[in which eric's geek past catches up with him...]

you know what? i asked atif a few sundays ago, i’ve had a pretty interesting life. here it is, 2005, and i’m dragging one of my best mates from london around the campus of my alma matter, caltech in pasadena, nearly 10 years to the day of my post-high-school arrival.

i don’t stop and smell the roses, really. but sometimes—especially over the past few months—i reconnect with long-forgotten [or long-suppressed] chapters of my life. when i graduated caltech in 1999, i vowed to never return to los angeles—for any reason, even to visit. why did i despise southern california so much?

most of it was due to the four years of intense academic pressure at caltech, which i barely survived. i had friends commit suicide, i had friends go crazy and try to kill me, i had friends drop out and vanish. those of us who did make it through, we did what we needed to do.

for me, that meant taking the second half of my junior year off, to move to london for a few months. returning to caltech after my wonderful sabbatical, my eyes were opened to the insanity of the school, of my degree, of the stress.

whereas i had enjoyed the first few years immensely, being active in student government and being overwhelmed by living in l.a. and enjoying hanging out with so many fellow nerds, my final year is very much jaded, and just looking forward to graduating.

my best bud and college roommate jason slept through most of our classes senior year, but we made it. we made it by enjoying ourselves as much as we could that final year. we made life more livable, and we did this in two ways…

we took lower crotch, which is the main common area of lloyd house, and made it a lot more… comfy. we covered up the icky blue and white stucco walls with warm wood paneling, replaced the harsh fluorescent lighting with overhead incandescents [on dimmers] and i had an olde-style wooden sign engraved that said lloyd house.

i paid for it ourselves [and later got reimbursed] and installed it without approval from anyone. throughout my final year at caltech, lower crotch became even more social, and it helped everyone to chill out just a little bit more.

after graduation, though, i heard that the fire department came through and made the housing department tear it all down, as it was considered a fire hazard [we didn't really install it properly, nor did we run the power cables for the lights properly]. that sucked.

jason and i transformed our dorm room, room 129 into a supercool lounge. i know what you’re thinking—lame college kids get some crap from target to decorate their dorm room. au contraire! we stole bought several party lights from a deejay store [we're talking 1000s of watts of disco action], a fog machine, a disco ball with two spotlights, and wired them all up to remote control.

we got rid of the fluorescent lights, and i wired in 4 hanging incandescents, each with a different color bulb, again with a dimmer. i did this with the power to the room still on, as the circuit breaker box was unlabeled, and i couldn’t shut off power to the other 79 rooms. i knew those electrical engineering courses would come in handy.

we put our desks to the side, got a huge sofa, a television, a fridge, and that was it. budding deejay jason would usually be spinning tunes, or we’d be tuned in to groove radio, or i’d be queuing up some newfangled mp3s. our door was almost always open, even when were out at class, or asleep. most of my straight boyfriends i met at our friday night parties.

the vip room of club 129

our room became known as club 129, and we always had people stopping by to decompress. jason printed out a really simple, 3″ x 6″ sign in microsoft word, using two lame fonts left over from windows 95 days, which simply said club 129. he printed it out, and taped it above our door.

—

after a 30-minute tour around campus, atif convinced me that we should, in fact, go back inside lloyd house. i really didn’t want to, as i was convinced that the few good memories i had left of the place would be erased by whatever crappiness was there now.

walking into lower crotch [so named due it being the intersection of the "L" joining the two wings, and being on the bottom of two floors], i was hit by an overwhelming sense of familiarity. about 100 different memories came flooding back [the time emma stayed up for 4 days, the time alex overdosed on nyquil...] the best thing, of course, is that the paneling was back up, and my engraved sign was still hanging proud. i’m not sure if was re-installed or what.

walking down tropic alley to my old room, i was hit with that familiar stench of sweat and beer and carpet cleaner. all of the murals that we’d painted were still there, surprisingly, even the giant enjoy crack coca-cola logo spoof was still there. approaching the door to my old room, i couldn’t believe that there, above the door frame, was jason crappy paper sign, still taped, 7 years later.

i innocently asked the gaggle of nerds across the hall, why’s this room called club 129? they excitedly start telling me about these two cool guys that used to live there, and how it was famous for having these parties [we once crammed 30 sweaty dancers into our 14' x 18' room]. one of them used the word legendary, which cracked me up to no end.

