So-Cal Breeds So-Called Men (A Re-Posting)

The following rant was originally my first blog post. I deleted it after a few weeks, concerned about offending a rawther effeminate (yet miraculously straight) co-worker. The thing is, I don't care anymore (sorry Alex).

This town attracts a certain type of polished (read: metrosexual) male. Some women may appreciate this, but it makes me downright uncomfortable. For those of you who are wondering what in the world I'm talking about, read on:

I am, by nature, a glass-half-empty girl. A chronic complainer. An outspoken orator regarding all things unpleasant. I realize it's not the most attractive quality, but I can't help it; its a reflex. So, I figure, why not turn it into something productive, something fun, even hip...That something is this blog. My own neat little corner of the web to bitch about the parts of life that plague me and the dumbheads I wish I could change.

Let's start with the men I ate lunch with today (if men they may accurately be called). Were I an alien from another planet, or a Midwesterner on vacation, I might mistake them for girls. The males in question work in the same building as me, as financial something-or-others.

Despite our lunch table being cloaked in shade, all four of them donned sunglasses that would put The Simple Life gals to shame. Whilst I inhaled my pasta, the boys picked at anorexic salads and chatted about the the posh "flats" they hoped to purchase in Venice Beach once their leases expired. An image flashed through my mind of my own, puny, $500 room in North Hollywood, or, as I put it to my parents, "the international district." (Since learning of the 300 registered sex offenders within a 6 mile radius, I've taken to carrying a corkscrew when I walk to my car after dark.)


The conversation shifted to the latest restaurants, which struck me as peculiar, since nobody seemed to possess an interest in the food that was currently before them. "There's a fabulous new spot on the promenade," vouched one of my lunch mates. "Britt and I stumbled across it over her birthday weekend." When prompted to describe this new venue, he responded thoughtfully, lacing his fingers together and then flexing them for emphasis. "It had such a... a ...progressive energy about it...a sparse capability, wouldn't you say, Britt?" He stole a glance at his girlfriend for confirmation of this impossible-to-confirm fact. I, meanwhile, stole a glance at my watch to see how much longer I'd have to endure this psychobabble.



As I reflect on my lunch date, I find it ironic and a little sad that Los Angeles was once the stomping ground of such uber masculine idols as James Dean, Paul Newman, and John Wayne. Now the only movie stars you can count on to look, act, and sound like men are foreign (Gerard Butler, Clive Owen, and Christian Bale to name a few). In fact, I don't think you could make a proper western using the pool of men here at home. If you have any doubt of that, try dubbing "True Grit" with the voices of Leonardo DiCaprio, Edward Norton, and Johnny Depp. No one questions the talent or craftsmanship of these actors, but unlike the stars of the 50s-70s, they are somewhat less staunch in their masculinity.


Over Christmas, my dad and I caught the latest Clint Eastwood flick: Gran Turino. While I found the script to be a bit weak at times, I couldn't help but appreciate Eastwood's performance. He is, after all, a crucial player in a legacy that is all but dead in Hollywood (if not in the greater U.S.): the legacy of the manly man. I bet your bottom dollar you'd never catch Clint Eastwood chit chatting about swank, "progressive" eateries, or scouring designer clothing racks, or scrutinizing the label on a jar of hummus to ascertain the sodium content.


"What do women want?" I don't think any of us really know, but that won't stop us from attempting to answer. Heck, we're women; we love the sound of our own voices. So here's what I think today: What women want is for men to be unmistakably manly, so that we in turn feel like incredible, goddess-like women. That's it. And it doesn't mean fitting the Clint Eastwood stereotype. It just means being confident, ballsy...a little rough around the edges...with a particular disregard for designer clothes and leafy greens.

(The inspiration for this re-posting comes from a particularly masculine dude I hung out with last night. Miraculously, it was the first time I've had a drink with a man whose pants weren't tighter than mine since moving to Los Angeles...sorry, Alex.)

Funny Females to Cure the Monday Grumpies

Today I'd like to shed light on a few women who are holding their own and bringing some feminine pizazz to the male-dominated L.A. comedy scene. (If possible, try to catch them live as these videos hardly do justice.)

