james

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ignore all the warning bells, grab my keys and head on over.

the mother of all pleasant surprises greets me at the door--great face, killer smile, 5'-9" of pure, compact, rippling muscle.  personal trainer at equinox, fresh off the boat from pollyannaville san diego.

one blissful hour later, i'm getting dressed, he comes outta the bathroom, says, "thanks so much for actually following through and showing up.  i don't know what it is about LA, but there's so many flakes--why can't i ever seem to find anybody who wants to come over?"

well, for starters, even though you could easily pass for 27, you list your true age (which, using the standard LA curve, means everybody thinks you're really 40), your blurb is vague and non-descriptive, and your pics are small, out-of-focus and taken from a distance--hell, everything about your profile screams deception.  i could pull out my phone right now and snap a shot of you standing there in those torn sweatpants hanging offa those chiseled hips that would bring so many slavering boys to your door, you'd never have to call my middle-aged ass again.

i think all those things, but of course i don't say them.  i'll clue him in next time.  or maybe the time after that.

seriously, this happened

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so what's worse--being a moron or being an asshole?  you decide.


supermarket checkout line, earlier today

checker tears off my receipt, turns toward the bagger to hand it off.  i intercept her, wad it up and reach for my bag, which prompts the following exchange between the bagger and myself:

"she was handing that to me!"

"it's ok--i'm just gonna toss it on my way out."

"but it's got your name on it."

"huh?"

"i need your name."

"um, why do you need my name?"

"because how else am i supposed to say, thanks for shopping with us, mr. whateveryournameis--have a nice day! if i can't look at your receipt and see your NAME?"

by now we have the attention of the people behind me and both adjacent lanes.

"fine--here."  i drop the crumpled receipt in her hand, just so i can watch her smooth it out, paste on the fake smile and say,

"thanks for shopping with us, mr. . . . pluhar--have a nice day!"

i return her smile stonefaced.  "that's not my name."

"what?  looks down at the receipt. "but--"

"i've been using my old roommate's rewards card for years.  but if i ever see him again, you can be sure i'll pass on your message."

as the peanut gallery snickers, i give her a big smile, grab my bag outta her hand and head for the door, knowing she'd have gladly killed me at that moment if only the employee manual allowed it.

ok, so which is it?

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saturday night

stopped at the corner of wilshire and santa monica boulevards, a light, cold drizzle falling, i glance over at the corner, notice two young women in flimsy cocktail dresses, shivering and hugging themselves for warmth. as they begin to cross in front of me, i altruistically drop my window and offer them a ride, in response to which they glance at me, stiffen and begin moving faster.  when i laugh and reassure them that i'm gay, i get a "yeah, right!" back.

sunday morning

at petco to pick up a harness for the hound.  helpful saleslady pulls one off the rack, gives me a meaningful look as she says, "i think you'll find this one really easy--it's just like putting on a bra".