Wednesday, December 22, 2004
It's Not a Date, It's an Audition
I read the graffiti, in the bathroom stall
Like the holy scriptures in a shopping mall
And so it seemed to confess
It didn't say much, but it only confirmed
That the center of the earth
Is the end of the world
Green Day is blaring through the speakers as I dart in and out of traffic on Olympic Boulevard, speeding towards my coffee date with Shannon, the woman I met at Cross's Halloween bash. I'm running late, and though I will likely make it on time, I want to arrive a little early so I can scope the place out, find the best place to sit, the right lighting, etc. Make sure I'm sitting in a spot where I can see the rest of what's going on. No surprises. Yes, it's controlling, but that's how I am on firsts.
I'd be able to focus more on getting there if I weren't on the phone with my buddy Devon. He's an aspiring actor - well, established if you ask him, but aspiring to me because he's done so little. You've probably seen him recently in a couple of commercials for Burger King. He's the annoying just-out-of-college-looking dude with the high-pitched squeal that serves as the punchline of the ads. In one it's "I'm Crispy!!!" done in a horrid falsetto shriek, and in another his big line is "what time is it!" Just bad. But Devon is convinced that with those two commercials under his belt he's arrived. His work reeks of 15 minutes of fame, but I'm happy he's getting jobs nonetheless.
"C'mon Reed, you gotta go to this opening! I'm going, I'll bring a few girls I met on set. I'll introduce you." Devon is trying to convince me to go to an exhibit opening at a boutique gallery on Melrose. Some friend of his. Modern impressionism. I'm not having it.
"Not up for it Levine, even if you pimp your hos. Why can't we just go grab a drink and catch up?" I ask. This is part of the problem. Now that Devon thinks he's in the big time, he's begun doing only high-profile things: Art gallery openings, parties hosted by agents or actors, movie premieres. Anything that keeps him seen by the right people. A month ago I begged off a party he tried dragging me to that was hosted by an artsy-fartsy type who lived in the hills. He went and ended up standing in the corner with Christopher Walken for most of the evening, just checking people out but not really talking to anyone. Grabbing a drink has become small beans to somebody who only 5 months ago was borrowing some cash to buy a quart of MGD from the corner liquor store.
"Maybe," Devon replies, "I'll have to double-check my schedule. There's stuff on the horizon I have. I'll get back to you. Later."
I arrive at the place, glance at my watch. Luckily I've shaved time off the trip and I'm five minutes early. I walk in and take a look around. No Shannon. The place is your average Los Angeles coffee bar, with a number of sofas and high-backed chairs which all look like they've been bought from La Brea area furniture stores with trendy names. The place is dimly lit, a little strange for the early evening, and the vibe is mellow. There are maybe 10 people in the place. I scan the room, figuring out where the best place to sit would be, what looks most comfortable. I need a table where I can sit facing the room so I'll see Shannon come in.
"Help you find something?" asks a waitress walking past me.
"Uh, no, was looking for somebody. Guess they're not here yet."
"Go ahead and take any empty spot you want, I'll circle around to get your order in a few." Her name tag says Becky. She's got auburn hair and is a little overweight. Not much in the chest department. It's a shame when the gut sticks out farther than the boobs. It really gives her no chance at all.
I take my position at a table that looks good; large top, two high-backed chairs close enough to each other, and a good view of the room. Shannon shows up a minute or two later and I barely recognize her. She's wearing a pair of low-cut jeans, revealing a belly ring and a small tribal design around the belly button - how very Hollywood - and black boots with a wide buckle, kind of sexy really. With her tree costume on I never picked up anything about her body on Halloween. Turns out she's svelt, not many curves. Like a jogger's body. She's wearing a shirt that says "it's cute how you think I'm listening," and I laugh a bit reading that. She spots me at the table and waves, making her way over. I stand and smile.
"You look much better without the 70s mustache," she offers, referring to my getup from the Halloween party.
"I was thinking about growing it out, but your endorsement makes me think otherwise."
Becky comes back and gives us the once-over before taking our order, trying to guess if we are together or not. Shannon and I start covering the get-to-know-you areas: What you do, where you live, where you're from, likes, dislikes, etc. She begins to veer into the political, and I quickly steer her to a different topic. I like political debates, but I don't want the claws to come out too early and spoil everything. I'm trying to gauge her age and she's said nothing to give it away. I can't tell from her outfit either. She might be 24, 25. She looks to be at the point where she can't get away with wearing Rampage and Forever 21 stuff much longer, but might be a tad young to go full bore into Ann Taylor. Based on the outfit, she's leaning towards the former.
"You design clothes?" I ask when she brings up what she does.
"Yeah, a friend and I have a business where we design stuff. Tops and skirts mostly."
"Cool. Would I have seen your stuff anywhere?"
"No," she says, with a forced pause, "right now we have a kiosk at Westside Pavillion and periodically we'll sell some stuff on the Venice boardwalk. We're trying to get together some pitches to lure a few buyers. It's a lot of work but I'm happy with where it's going."
