closet case in hollywood and the relationships she had had with certain closet case actresses over the years. The only woman I heard about who isn't still in the closet (i.e. who had the integrity to be honest and do right by the woman she loved even though she knew she would pay a big price for it) is lindsay lohan, so she is the only one I'll mention, just to give her props for having so much more integrity than her closet case peers in hollywood. Both Sofia Jr. and Tyler Shields couldn't say enough about how smart lindsay is and what a sweetheart she is, but her courage on the being out in hollywood front is really above and beyond in that world. I'm also in her corner, of course, because she has great taste in cars, which goes a very long way with me, the latest example being the Cayman S she was driving pre-rehab. So, back to the closet cases, it turns out Sofia Jr. had been having a relationship on the DL for the last three years with a very beautiful actress (the only hint I will give is that she has a famous actor father) and it all ended a few months back when they went away together and this actress was driving an Audi A8 at 100+ in a 35 and Sofia Jr. kept begging her to slow down, which she wouldn't and they ended up in a really bad accident that was so traumatic she can't talk about it without bursting into tears and she still has physical injuries from it. So, yeah...that sort of ended the relationship (and you won't find anything online about the accident because it happened out in the middle of nowhere, so the press never found out about it) and according to her, the whole agreeing to go out on a couple dates with the hot pocket was a direct result of the PTSD. 

In the morning she explained while I packed, "As soon as I saw you, I started wondering what I was doing with him, and the more you talked, the worse it got." When I started laughing and told her a few of my choice stories about this effect I have on closet cases that makes them want to come clean after years of suppressing their lesbonic leanings (from a british airways stewardess, to a ridiculously hot westchester housewife I sat next to on a flight to London to a well-known broadway actress daughter of a client) she asked, "so, I was just totally typecast?""Pretty much, tiger, pretty much," I said nodding as a string of irate text messages from the hot pocket hit her phone. After she read them out loud and we had a good laugh, she said, "you know what the best part is? he will suffer this humiliation totally alone because he will be too embarrassed to ever tell any of his friends what happened." (to be clear, we only saw this as a good thing because he was a dbag, if he was a nice person we wouldn't have wanted him to suffer alone) "You know what's even better?" she asked laughing hysterically now at the thought in her head, "for the rest of his life, he is going to tell himself that I was too drunk to understand that I was going home with a lesbian and that I really caused that whole scene because I was that excited about hanging out by the pool at your hotel." Truer words were never spoken.

Adventures in LA (Part I)

So, I was in LA last weekend and managed to (a) successfully flirt with the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my lifetime (aka Sofia Vergara from Modern Family) and (b) find myself in my first late night/early morning lesbonic foot pursuit since Seattle (only this time I was running with the girl instead of away from her, which made the whole experience much more enjoyable). Story (a) is below and I will post story (b) soon since I don't want to post a novella.

Saturday night I was having drinks at my favorite restaurant with a super-connected fan of my blog, who had taken it upon herself to make sure I had a banner weekend in LA (we'll call her "my Hostess"), when I noticed a breathtakingly beautiful woman a few tables away between us and the door, who I was informed was Sofia Vergara. Lucky for me, over the next hour or so, I had to make my way past her en route to the lobby twice because you can't talk on cell phones at this place. The first time I walked by she did a double take and on the second take just looked me right in the eye as I passed her table. The second time, she saw me coming, looked right at me and gave me a smile that made me weak in the knees.

Now, I've been within arms length of a lot of tiny famous women over the last several months who are pretty much famous for their beauty (choice examples: Jennifer Aniston and Eva Longoria), but I refer to these women as "pocket rockets," because even though by all accounts they should get me going, they are so tiny that I wouldn't even notice them in a crowded room or on the street. This is all to say that when I looked up to see Sofia striding back to her table later that night in all her tall, voluptuous glory, she was ten times more striking than any pocket rocket I had ever seen, to the point that I'm pretty sure my heart stopped for a second.

So you can imagine my delight when later that night my Hostess and I bumped into her in a hall leading to the garage, in her tight little black dress, violently adjusting her corset and cleavage in the hall mirror with her little spaghetti straps dangling around her elbows, asking her friend, "ees dees gooooood? Does dees look okaaayyy?" Now, she had clearly had a few drinks and for my part, I had been drinking tequila based cocktails since about 5, so nobody in this scenario was feeling any pain and I was feeling downright bold (in large part because of the 7+ hours of tequila consumption, but the eye contact in the restaurant and the firm belief that I would probably never see this woman again definitely helped). Emboldened by the knowledge that I had nothing to lose, I decided to engage in a little drive-by flirting on my way out the door.