1) Maria Bamford - quirky to the max

2) Natasha Legerro - très sec

3) Shawn Pelofsky - SuperJew

The One-Year Mark

Last summer, I spent an entire month at my parent's cabin on the south fork of the American river. One lazy afternoon, between a Barbara Streisand flick and an expertly-toasted 'smore, I decided that I was finished pursuing my formal education. Not "finished" in the technical sense--I hadn't yet earned my degree--but rather, in the manner of a well-toasted marshmallow. "Finished" as in, "If I have to take one more minute of this, I'll explode. I'm finished." And while aspiring doctors and lawyers may not have this luxury, I'll let you in on a secret: a theatre degree isn't super impressive anyway.

My parents took the news better than I could have hoped. "You're twenty-one now; you can do what you want," my dad said. I had prepared an entire speech about how nice it would be to have my private school tuition off the table, but it proved unncessary. In fact, moving to Los Angeles was his idea. "You've always wanted to pursue acting," he said. "if not now, when?" Very rarely in life do you get your father's whole-hearted endorsement to do something crazy. I decided to run with it. That night, I went online and dropped out of school. Three weeks later, my dad deposited me at the front door of a church in west L.A. figuring, I suppose, that if he had to leave me in this demented town, he'd prefer to envision me at the Lord's house.

Since then, my relationship to the city of Los Angeles has borne a striking resemblance to a certain former boyfriend. The first six months were euphoric: the honeymoon phase. Many girls become downright ingratiating during this phase, and I was no exception. When outsiders balked at my decision to move here, I laughed at their ignorance. When L.A. natives complained of the traffic, I defended it to the ground: "It isn't that bad," I would say. "You just need good music." In my eyes, this "city of angels" could do no wrong. I had fallen head over heels in love...

After seven months, I became slightly more pragmatic, but not much. At times, I admitted there could be things wrong with the city. The air quality sucked and the men were weird. But surely these things were compensated for by the vast number of splendid diversions: concerts, comedy clubs, and of course, the beach. I began to picture my life here in seven years: a beach-side apartment, supplied with a fridgeful of my favorite beer (Hoegaarden), a livingroom arrayed in various, charming IKEA knicknacks, and two bedrooms: one to share with my uber-svelte director-husband, and one to convert into an office. Yes, my life here was going to be perfect...

That is, until last month. Last month marked one year that I have lived in L.A. To draw a comparison, one year in a normal relationship is the point in time when "nice girl" or "nice boy" facades are dropped (if ever they existed) and faults (sometimes blindingly) shine through. It is the time when one wonders if they'd be better off alone.

The one-year mark has often been quite significant in my life. An outside observer, without looking at a calendar, will always be able to tell when I've been at something for a year because, for some reason, it brings about a particular sort of mischief. After one year of anything, I tend to want to break-up (or get married), transfer schools (or join a sorority), migrate east (or migrate west), or, most recently, drop out of school altogether and move in with a 60-year-old yoga teacher I met on Craigslist. Some of these decisions have been prayerful; others have been entirely impulsive. In any event, I've changed horses a lot.

It seems ironic that my history of spontaneity would create such a highly-predictable pattern, but it has. I always do something sporadic at the same point in time: the one-year mark. Why is it then that the scales fall from my eyes and my current situation becomes "glass-half-empty?" Why do I suddenly sense that I've settled for a life I was never intended to live? Why does my 22-year-old body feel as though it is decaying at rapid speed whilst I waste away at a mediocre job?

I really don't know. And now the question remains: what to do with this most recent one-year mark? Shall I remain true to form and make a crucial change of some sort? Or turn over a new leaf and do nothing? Stick to my guns (and my lease)? Or not?

This is the time in a relationship when you start to find out what people are made of. And if you're expecting me to say that I'm a tenacious little soldier and that I plan to stick it out with this city until death do us part, you're wrong. After all, Los Angeles and I are only dating. This is no arranged marriage.

Nice Boys: Listen UP (all five of you........)

I hardly ever see my neighbors. This is Los Angeles after all, and we're mostly too busy for one another. A few nights ago, however, I ran into my thirty-something, semi-reclusive writer-neighbor as I waddled to the foot of the driveway with two humongous bags of garbage. He was feverishly pacing near a hedge of bouganvillia. Nosey girl that I am, I called over: "Something the matter?" He didn't answer, but continued to pace while staring intently at his phone. The sun had gone down and the glow of his phone marked his sporadic gait. "Girl troubles?" I ventured with a smile, heaving the massive trash bags into the can. He glanced up, clearly irritated at my presumption but also desperate for help. I took his glance as encouragement and forged ahead: "Look," I said, "this is your lucky day. I'm a certified expert in the girl department." I meant it as a joke (I am a girl, for cyring out loud), but he didn't laugh. He only stared at me, perhaps wishing for a worthier confidant than this trash-bag-heaving, twenty-something neighbor.