I continue sizing her up while she offers additional tidbits about being a designer. She's not a bad find. I have totally lost track of everything going on inside the coffee shop, I'm so focused on her and what she's doing. The flip of her hair from time to time, the occasional batting of her eyelids, the smile she flashes a few times that's somewhere between nervous and comfortable. Any time you go and have a drink with somebody as a prelude to things it's never really a date, more an audition. Each person is picking up on each other's vibe, seeing how they sit with that. I'm caught up in her perfume - could be Victoria's Secret Breathless - when she mentions that she just got a place dowtown in "The Metropolitan Lofts," a combination living/work space where people like herself can both live and create their work.
"Yeah? You should have told me, I could have come downtown to meet you."
"What's there to do downtown?" she asks. "There aren't many places like this to go to."
"I don't know, there are a few finds. There's a Mortons we could have met up at. Maybe have a glass of wine in their lounge."
"Mortons? I don't think so." she replies.
"No? Wine not your thing?"
"Wine is fine. I'm a vegan. I can't even go into a place like Mortons where the smell of beef permeates everything."
Whoa, stop the press. A vegan? I guess I should have sensed it since she did ask twice for a soy latte, but if she can't even set foot in a steakhouse...
"So you don't even go to restaurants?" I query.
"Not most. There are a few, but they are whole food places and the like. I think it's a crime we still rely on animals for our food supply."
Uh oh. Major roadblock. I eat a good amount of meat, and if this woman doesn't even like to set foot inside most restaurants then that's heavy problem to overcome. There's no way she'll even watch me eat.
"So you don't design any leather products, then."
She rolls her eyes. "Like you even need to ask." She asks me a bunch of questions about my need to eat meat, the moral implications, and so on. This is going downhill very quickly. I don't like this, considering we hit it off so well Halloween night. Maybe we were forced to make a good thing of it that night, with her being alone and me not wanting to get high with the crowd inside, and I read more into it than there was. Oh well.
We finish our coffee and the opportunity to make a clean exit presents itself so I take advantage. I tell her I'm heading down to Hermosa Beach to meet some friends and she's welcome to join us.
"No thanks, I really have a long day tomorrow. I have to see a fabric supplier about some designs and then get to work on the sewing machine. But this was fun," she feigns. Or maybe she meant it. I am a pessimist.
I walk her out and mention that since she's downtown and not too far from me maybe we can get together again, perhaps another coffee. It sure as hell won't be lunch. I give her my card and scribble my cell number on the back. Aside from the vegan thing Shannon does seem cool, the type of woman I'd like to be friends with. I just never picked up a vibe from her that there could be more. We hug and I watch her get into her Passat and drive off. I guess I didn't pass the audition, but it doesn't bother me. I've got dates to take me through the week.
Like the holy scriptures in a shopping mall
And so it seemed to confess
It didn't say much, but it only confirmed
That the center of the earth
Is the end of the world
Green Day is blaring through the speakers as I dart in and out of traffic on Olympic Boulevard, speeding towards my coffee date with Shannon, the woman I met at Cross's Halloween bash. I'm running late, and though I will likely make it on time, I want to arrive a little early so I can scope the place out, find the best place to sit, the right lighting, etc. Make sure I'm sitting in a spot where I can see the rest of what's going on. No surprises. Yes, it's controlling, but that's how I am on firsts.
I'd be able to focus more on getting there if I weren't on the phone with my buddy Devon. He's an aspiring actor - well, established if you ask him, but aspiring to me because he's done so little. You've probably seen him recently in a couple of commercials for Burger King. He's the annoying just-out-of-college-looking dude with the high-pitched squeal that serves as the punchline of the ads. In one it's "I'm Crispy!!!" done in a horrid falsetto shriek, and in another his big line is "what time is it!" Just bad. But Devon is convinced that with those two commercials under his belt he's arrived. His work reeks of 15 minutes of fame, but I'm happy he's getting jobs nonetheless.
"C'mon Reed, you gotta go to this opening! I'm going, I'll bring a few girls I met on set. I'll introduce you." Devon is trying to convince me to go to an exhibit opening at a boutique gallery on Melrose. Some friend of his. Modern impressionism. I'm not having it.
"Not up for it Levine, even if you pimp your hos. Why can't we just go grab a drink and catch up?" I ask. This is part of the problem. Now that Devon thinks he's in the big time, he's begun doing only high-profile things: Art gallery openings, parties hosted by agents or actors, movie premieres. Anything that keeps him seen by the right people. A month ago I begged off a party he tried dragging me to that was hosted by an artsy-fartsy type who lived in the hills. He went and ended up standing in the corner with Christopher Walken for most of the evening, just checking people out but not really talking to anyone. Grabbing a drink has become small beans to somebody who only 5 months ago was borrowing some cash to buy a quart of MGD from the corner liquor store.
"Maybe," Devon replies, "I'll have to double-check my schedule. There's stuff on the horizon I have. I'll get back to you. Later."
I arrive at the place, glance at my watch. Luckily I've shaved time off the trip and I'm five minutes early. I walk in and take a look around. No Shannon. The place is your average Los Angeles coffee bar, with a number of sofas and high-backed chairs which all look like they've been bought from La Brea area furniture stores with trendy names. The place is dimly lit, a little strange for the early evening, and the vibe is mellow. There are maybe 10 people in the place. I scan the room, figuring out where the best place to sit would be, what looks most comfortable. I need a table where I can sit facing the room so I'll see Shannon come in.