When she heard us coming down the hall, she paused for a minute to look over her shoulder to see who it was, then gave me a quick little smile and turned back to adjusting herself in the mirror and asking her friend if "ees good." For a split second I contemplated offering a helping hand, but even my little tequila infused brain registered that that approach might not end well for me, so I decided to stick to compliments rather than the high-risk approach of offering aid because I've never met a woman who doesn't appreciate a compliment. As we squeezed past her in the hall and she asked her friend for the eighth time, "ees dees gooooood? does dees look okayyyyy?" while tugging at her corset and readjusting her cleavage, I met her eyes in the mirror as I slid behind her and assured her, "it's perfect, you look phenomenal, absolutely gorgeous." This got a big smile from her, and her friend who was proceeding out the door without her (clearly tired of the question and answer session) turned around and joined in, "the boobs are good right?" she asked rhetorically, prompting my compulsively honest self to clarify, "um, really... really just the whole package...yeah, the whole package is pretty phenomenal..." This got a big laugh from everyone and when she was done laughing, I got a very slow, sexy, "thaaaank youuuu baaaby..." from Sofia accompanied by a little wink as my Hostess and I headed out the door and I threw her a quick smile and a "you're welcome" over my shoulder because I never forget my manners.

As soon as we got to the end of the driveway, my Hostess grabbed my arm and said, "that was priceless! And that super flirty 'thank you' was totally genuine. I have dealt with enough famous people to tell you that she wasn't being polite and she wasn't trying to get rid of you. She was legitimately digging the attention from you. Very well-played..." I thought so too, my only regret as we bounced from one velvet rope, guest list only club to another (thanks to my fabulous Hostess and her connections) into the wee hours of the morning, was that I was so blinded by Sofia Vergara's beauty that no other woman I saw for the rest of the night even registered as attractive.

Thankfully, about 24 hours later around 1:30 monday morning, I realized with great relief that I had not been blinded for life when I found a Sofia-esque girl (5'9, overall skinny, but with popping curves, long gorgeous dark hair) beautiful enough to get my attention as I was leaving a club with my Hostess. The catch was that she was with a guy who was under the impression that he was going home with her. Let's just say he was incorrect (mostly because he wasn't counting on this little game changer with legs coming along) and hilarity ensued...to be continued...

Maine...from the Perspective of a Non-"Leaf Peeper"

I just got back from visiting Mr. Charleston at his place in Bar Harbor, ME and while I'm short on entertaining stories at the moment because I've spent whatever time I didn't spend book writing, job hunting and dealing with my sister's wedding this month squeezing in as much quality time as possible with friends before I go back to work, I do have some new pictures for those of you who have been asking for pics for months now. If you are a self-described or closet "leaf peeper" you will no doubt find them particularly satisfying.

Incidentally, I have to say that I owe those swedish girls from Seattle a debt of gratitude because thanks to them I had the best moves on the dance floor for 3hrs straight at my sister's wedding and I got to bust said moves out on Ingrid Lucia, my favorite musical find of my whole trip, who flew in from New Orleans for the occasion--totally worth every minute of being chased through the streets of Seattle by a deranged woman in the wee hours of the morning.

I left home on a hot, sunny indian summer morning and arrived in Bar Harbor on a cold, crisp fall evening, complete with changing leaves, just a matter of hours later (really wishing that I'd packed one article of fall-appropriate clothing).

While I hadn't even realized that the leaves would be changing yet when I headed off to Maine, I have to say the little pockets of color that were starting to pop up in the midst of all the green, were pretty breathtaking. Still, when our waitress one night referred to us in passing as "leaf peepers," I immediately corrected her (if you had seen the "leaf peepers" being herded on and off buses all day, you would understand the need I felt to distinguish myself from them), informing her that I had just come up to visit my friend and had no idea that the leaves were already changing (carefully citing my relative youth and my obvious lack of fall-appropriate clothing as evidence that I was not a "leaf peeper"). From the look she gave me when I was done, I'd say I sort of won the battle, lost the war. While I was pretty sure that I had succeeded in convincing her that I was not a "leaf peeper," I was also pretty sure that she thought I could only hope to be as well-adjusted as any one of the self-described "leaf peepers" in the room.

Driving along Somes Sound--the only fjord (a long, deep and narrow valley carved out by glaciers and flooded by the sea) on the east coast of the US. If you look closely, you can see a couple of the many lobster pot buoys out in the sound.