"She's a friend from work," he explained, waving his phone at me (my eyes were still adjusting to the darkness and for a minute he looked like one of those kids with a glow stick at Disney land). "I finally got the nerve to ask her out this week, but she had plans already."

"So?" I shrugged. "That's not the end of the world."

"Anyway," he continued, "I just texted her to ask what she's up to...she said 'with friends, how bout u' and I'm trying to think of a good response."

"So much for being a writer..." I thought to myself, "What a pansy." And then, "Don't overthink it," I said aloud. He rubbed his chin and returned to his habit of awkardly pacing up the drive. "Come on, come on, show me what you've written," I encouraged him, hoping my amusement was discreet. He reluctantly handed me the phone. I glanced down and read the words, Just pining away for you. Horrified, I closed the phone and shoved it back into his palm.

"Delete that right now!" I said, feeling possessed by something like maternal instinct.

"Too much?" he asked, running a hand through his unwashed-writer hair.

"Too much??" I nearly shouted. "That is the understatement of the year. Give me that." Abruptly, I grabbed the phone back, typed "nothin' much" and pressed send. "There," I said. "You'll thank me later."

If only the encounter I just described were a rare occurrence. Unfortunately, I meet more clueless, well-meaning men than almost any other type (and considering how many asinine twerps I meet, that is saying something). So, for any clueless, well-meaning fellas who might stumble across this page, here's the straight dope:

The reason girls tend to fall for bad boys has little to do with motorcycles (which are dangerous) or studded leather jackets (which are ugly). It has everything to do with confidence. So channel your inner Marlon Brando. Tell yourself you're the cat's pajamas and that any woman with half a brain and at least one functional eyeball should want you. Then...

Step One--MAN UP. By man up, I don't mean "shoot her a text." I mean, get her number, call her up, and ask her out.

Step Two--BACK OFF. No matter what kind of response you get, she is likely still in the "making up her mind" phase and, the less you open your mouth, the more mysterious and cool you will seem. Conversely, the more you contact her, the more opportunities exist for you to look like a complete idiot. Don't be needy. Don't be creepy. Don't become a texting toolbag. Back off and wait.

(There are only two steps, don't you love how simple I just made that?) As I've said, the key to everything is confidence. Me, personally? I'd take a confident, fat geek over a gorgeous, yet insecure musician any day. ANY day. So, to sum up: When tempted to text a girl unnecessarily, tell yourself you're Marlon Brando and end the conversation.

We've Kissed Dating Goodbye: The Advent of the Hook-Up

Question. What the heck is a normal date? I’ve been on the market since the purchase of my first training bra at age 13 and yet, as I scan my proverbial black book, I can’t recall one. What exists instead are a handful of encounters… late-night study-period-turned-snuggle-sessions in college…camping trips in which surreptitious fingers found mine beneath a wool army blanket… outings to the movies in which my companion’s wallet mysteriously disappeared at the ticket counter…
I call my mom. She says young men used to take her for “dinner and a movie.” I do a few quick calculations in my head, wondering if any of the men I know would be willing to buy me dinner AND a movie…or to wait 3 hours before redeeming their “cash and prizes.” One of my gay friends might…
I think the norm nowadays isn’t “dinner and a movie,” but rather “texting and a hook-up.” One of my co-workers has been carrying on with the same girl for weeks, but has yet to learn her last name. A typical man in every sense of the word, my co-worker is not especially handsome or gifted or smart. I ask him, “Is hooking-up all you two do together?” He replies, “Well, sometimes she talks…and I just say ‘uh-huh.’”
Not surprising. Men, like golden retrievers, have one-track minds, a track that shifts between food and nookie (forgive me for being crass, but I’ve found it to be true, especially in Los Angeles).

A “date” in L.A. is like the game 7 Minutes in Heaven you played in Jr. High (aside from the addition of adult luxuries like cell phones and aside from “heaven” being a car rather than a closet, the components are the same). The guy gets your number at a stupid, yuppie bar, shoots you a text, and meets you on another night at another stupid, yuppie bar. He chugs a beer, charms a bit, and makes his move. You have two choices: 1) Be a lady and reject his premature advances. In this case, you must prepare not to hear from him again. You’ll also spend the next 12 nights watching bad chic flicks on your sofa. Option 2) Concede. Why not? You will be contacted by him every night for the next two weeks. However, this contact will not be made until approximately 11:00, by which time there can be no mistaking his intentions (hello, he’s back for seconds). You will eventually conclude that Mr. Happy Hour may not be such a stellar individual after all. You’ll go back to watching sappy movies on your sofa where it’s safe.

