LA Affairs

Recently I had a romantic epiphany.

 

My strategy of going to Townhouse Venice every weekend night and just ‘seeing what happens’ wasn’t working. 

 

Sure it was fun to work up a sweat on the dance floor of that sauna of a bar. But my closing move of asking women to come swimming with me in the ocean at 3 o clock in the morning was tired. Not only was it illegal, but taking a dip in the Pacific in the middle of the night puts one at significant risk for drowning.

 

Furthermore, I often would strike out and then just wake up with sand in my sheets and nothing else. This was no way for a 29 year old to live.

 

No, I needed to try something different, something new.

 

I decided it was time to do something drastic…ask a woman on an actual date.

 

I met her at James’ Beach, the bar I go to when the Townhouse line is too long. She was cool in that she didn’t mind when I spilled my drink on her, this told me that she was the one.

 

After I asked her on a date I would come to learn she lived in Orange County. Not ideal, but I was currently unemployed so it didn’t really matter. My big plan for the week? Pack for Coachella. As that included throwing four pink swimsuits and a Pikachu onesie in a bag, I figured I could squeeze in a midweek date in Newport.

 

We settled on a Tuesday night, I drove down from Venice and picked her up.

 

‘I’ve never been here before, what should we do?”

 

“Well I know a great place to watch the sunset and grab a drink.”

 

Perfect. Sunset drinks. I’m adulting so hard. I wanted to call my mom and tell her, she would be so proud.

 

We get to some fancy Joie de Vivre hotel in Laguna Beach and grab a glass of wine. Everything is going great. We get a second glass of wine. I’m killing it. This girl is laughing at my bad jokes; my stories are making her smile. We share similar interests and experiences. I’m loving it, dating is great.

 

The sun drops below the horizon, I grab the check. Holy hell. $100. I mean I knew we were at a nice place, but not that nice. As a production assistant, that’s roughly what I make in a day. But whatever, it was fun.

 

Twenty dollars later, after being shaken down by an aggressive valet guy, I’m thinking the date is over. Maybe I’ll get a kiss goodnight. That would be cool.

 

“Hey, I’m kinda hungry.”

 

Oh, date not over apparently. But that’s fine, I could use a night cap and maybe snack on an appetizer. I suggest we find a dive bar and grab some nachos.

 

“Actually there’s this great steak house right next to my house.”

 

I’m caught off guard.

 

“But it totally has a divey vibe.”

 

So now we’re going to a steak house I guess.

 

We get to this ‘divey steakhouse’ and a man in a suit comes to pours us a couple waters.

 

“I’ll have a Budweiser.”

 

“Oh, your server will be right with you, I merely pour the water.”

 

I’m thinking immediately that a place that makes the water guy wear a suit isn’t very divey.

 

My date orders a martini and a steak salad. I have a Budweiser and a soup.

 

Another $100 later I’m thinking that this date is mercifully coming to an end. I will now have to work two days on set to pay for this date.

 

I’m starting to panic about my Coachella trip looming, the Denmark trip I have planned the following week. This is $220 I didn’t have to blow on a date.

 

To be clear, at this moment I had no steady job and I lived in a Venice apartment I couldn’t afford. Why? I’m glad you asked! It’s because there was a joke made on Silicon Valley last year that it is impossible to get evicted in California. I suppose the alternative would be to move to the valley and live in a sensible apartment, but I would rather move back to Indiana than live north of Mulholland.

 

Of course after dinner we HAD to grab ice cream and this date had now cost me more than my Coachella ticket.

 

At the end of the night we shared a brief kiss.

 

“This was fun, when you get back from your travels, we should do this again.”

 

I thought to myself, when I get back from my travels I will have to flee the country to escape debt collectors, but I smiled and agreed.

 

I went to Coachella and had a blast. Afterward, I was so broke I actually considered cancelling the trip to Scandinavia, it would have been the prudent thing to do. But because I’m one of those worthless Millenials that the Trump Campaign hates I decided to say ‘fuck it’ and get on the plane.

 

I’m back to sweating at Townhouse now because what I’ve learned is no amount of Fireball shots in a Venice dive bar will ever be more expensive than a night in Orange County. And don’t worry, I’ll let you know how the whole ‘not paying rent’ thing works out.