Lobster pots and buoys at Bass Harbor (where Julia Child spent many summers)

I told Mr. Charleston that I couldn't leave Maine without my Maine money shot, prompting him to ask what exactly I had in mind and me to answer while studying him like he was a little slow, "um, my car in front of a giant lobster..." Unless my blog was suddenly going triple x, I was hard-pressed to fathom what else a Maine money shot might consist of. We finally found this lobster (best we could do) after a day and a half of scouring the area, but I had to drive up on the front lawn of this place and the raised sidewalk to get this close. Mr. Charleston tried to dissuade me from doing this, but after I explained to him what I had learned in Marfa (that it's hard to get in trouble for things you do so fast that people don't even realize what is happening until it's over) and assured him that I could get up there, get my money shot and be gone in under 45 seconds, he gave me his blessing...before turning on his heel and hustling down the street to find a bush he could hide behind while pretending not to know me. 

Holly berries and clusters of changing leaves made for some pretty gorgeous stretches of road

I missed the show... haven't been this disappointed since E and I pulled into Beaufort, NC to find that we had just missed both the weekly cannon firing and monthly civil war re-enactment.

Paris: Lesbian Lessons and the Sleep of the Just

My first full day in Paris, I woke up to someone pounding on my door and as I crawled out of bed with one eye open, managed to croak out a raspy, "who is it?" A familiar voice replied, "the girl you were supposed to meet for lunch two hours ago." It was my friend H, who had just arrived that morning. I quickly grabbed a towel to cover myself and flung the door open apologizing profusely and after asking what time it was, explained that I had asked for a wake up call two and a half hours before. "I know," she replied, "the two women at the front desk and I have been taking turns calling you and pounding on your door for the last two and a half hours. You, my friend, clearly sleep the sleep of the just." "I'm so sorry," I explained, "I was giving lesbian lessons until like six o'clock this morning" (when my star pupil had to run to catch her flight). "Of course you were," replied H, who affectionately (I think?) refers to me as "the gateway drug" because of the sheer number of women I have converted in my life. 

As I showered and got dressed, I gave H the quick rundown about how I had gone to the girl bar to find the stunning bartender only to find that she was on vacation and how after sitting at the bar lamenting my bad timing for hours with a fellow by the name of Jean Claude, this beautiful woman (whom JC had been obsessing over all night because he thought she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen) came over and started chatting with us. At first I sort of didn't notice how good looking she was or that she was flirting with me because I was still lamenting my bad timing, but thankfully at some point shortly before 1am, I snapped out of it, bought her a drink, gave her my full attention for ten minutes and then asked her if she wanted to have a drink with me at my hotel.

This invitation prompted her to launch into a flustered explanation (she spoke almost perfect english) about how much she wanted to come home with me, but that even though she was pretty sure she was a lesbian, she hadn't been with a woman before and so she would need me to teach her "everything," concluding, "it's too much, I could not possibly ask this of you." It took me a minute to process this beautiful woman with a flawless body (model thin, but incredibly and naturally well-endowed--so rare) acting like I would be doing her a huge and selfless favor by hooking up with her. "um," I responded a little dumbfounded by the conversation, "it's really no trouble (thinking: we are talking about hooking up right?). I'm happy to teach you whatever you need to be taught. Seriously." "Really?" she asked sheepishly. Cracking a big smile at the sheer ridiculousness of the conversation, I assured her that, "it would be an honor and a privilege." She laughed and said, "okay then" as she slid her hand in mine while we used our free hands to chug the last of our drinks before we trotted off, hand-in-hand, to lesbian school.

An hour later, when I finished up the blow-by-blow of the lessons that had been taught at lesbian school, over lunch at a cafe on the Seine, H started giving me the blow-by-blow on the three person, two and half hour struggle to rouse me from the sleep of the just, which I always seem to sleep in Paris. Immediately the conversation turned to my visit to Paris the summer before (my first in over a decade), when somehow I was so exhausted (I had closed two hugely stressful deals, back-to-back in the two days before I got on the plane and had been sleeping maybe 2-3 hours a night for the two weeks preceding my trip), that I managed to sleep 19 hours straight my first night in the city. This was after I had slept the entire flight and my whole first day in paris, only waking up to meet my friends for dinner for a couple hours then returning to my hotel where I slept for the additional 19 hour stretch. When I finally woke up and looked at my watch to find that it was 5 o'clock, I just assumed it was 5am because it was inconceivable to me that I had slept 19 hours straight and about 37 of the last 41 hours of my life. It didn't help that the sky was so thick with ominous black clouds and rain that it was impossible to tell whether the moon or the sun was hiding up there.

