everyone in l.a. [waiter/actors, waiter/writers, waiter/filmmakers] loves to network. every night of the week, people get dressed up in the latest couture, sporting labels just outside what they can afford, and swish into faux-vip parties across town, in the hills, at hotel lounges, clamoring to ratchet up a notch or two on the hollywood totem pole.
last night, i dragged .greg to a golden globes party at east/west, hosted by diva. the goal, i guess, is the same as any night out with .greg—to find husbands, friends, people who want to get involved with qr and to have a hell of a time.
the evening starts with a sarcastic, who’s on top conversation with the cute/bitchy guestlist boy, who spends the whole night examining and re-examining his clipboard in the cold, even when nobody is at his desk. with a smile, he lets me in for free.
next is the i’m going to pretend i’m running this place stunningly cute doorman. dressed in a sharp suit, with carefree hair curling down to his shoulders. an air of dignity and class. too bad .greg recognized him from his manhunt profile as a boy who is in to less-than-savory activities. soooo-eyyyy.
the actor/bartenders who are used to being the most attractive gays there, were suddenly thrown off-kilter by the homos that overtook the normally-straight bar for the evening. upon arrival, i waited 9 minutes [9 minutes!] for a bartender to notice me and serve me. they were entirely too busy prancing around, checking themselves out in the mirrors and trying to figure out which powerful hollywoodaddies to flirt with.
outside, .greg and i were approached by the very definition of broadway queen… some nelly older gent who, without any provocation, dropped inappropriate joke after joke. a bomb about lesbians. a bomb about asians [this is at a fundraiser party to help promote ethnic diversity]. a bomb about some actor we’d never heard of. eventually he actually talked to us rather than at us, explaining how much he loved london—in 1987. never even got his name.
after sitting down with tori spelling, we sat back as she shared bizarre story after bizarre story. she was so trashed that she lit the wrong end of the cigarette, and couldn’t quite focus on anything in particular. as i went up to the bar to get .greg and i’s second round of drinks, i realized that the l.a. glitterati really can’t handle their liquor. it was barely 9pm and people were already stumbling.
at the bar, i made smalltalk with nick from project runway. and, by smalltalk, i mean can i squeeze past you so i can get to the bar? which really means i don’t care who you are can you please stop standing awkwardly in the one spot where they’re serving drinks. he was nice though. almost cute. auf wiedersehen.
chatted a bit with nelson, the friendly sassy organizer, who explained that they’d be raffling off all sorts of prizes. a signed script from desperate housewives. tickets to attend the taping of the final episode of will & grace. a threesome with the boys from brokeback mountain. tickets to see ellen. a few moments later, my name is called. i run up to the balcony to claim my prize. a friggin’ calendar. thanks.
i return to tori and .greg, where i find sat next to me a lovely lady who reminds me a bit of dawn french with glasses. smalltalk smalltalk smalltalk. i size her up immediately… you are a… producer. for films. independent films. she actually looks surprised. she’s the first person i met that night who didn’t have a desperate/sad/eager look on their faces. she was probably the only person there to enjoy herself and not to sleep her way up a notch or two. i asked if i could try on her wig. a minute later, she excused herself and ran back inside.
tori tells me, my friend trent doesn’t really like you. huh? exsqueeze me? yeah, he heard your name called at the raffle, and apparently you two had a thing? eric wracks his brain… trent… trent… i’m sorry, we did not find any results for “trent”.
eventually this trent boy comes over, explains some complicated story of how we met [at a party after the outfest awards, where he worked on a film with a friend-from-college's boyfriend]. good memory. meaningless connection. not sure where the anger comes from—apparently i didn’t respond to his email? or something? geez… i sleep with boys and they hate me. i don’t sleep with boys and they hate me. just can’t win.
we eventually vacate, to dive bar number one. inside, .greg and i are letting some friendly older gents buy us drinks, as this sorta cute anthony rapp lookin’ motherfella comes up to me, asking if he could play with my hair. i get this a lot, and normally don’t mind, but tonight so many people had groped my sidehawk that it was presently in a semi-flaccid ‘fro. i explain this to him, but he insists.
he’s sorta cute, and is wearing glasses, so i turn to .greg and see that look on his face. which look? the oh my god this boy is going to be my future husband and, no eric, it’s not just because he’s wearing glasses which is my number one fetish. i flirt with hair boy a bit more. he wants details, though, details about what products i use and how i do it and stuff.
turns out he’s an actor, and he’s just been cast as a street hustler. and he’s looking for an authentic look. thanks. bitch. i pass him off to .greg, and notice his very handsome friend sat on a stool next to me. i introduce myself to him [probably the only cute boy i'd seen the whole evening, except for the bitchy waiters at east/west], and he smiles back, telling me that he’s an actor too and has just come back from filming in australia.
jet lag would explain why he’s tired. but jet lag doesn’t justify why he’s trying to put his hands down my pants. that would be slobbering intoxication and horniness, something i’m usually quite familiar with but tonight i’m not quite in the mood. the boy then proceeds to fall of his barstool. classy. i help him up, kiss him on the cheek, and slip my card in his pocket. classy.
.greg and i conclude the night at .fubar with a little song and dance and karaoke with bruce daniels, our new best friend and probably the only person we’d met the whole night who wasn’t desperate to network. brill.
