As much as people shy away from generalizing, I have to admit generalizations are generally right. They do their job in describing how things are in a general sense. That's what they're supposed to do. Of course there will be exceptions - it's silly not to concede that - but I think generalizations do a pretty damn good job when necessary.

Case in point: I'm talking to a woman online who has somehow managed to track me down through a dog club.

Sassyass: So how come we've never talked like this before?
("Like this" means on a more personal level.)
Myfavoritereeder: Don't know. What do you want to know?
Sassyass: What do you do for fun?
Myfavoritereeder: Go to bars, listen to jazz, go to parties/social gatherings/whatever.
Sassyass: Oh, I'm not much of a party girl.
Myfavoritereeder: I didn't say partying. Just going out on the town, being sociable. That stuff.
Sassyass: Yeah, I don't do that either.
Myfavoritereeder: Why not?
Sassyass: It's usually difficult for me to get out. I'm a working mother.
Myfavoritereeder: Single?
Sassyass: Yes, so my time's at a premium.
Myfavoritereeder: You're not from Seattle are you?
Sassyass: I am from Kirland, not too far away.
Myfavoritereeder: Ha, owned!
Sassyass: How?
Myfavoritereeder: The Seattle area has the biggest concentration of unwed mothers.
Sassyass: That's just a generalization! How mean.
Myfavoritereeder: It's a verified fact. Are you vegan?
Sassyass: Yeah, how did you know that? Is everybody from Seattle vegan now?
Myfavoritereeder: No, but a lot of single mommies are.
Sassyass: Bullshit.
Myfavoritereeder: Don't get angry at me. I didn't come up with the generalization.
Sassyass: Whatever.
Myfavoritereeder: You've gotta admit it's pretty dead on. Eerie, huh? I know you're against abortion, that's no generalization.
Sassyass: I'm done talking to you.

Oh well, at least we didn't cover her weight. 61% of single mothers don't lose their birth weight. That would have been an engaging discussion.
____________________________________________________________________________________

I'm standing in Doug's aparment in the middle of downtown Los Angeles, a loft style pad on a high floor of what used to be a sweatshop overlooking Broadway. It's a nice setup actually, an L-shaped floorplan with lots of angular cabinets, a granite counter so smooth it looks wet, and a large, curling sofa taking up the majority of the living room. It's quite a steal if you don't mind the crowded daily commuter traffic on the street far below, vagrants and panhandlers by the dozens, and English as a second language. For Doug it's a haven where he can indulge his flair for design and still have enough space for entertaining. More importantly, it's a place to stop off and grab something to eat before heading down the street to Staples Center to scout exteriors for a shoot the agency is doing for Reebok. Somehow Doug has managed to con his boss into talking my boss into letting me come along. Networking is a fabulous thing.

"Interested in something to eat?" Doug shouts from behind the door of his refrigerator. "I have a cucumber sandwich and some bagels and lox." Doug does his best to avoid red meat. His guests suffer as a result.

"No thanks, I'm not hungry." I wasn't lying. I don't eat unless I feel a need to. If I don't have hunger pangs then I don't bother. "I'll just grab a coffee from The Pantry at some point."

Doug closed the door. "I know you're lying to me, but whatever. Subject change: Do these slacks make my waist puffed out?"

Doug was asking me to indulge his gayness for a moment. Oh well, when in Rome...

"No. The pleats are making you look like a bloated queen though. Feel better?"

"Bitch." Doug smiled through gritted teeth.

We left his pad and took an archaic elevator down to street level. As we stepped onto Broadway and began the 8 block walk southward to Staples Center, we heard from behind us: "El Maricon."

We turned to see two middle-aged Mexican men leaning up against the building, waiting for the bus. They laughed.

I stepped back and feigned surprise. "¿Verdad?"

The guys pushed off from against the wall. "¡Claro!"

"¿Cómo sabes?"

"La camisa, cabron," they responded. I looked at Doug's shirt, a Burberry plaid number. Stereotype-aided or not, these guys knew a gay man when they saw one.

"These two are always here," said Doug to me. Then, turning to the two men, it was time for Doug to play a stereotype card. "Keep laughing. I'm sure the INS will be the ones laughing when they round up your asses!"

We walked the eight blocks mostly in silence. Doug tried not to act affected but I knew he was. While being very open about his sexual slant, Doug is the kind of guy who doesn't mind a swipe at him as long as he's in on the laugh.

I tried to change the subject. "So what am I supposed to do while we're there?" I asked.

"I don't know. Stand around, be my wingman."

"Wingman? We picking up dates today?"

"No, I don't think they'll be any more encounters with people who want to judge my choices in life."

"That's not what I was talking about."

"Just forget it."

We finished the walk, arriving at Figueroa. When filled for an event Staples Center pulses with energy, shining spotlights on the sky, beckoning people to come be seen at the place to be. When empty during the day, the place is more like a glass mausoleum. We took a walk around the parking lot opposite the arena as Doug took some pictures and jotted down notes in his book. Every so often he stopped and looked up and down Figueroa like he was expecting to see somebody.

"What are you looking for?"

"Do you think it would create more of a carnival atmosphere if we had cart vendors going up and down the street with food."

"Where are you going to get those? They got a company that rents those out for shoots?" I asked.

"Are you kidding Reed? This is downtown L.A - every corner has some beaner pushing a mobile carne asada cart."

I looked at the tall walls of the Hotel Figueroa facing the arena. "Hey, what if you hung tall banners from the walls of the Figueroa like ESPN does during the NBA playoffs? That might add to your circus element."

Doug scribbled something in his book. "Not bad, not bad. I knew there was a reason for bringing you here."

"So tell me what the setup for this commercial is."

Doug scratched his head with his pencil. "It's quite basic really. It's the synergy of sports and entertainment for the sake of selling shoes. So it's a frenzied circus-like sports atmosphere, and it's Lucy Liu and Jay-Z and Carmelo Anthony on the red carpet. A little sex, a little glamour. You see these people wearing shoes and they're big, they're somebody. Then you want the shoes so you can have that glamour for yourself."

"You make it sound easy," I replied.

"You know as well as I that people buy whatever you tell them to. They're dummies, they aren't even aware of half of the stuff we're hitting them with." Doug wrote a few final notes in his book and closed it, putting a rubber band around it to keep anything from falling out. "If people want to drink a beer you tell them they'll be popular and glamourous if they drink brand x. Then they go out and buy it. If you want a line of clothing sold you tell the people they'll be sexy and powerful in that brand of clothes, and that good things will happen to them if they wear it. Then they've got to have it. Everybody's got to have it. They'd be foolish not to buy it. People are sheep, and we are the wolves," he said, motioning back and forth between the two of us with his pencil.

We walked back to Doug's place. The two Mexican guys were no longer out front. I waved to Doug as he disappeared into his building, his palace of the slums, and headed for the parking garage to get my car. I needed a coffee from The Pantry. It might be four dollars these days, but everybody still buys it don't they?