While I had told my friends (who lived in Paris and who had given me one of their cell phones which didn't have a time display because I had forgotten the adaptor I needed to charge my blackberry) that I would call them when I woke up, I thought I should wait until at least 9:30am and so I spent the next 4 and a half hours wandering all over Paris, rationalizing every single thing I saw because it was easier than wrapping my mind around how long I had just slept. When I walked past the gay boys having beers and smoking outside a gay bar, I just assumed they were coming down off their club drugs. While I was a little surprised that the starbucks was open at what I thought was 5:30am, I thought, well, why not? Look at the business they do at 5:30 am (the place was packed). As I made my way toward the Louvre through the throngs of pushy american tourists, I marveled at these gunners who had gotten up at dawn to beat the line. When a french guy approached me and tried to pick me up as I sat on the edge of the fountain outside the Louvre reading my guidebook, I was in awe of his confidence (I don't know anyone who has more luck with the ladies than me and I have never in my life even attempted to pick up a cold-sober stranger on the street at 6am). The couples walking all wrapped around each other at what I thought was 7am didn't phase me either, this was Paris after all, the most romantic city in the world. When I finally wandered into a little bistro around 8:30 and my waiter greeted me with "bonsoir," I made a mental note that people keeping saying bonsoir right up until the next work day officially begins at 9am.

Finally around 9:30, I walked out of the bistro and called my friends (who had completely given up on me having been waiting for my call all day and all night and having called my room about 10 times over the course of the day, while I was sleeping, to no avail). I left them a voicemail and started walking back to my hotel. As I walked, I couldn't help but notice that the sky had somehow gotten even darker than it had been and while only some of the cars had their headlights on before I stopped at the bistro, now all of them did. As my foggy little brain started chugging up to speed, it finally occurred to me that it might be nighttime and that I might have actually slept through an entire day. Knowing it was about a three hour walk back to my hotel, I hailed a cab. We rolled along in the direction of my hotel for a few minutes before I finally asked in my broken french whether it was day or night. Of course, the cab driver thought he wasn't understanding the question because it was such an insane one, but after clarifying for the third time that I was really asking him whether it was day or night, he burst out laughing. "C'est la nuit!" he roared. I immediately dialed my friend's number again for the second time in 15 minutes.

"Hi, it's me again..." I started and proceeded to explain that when I had left the message 15 minutes ago I was under the impression that it was 9:30am and that it had since come to my attention that it was actually 9:30pm, yeah...As I left the message I hoped it would be audible over the roaring laughter of the cab driver who was now crying and slapping the steering wheel repeatedly. As I ended the call and settled back into my seat, with the cab driver's roaring laughter giving way to little fits of wheezing from laughing so hard, I couldn't help but think to myself, laugh all you want, froggie, I sleep the sleep of the just.

Alive and Kicking

No, Mr. Charleston did not bury me in my yard (and if certain unnamed concerned citizens followed me on twitter, they would know that). In fact, we had a lovely time very much like the lovely time I had with Mr. San Francisco, lots of good food and cocktail crawls that lasted several hours and covered multiple neighborhoods. The only noticeable difference through the cocktail haze was that there was a lot more talk of restaurants and food and a lot less talk of board dynamics and the perils of angel investing, and by the time Mr. Charleston left, I had discovered all these great places I never knew about because he's in "the biz."

Shortly after Mr. Charleston's departure, I headed for my friend's place in Ptown for another week because I thought it was such an artsy place that I would feel like a real, live author just being there and would actually make some headway on the book. I was a little distracted by the gorgeous lesbo beach calling my name every day and exhausted from fending off creepy "straight" couples looking for a third every night, but I did manage to make some progress and now have a grand total of 70 pages down.

I might fall off pace a little next week though because I'm headed to Paris with an old friend (making good on the promise I made in Napa), using some of those miles I racked up bleeding through my life savings. This trip came about when I met my friend for dinner a few weeks ago and somehow the conversation turned to an absolutely stunning lesbonic bartender at my favorite girl bar in Paris and how for all our eye contact and flirting (mind you this was languageless flirting, like winking, unnecessary touching and refusing to let me pay for my drinks) we never got together because the only words we both understood were "oui", "non" and "Jack Daniels." Pretty much everything else we tried to say to each other got lost in translation.

Now, I have been working my way through the rosetta stone program since I got home, but so far I don't have much french that will actually help me chat with this woman, unless of course, I have to excuse myself to go to a costume ball, because I now know how to say that in french. Also, if she drinks my fruit juice, I know how to accuse her of drinking my fruit juice and then when she fesses up, assure her that it's no big deal ("ce n'est pas grave") even though I just threw a fit about it. Finally, if she tries to sell me a geisha robe or a package of beef, I know how to ask how many yens it costs and on the off chance that she comes out from behind the bar and tries to walk straight forward, I know how to tell her that she is not allowed to go straight and that she must turn right or left.