Words, words words: 4 Topics I'm Tired Of

• Twitter.

“Are you following my tweets?” a coworker asked. "Hm?" I paused, willing him to consider the inanity of the topic before proceeding. No such luck. "What, you think you're too cool for Twitter?" he persisted, leaning into my personal space. I laughed (my fake laugh--it sounds like an injured lamb). I wanted to tell him, ever so gently, that twitter is for narcissistic morons, or at the very least, that I was not interested in the play by play of his life, but I kept my mouth shut.

• The economy.

Ask anyone the root of their depression these days and they'll tell you: the economy. "So, let me get this straight," I said to an actor friend of mine, "why haven't you done anything for the past month except take your journal to the park for 'spiritual reflection?'" She shrugged her shoulders pathetically. "You know how it is...in this economy." Hmmm...Since when does a bad economy negate free will and human ingenuity? Granted, jobs are hard to come by. That doesn’t mean you can sit on your rear and accept unemployment. Plus, productivity is the number one cure for depression. And unemployment is meant for single mothers, not starving actors. Get a job!

• Michael Jackson: living will, causes of death, funeral arrangements, et al.

Okay, so he was a pop icon. He was also a pedophile. Let’s not make a hero out of him. Tonight, a news anchor actually said, “Neverland was a pretty wholesome place.” Even my pastor insinuated that Michael might have made different choices if only he had been part of a supportive community. Hmm…yeah, when you fondle little boys that does tend to isolate you.

• Prop 8

The majority has spoken. Now the minority needs to shut up. I'm sorry, gay people, but you're the only ones who want to get married in this city. Just let it go.

The Stoning of Soraya M.

Last Friday I attended the L.A. premiere of a film called The Stoning of Soraya M. and I’d like to encourage my followers (all three of you) to go out and see it. Stoning is, without a doubt, one of the most viscerally moving films I have ever seen. Going in, I expected a more "arms length," documentary-style approach, but was completely drawn in by the stark performances. Shohreh Aghdashloo (House of Sand and Fog, 24) leads the parade of Iranian actors who give the film its stamp of authenticity.

As we settle before the gargantuan screen, we are transported to rural, 1980s Iran, where a woman named Soraya quarrels with her husband over dinner. His flirtations with a younger woman have shamed and upset her. At the outset, this scene possesses a familiar quality; we sense that it could have easily been set in suburban southern California. Yet when Soraya’s husband lifts his hand to strike her, we realize that violence is as much a part of this family’s routine as the meals they take together. Hence the main difference between the society portrayed in the film and our own: men are not held accountable for their actions. There is nowhere Soraya can flee, no relative or social worker to take her in. As the story progresses, her circumstances turn increasingly desperate. Slandered and betrayed by nearly every man in her village, she is left without even a voice to defend herself, merely a trial she is not allowed to attend, followed by her execution.

The scene referenced by the title has already sparked controversy for being too "in your face." At a post-screening panel, director Cyrus Nowrasteh defended his decision saying, "My sole responsibility is to tell the truth...real stonings are even more brutal than this." What disgruntled viewers aren't likely to admit is their willingness to partake of glorified violence in other films. It might be more fun to watch Angelina Jolie casually gun down some bastards out of the back of a van, but at what point do we acknowledge the cost of violence? When that first small stone hits Soraya M, that's when.

A tiny stream of blood gushes forth from the center of her forehead, and a long, painful pause ensues in which no stones are thrown and Soraya simply weeps. For me, this pause was more painful than the stones which flew throughout the remainder of the scene. In this pause, Nowrasteh cuts through all our romantic perceptions about death. He does not allow our brains a loophole to explain away this brutality; it is absolutely unthinkable. As Soraya herself says in her final words to her accusers, "How can you do this to anybody?"

Reasons to see this film are manifold. Firstly, as a culture of video gamers and war film aficionados, we need the reminder that, though there may be honor in death, there is nothing glorious about dying. Secondly, when the rare film comes along that seeks to expose an injustice, we must give it our unhindered support. Thirdly, this film provides an opportunity to examine our own blind spots in the ways we treat others. Let's make sure we aren't "throwing stones" in order to take the focus off ourselves.

The Stoning of Soraya M. opened in select theaters yesterday. Visit thestoning.com to join the effort to restore women's rights.