after they finished, i told them, actually, that used to be my room. i lived there. they just stared blankly. i’d like to think that they were in awe, but i fear that maybe they were simply disappointed—this random old dude is the father of club 129?!

for me at least, it was nice to connect the past to the present.

change here for the san gabriel line, to pasadena and gelndora, for beverly hills tram services, and for seaside mainland services. mind the doors, please stand clear of the closing doors…

i’ve been getting more urgent and more frequent phone calls from my friends around the globe, wondering how i’m doing, how i’m settling in to ooooh american life and how i’m surviving.

i’m great, thanks for asking.

it’s not entirely clear exactly how quickly or how thoroughly i’ve been assimilated. when i speak with my english mates on the phone, they take the piss for me sounding so american… they mock me, saying i sound like a valley girl. yet, occasionally, when i meet a boy at midnight on the streets of weho, they’ll tell me, ohmigawd, i like totally love your accent. it’s a dangerous game to play, this accent game, cuz many americans view a faux-british accent as pretentious, while at the same time an american accent is viewed as base and common by the brits.

there’s a sweeping variety of things that shocked me upon my arrival a few months ago, which i now barely notice. i love driving, i really do… i spend hours in my new car, with my little gps telling me where to go, blasting tunes through my ipod, yakking to the world through my bluetooth headset. how very l.a., right?

i’m no longer overwhelmed by the variety and the cheapness of grocery shopping. 240 different types of salad dressing? 360 different types of soda? perfect, let me just fill up my cart.

it’s amazing how the spanish language has become so prolific everywhere, even since i was last in l.a. it’s becoming clear that mexican-americans will soon be outnumbering the caucasian settlers from europe. years from now there will be no natural blonds like myself. on the upside, though, everyone will have a nice natural tan.

i still avoid the news, because i don’t like drinking from a firehose. overly-produced, overly-dramatic, insanely insular. the rove/cia scandal got swept under the rug, nobody cares about bush/fema. and arnold is, in fact, running california.

that’s america. god bless it.

me? well, i’ve gone through a bit of a rebranding… whereas in london i did an excellent job of portraying myself as that fabulous american scene queen who knew everyone and was starting a magazine, here i’m portraying myself as that fabulous london kid who’s here to launch his new magazine. i’ve been exponentially meeting people, and having a stack of business cards is a great way to network.

well, perhaps it’s a bit too convenient to stick business cards in boys pockets when they’re not looking. example:

tuesday, 630pm, i’m driving home from work. phone rings, unfamiliar number, i answer. it’s some boy named brian. we met on saturday. at i-candy. then at fubar. apparently. we danced. apparently. we snogged. apparently. i feign like i remember, oh yeah, i remember—the cute one! but i really have no clue. he laughs, telling me, yeah, you came up to me, and said, “you’re really cute. we can either have hot sex tonight, or a nice dinner next week.” well, i’m calling about that dinner…

my somewhat bold, somewhat outrageous, definitely signature sidehawk is making me noticeable. perhaps it’s a bit much, but it’s helped me to stand out in a crowd. ken said he’d spotted me a few times out and about with that hair before he approached me. another lad in santa monica asked me, you live in west hollywood, don’t you? i see you everywhere… excellent.

am i american? of course. do i miss london? absolutely. am i enjoying myself in cali? you bet.

a few weeks ago, i found myself enjoying my first proper night out in weho. crammed around a v.i.p. cabana in the back of the abbey, josh’s mom emily was holding court, celebrating her birthday as only a diva mom could—slamming back apple martinis with her son and a myriad of gay boys.

it was crowded on this friday night, and my eyes were darting constantly, absorbing my new surroundings. whereas in london i might be scanning for familiar faces [current boyfriends], cuties [future ex-boyfriends] and landmines [ex-boyfriends], here i was just trying to recalibrate. everywhere my eyes rested i saw gleaming white smiles and bulging muscles… exactly what i used to hate about l.a.

eventually i spot james, a lad i’d met months ago. a straight friend of josh, i’d spent just a few minutes nervously conversing with him when i first landed in l.a., before i began my househunting, before i finished my move. seems like years ago.

james is tall, has a wiry frame, but is a bit tough-looking. he’s wearing a white tank top, tattoos peeking through. i watch him light up a cigarette, nervously suck on it, and the smoke trickles out between his lips, rolling out over his little soul patch.

i wait for him to recognize me. he doesn’t. i go to the bar to get more drinks for the birthday girl, which takes 20 minutes. looking around, all i spot again are gleaming white smiles, and muscles. yet, all i hear are queeny bitchy accents. gotta love l.a.

i return to the cabana, set down the drinks, and make eye contact with james. he’s chatting with amber, the girl who i’m certain is his the object of his affection. he stops mid-sentence, turns to me, and says you are so cute!