When I told my friend about all the french I had mastered and asked her how far she thought it would get me, she diplomatically suggested that we go back to Paris to find this girl together and offered to act as my translating wingman. Perfect. And if we can't find my girl, I'm sure that having a translating wingman will still come in handy, particularly in helping me avoid a repeat performance of finding myself in bed at 5:30 in the morning with a girl who is telling me that her older sister is 22. yikes. Now in my defense, (a) I thought this girl was at least in her mid, if not late, twenties just based on how fashionable, sophisticated and wildly cynical she was, (b) she was absolutely beautiful (think Neve Campbell's face on a model's body) and everyone in the bar was vying for her affection and a good number of those people were my age or older, (c) whatever english words she used to describe what she was studying in school left me with the distinct impression that she was in the german equivalent of grad school (she was visiting from Berlin), though it would seem that she was really talking about the german equivalent of college. At any rate, when I found out her actual age, I was a little rattled and I'm looking forward to having a translating wingman to help keep me out of this sort of trouble on this trip. Also, just in case my translating wingman runs off with some woman and leaves me to fend for myself, I have recently added, "quel age as-tu?" to my conversational french arsenal, bringing the grand total of phrases in said arsenal to about six and a half.

Look out Paris, here I come...

Update from the Homefront

I've gotten enough emails asking what I'm up to that I'm thinking it's time for a little update, not that I have much to report. As I spend my days getting my life and apartment organized, networking with lawyer friends in the name of finding a good in-house gig that will allow me to maintain some sort of life outside of work, running, learning how to cook again, remembering how to play songs I wrote years ago, doing my rosetta stone to remember all the french I used to know and entertaining old friends and new, I'm getting somewhat concerned that I lack the discipline necessary to write a book. When I shared my concern about my lack of discipline with Jamaica (who has been working on her new book for years now) last week, she reassured me, "my darling, if you need more discipline, well then, the rest of the world is really and truly in trouble." It's true that I never stop moving and being productive until about 10 each night (I'm a creature of habit)...I just need to spend less time on other projects and more on my book.

I'm hoping my book writing discipline will kick in when my social schedule calms down. Last week I hosted a bridal shower out of town for my sister, hosted a friend I met on the road in San Francisco (who stayed with me for a couple nights) and I met Jamaica for the official kick-off of the Melissa Etheridge tour, which she had some hesitation about attending because she didn't know if we should support a "deadbeat mother." Now, she obviously doesn't actually know or care what Melissa is up to, but she does love to goad me into debate and she always stays abreast of the latest lesbonic headlines (no pun really intended, but now that I've noticed it, I'm too fond of it to delete it) just to let me know that she is down with my people and knows what they're up to.

So, after she recapped some blurb she saw about Melissa leaving her partner and mother of their children penniless, I assured her that I did not support deadbeat mothers either, but that there was technically no way Melissa could have left her partner penniless since the papers were just filed and it would take months for the assets to be divided, child support to be worked out, etc. To which she replied happily, "oh, okay then" and after quickly laying out her case for why lindsay's parents should be going to jail instead of that "poor girl who was thrown to the wolves as a child by those people," (I was totally with her on this one too) we were off to the show, which was excellent, as always. For all my years of concert going, including several years as a radio DJ when I had to be at shows about 4 times a week, I am hard-pressed to come up with three other musicians who are as amazing live as Melissa Etheridge--the combination of passion, spontaneity and raw talent, particularly on the rhythm guitar front, is hard to match.

As for Mr. San Francisco, we had a blast (think swanky dinners, seemingly endless cocktail crawls and, of course, some hot girls who liked us along the way, one of whom might have real potential) and now I am even more excited to host Mr. Charleston, who is coming to stay with me this week. I have had so little time for friends over the last several years (during the week I wouldn't even get out of work in time to call a friend) and the friends I had were almost all fellow workaholics from the firm since I never left work long enough to make friends on the outside. I am relishing my freedom, my lack of stress and most of all, the incredible new friends I made on my trip more than I can express in words. I forgot what life could be like. I know that when I go back to work, and for the rest of my life, I will cherish these months of pure freedom.

Okay, back to that non-existent book...

I'm starting to think maybe I should call Kristin Hersh and get the name of one of those ghost-writers she kicked to the curb. I know she didn't love having some random guy shadowing her all day asking her about her feelings, but after my time with Mr. San Francisco, I think I might really enjoy it, especially if this shadowing, accompanied by mental and emotional probing, involves plenty of cocktails.