"Help you find something?" asks a waitress walking past me.
"Uh, no, was looking for somebody. Guess they're not here yet."
"Go ahead and take any empty spot you want, I'll circle around to get your order in a few." Her name tag says Becky. She's got auburn hair and is a little overweight. Not much in the chest department. It's a shame when the gut sticks out farther than the boobs. It really gives her no chance at all.
I take my position at a table that looks good; large top, two high-backed chairs close enough to each other, and a good view of the room. Shannon shows up a minute or two later and I barely recognize her. She's wearing a pair of low-cut jeans, revealing a belly ring and a small tribal design around the belly button - how very Hollywood - and black boots with a wide buckle, kind of sexy really. With her tree costume on I never picked up anything about her body on Halloween. Turns out she's svelt, not many curves. Like a jogger's body. She's wearing a shirt that says "it's cute how you think I'm listening," and I laugh a bit reading that. She spots me at the table and waves, making her way over. I stand and smile.
"You look much better without the 70s mustache," she offers, referring to my getup from the Halloween party.
"I was thinking about growing it out, but your endorsement makes me think otherwise."
Becky comes back and gives us the once-over before taking our order, trying to guess if we are together or not. Shannon and I start covering the get-to-know-you areas: What you do, where you live, where you're from, likes, dislikes, etc. She begins to veer into the political, and I quickly steer her to a different topic. I like political debates, but I don't want the claws to come out too early and spoil everything. I'm trying to gauge her age and she's said nothing to give it away. I can't tell from her outfit either. She might be 24, 25. She looks to be at the point where she can't get away with wearing Rampage and Forever 21 stuff much longer, but might be a tad young to go full bore into Ann Taylor. Based on the outfit, she's leaning towards the former.
"You design clothes?" I ask when she brings up what she does.
"Yeah, a friend and I have a business where we design stuff. Tops and skirts mostly."
"Cool. Would I have seen your stuff anywhere?"
"No," she says, with a forced pause, "right now we have a kiosk at Westside Pavillion and periodically we'll sell some stuff on the Venice boardwalk. We're trying to get together some pitches to lure a few buyers. It's a lot of work but I'm happy with where it's going."
I continue sizing her up while she offers additional tidbits about being a designer. She's not a bad find. I have totally lost track of everything going on inside the coffee shop, I'm so focused on her and what she's doing. The flip of her hair from time to time, the occasional batting of her eyelids, the smile she flashes a few times that's somewhere between nervous and comfortable. Any time you go and have a drink with somebody as a prelude to things it's never really a date, more an audition. Each person is picking up on each other's vibe, seeing how they sit with that. I'm caught up in her perfume - could be Victoria's Secret Breathless - when she mentions that she just got a place dowtown in "The Metropolitan Lofts," a combination living/work space where people like herself can both live and create their work.
"Yeah? You should have told me, I could have come downtown to meet you."
"What's there to do downtown?" she asks. "There aren't many places like this to go to."
"I don't know, there are a few finds. There's a Mortons we could have met up at. Maybe have a glass of wine in their lounge."
"Mortons? I don't think so." she replies.
"No? Wine not your thing?"
"Wine is fine. I'm a vegan. I can't even go into a place like Mortons where the smell of beef permeates everything."
Whoa, stop the press. A vegan? I guess I should have sensed it since she did ask twice for a soy latte, but if she can't even set foot in a steakhouse...
"So you don't even go to restaurants?" I query.
"Not most. There are a few, but they are whole food places and the like. I think it's a crime we still rely on animals for our food supply."
Uh oh. Major roadblock. I eat a good amount of meat, and if this woman doesn't even like to set foot inside most restaurants then that's heavy problem to overcome. There's no way she'll even watch me eat.
"So you don't design any leather products, then."
She rolls her eyes. "Like you even need to ask." She asks me a bunch of questions about my need to eat meat, the moral implications, and so on. This is going downhill very quickly. I don't like this, considering we hit it off so well Halloween night. Maybe we were forced to make a good thing of it that night, with her being alone and me not wanting to get high with the crowd inside, and I read more into it than there was. Oh well.
We finish our coffee and the opportunity to make a clean exit presents itself so I take advantage. I tell her I'm heading down to Hermosa Beach to meet some friends and she's welcome to join us.
"No thanks, I really have a long day tomorrow. I have to see a fabric supplier about some designs and then get to work on the sewing machine. But this was fun," she feigns. Or maybe she meant it. I am a pessimist.
I walk her out and mention that since she's downtown and not too far from me maybe we can get together again, perhaps another coffee. It sure as hell won't be lunch. I give her my card and scribble my cell number on the back. Aside from the vegan thing Shannon does seem cool, the type of woman I'd like to be friends with. I just never picked up a vibe from her that there could be more. We hug and I watch her get into her Passat and drive off. I guess I didn't pass the audition, but it doesn't bother me. I've got dates to take me through the week.
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