—

hours later, we’re in his pickup truck dropping off his friends all across l.a.. racing along empty freeways at 3am, we head towards dodgers stadium to deposit mike, the last of his friends in our late-night carpool. we pull up to mike’s house, he jumps out and says goodnight.

james turns to me with a wicked look in his eye, and smiles. we kiss. i feel his soulpatch on my lips, i spot his tattoo out of the corner of my eye. we separate, we smile, and for minutes we look out over the valley, the orange glow of streetlights shimmering across l.a. at 3am.

can you drive? he asks. sure. we swap seats.

as i race his rickety pickup down the 101, he starts blaring some 311. dude, this is my favorite band, they fucking rock. he lights up a cigarette, and passes it to me. i smoke it. this is significant—i’ve never been able to smoke a cigarette before. but, sitting behind the wheel of his pickup, so-cal ska blaring from his tinny speakers, it feels right. i feel tough.

i thought you were straight? i challenge him. he laughs and looks out the window. no, dude. definitely not. his hand is on my knee. he’s staring at me smiling. i take my eyes off the road to stare back. for 10 seconds, i ignore the road in front of me, and gaze into his eyes. e-lec-tric-i-ty.

that’s hot.

i love you, he tells me. i smile. no, really, i love you he says again. he inches closer, and kisses me. i sigh. he kisses harder. the truck swerves, i squeal.

i laugh as i hear myself say, dude, you gotta… dude, you gotta stop… mmm… bro, dude, you gotta… there’s no stopping him, i just pray i don’t get pulled over. the last thing i need is a moving violation on my first night out in l.a.

you know what? i love him too. just for tonight.

who got the keys to my jeep?

exit the 101, onto santa monica blvd. it’s just after closing time, and bars are starting to empty out. i can hear my mom’s voice echoing watch out for drunk drivers as a jetta zooms through a red light at 40mph, missing a full-on collison with me by about 0.8 seconds.

whatever.

i’ve had a fun but sober night, checking out my boy qboy rocking the house at senior’s la polla loca at l.a.‘s oldest bar, little pedro’s. christopher and his sexy friends showed our support till 2 before insisting that i need to tiptoe home.

continuing down santa monica, i cruise past some dodgy looking clubs with scary looking hombrés chiling outside, waiting for their girls, their rides or some trouble.

contemplate grabbing a late late late dinner at carl’s junior but the drive-in line is too long. it’s a blessing—another night of bizarre salsa-fuelled nightmares is not needed.

lurch up to tigerheat, the twinkalicious thursday-night club that i’ve been intending to go to for the past 7 weeks. stopping at the light, i contemplate if i’m actually on the guestlist. looking at the sidewalk sale, i grimace.

why does everyone look like they’re going to the gym? why are these 19yo skinny kids trying to dress like triatheletes? or, rather, why are these innocent kids trying to dress like they’re seasoned circuit daddies?

in london, it’s the exact opposite… you have sleazy, seasoned lads, of all ages, clinging to their youth, trying their best to portray an air of innocence, even though we all know there’s not a shred of innocence left in london.

managing to get every stop light, i crank up the car stereo. royksopp booms out on kcrw, and i roll down the windows to help stay awake. next to me, and a half-car forward is a carload of hotties. their eyes are on me, and they’re giggling.

i inch forward as much as i can. i glance over, deliberately expressionless. they turn back around, instinctively. after a few seconds, one of them glances back, and a flash a grin. light turns green.

we time it so that we both get stopped at the next light, this time side-by-side. i turn, deliberately, and smile. they giggle with drunken glee. i raise an eyebrow, and they roll their windows down. the cute one asks me, where ya headed?