Friday, April 29, 2011

Cowboy Whore

Joel, the actor from the love scene I had on Saturday (, asked me out for drinks with the contingency that I not mention him in this blog. Now, I should say, since then he gave me permission to write whatever I wanted. The following:

We met for drinks at Fox N' Hounds on Ventura. We had a couple beers and spoke about the blog. He said he read about 8 or 9 entries and felt like he knew me, which was weird because I knew nothing about him. It gave him a surreal advantage in the conversation. Although, I am aware being this kind of cerebral exhibitionist does come with that expectation, you feel like you are always playing catch up with people.

Someone at work teased me about a few random points of my life and I said, "How do you know so much about me?" I write and arrange these thoughts and experiences but after I click "publish" they wash away. I don't think about where they go and who they influence, except those closest to me.

There was something different about Joel. The sweet, shy, gentleman I worked with on the set was blunt, laid back and even a little arrogant at the bar. He said, "When you talk about things, you are so confident and opinionated about it- my first reaction is to challenge you. Prove you wrong." This was interesting. I asked him if he thought he would have that reaction to anyone or just a pretty woman. He said, "Anyone."

I said, "Are you sure? Even with an older, black man? You would feel the same reaction?"

I don't remember his response though I believe there was a thoughtful pause. I do remember at one point, he interrupted me and said, "Its my turn to talk now, so let me say what I want to say." I can dominate, I guess, when I am excited about a topic. His tone was authoritative, almost angry, but he effortlessly bounced back to the conversation. Who was this guy?

He is highly intelligent. He is one of those people you have to watch what you say around because he is paying attention. You have to be on your toes and stay confident. I still liked him, but he was a different man than the one on set. My guard came back up.

We trailed off in conversation about personal relationships a little bit. More his than mine at first. When I talk about my broken heart, I start trying to untangle a web of complicated feelings. It isn't fair to whoever is listening, especially when I am drinking and stoned.

A cover band played in the next room, starting with Oasis, Sublime, Green Day, then . . . they performed “Say It Ain't So” by Weezer. 

That song really stirs me up. It’s become a distraction. I don't listen to it anymore just so I can stay focused on what I have to do for the day.  Nor at night, because I can't sleep afterward. In this case, I said, “Sorry but (singing) Dear Daddy, I write you in spite of years of silence.
You cleaned up, found Jesus, Things are good oh-so I hear.
This bottle of Stevens awakens ancient feelings...
Like father, Step-Father...
Your son is drowning in your blood!

(I have tried to verify these lyrics on-line, most websites say 'son drowning in the flood', which I find less poetic.)

We finished our drinks and he invited me back to his place to smoke up.

I'll be honest. I wanted to make out with someone.

It was a hot day and I got through my anniversary with Abe ok. I wanted to be touched by someone I had little to no association with.

I followed him back to a studio apartment behind a building, sandwiched between a freeway and a train. He had a futon on his floor with a computer. No desk. No coffee table. Incredibly simple and small. I wondered if that is how I should be living, but that would be in a world without pittie princesses.

My memory is incredibly foggy with regards to the conversations of the night, partly because I thought I couldn't document them- so I was lazy with his words, and let them spill through my head and hands. Somehow we got on the subject of pornography and I found myself on his computer trying to make a video called 'Japanese Toilet Porn' stream. I was talking aloud to myself, "This is a bad idea. This sets the wrong tone for me. I am interested in purely an academic kind of way."

He fact-checked my blog/Facebook and told me on the shoot that he only had half an erection, and that he didn't think about kissing me goodbye but did ask about the blog to stay in touch. I said, "I know." He leaned in and said, "I also don't think I slipped you the tongue." And then he kissed me. He clearly thought about what to say before reaching in for the kiss.

I told him he was different tonight. He replied, "Well, I was a stupid cowboy . . ."

I said, "Cowboy whore."

He repeated in a low voice, "Yes, cowboy whore." Then kissed me again. The way he spoke to me felt a little dirty. The whole experience felt a smidge dirty. It was more on the carnal side of things; certainly nothing romantic. I never asked for romance, but some is ideal when engaged in anything sexual.

I tend to think romance and chivalry go hand in hand. The sweetness I enjoyed in Saturday's Joel was totally gone, like it was never there. I tend to think somehow I invited this change in behavior.

The lights went out, though I don't remember how.

He went down on me and that was certainly enjoyable. When I finished, and fondled his penis, I realized he had a bigger dick than pretty much anyone I had been with. I'll be honest, I was intimidated.

While catching my breath, I said, "Thank you. I would go down on you too if I didn't have a rule about blow jobs and monogamy. I don't know how the hell I would fit that thing in my mouth, anyway."

There was silence and I sat up and said, "I can't see your face."

He said, "I'm smiling."

After an hour or two of sleep, I woke up and realized I was drooling on his shoulder. I tried to do my best to manage that situation without waking him, but he was roused.

We discussed relationships while kicking blankets and burrowing in pillows. The morning light was breaking through the cracks of foil over a blocked skylight in the ceiling.

He said, "I don't think monogamy works. At least not for me."

I said, "Men require sexual variety."

He said, "Its not that. Its the person I fall in love with will always be changing. How do I know I will still be in love with whoever they become in 5-10 yrs?" He stopped short. "I just became aware that you could put everything I am saying on paper. Its weird, I was just reminded of that."

I said, "I am good for the promise."

He said, "I don't care, you can write anything you want. I only mentioned the privacy thing in the email to see if you would still see me."

There seems to be an interesting dynamic forming between me and the people in my life. They are attracted to the brutal honesty and raw quality of my writing, but they are scared of it, too. 

My #3 date on OkCupid asked I never write about him and still emails paranoid feelers about it- even though our relationship only spanned a few hours over one date. I am aware what I write here will be absorbed, remembered and alter everything. Not only my sexual relationship with Joel, but the next man who wants to get involved with me, and the next. Not to mention, his friends and family. At the moment, I have nothing to lose.

That might change, but for now, this is how it stands and its ideal for my writing.

He said, "You know, I have condoms."

I said, "Does that mean you wish to penetrate me?"

He chuckled and said, "Yes." He kissed me. (in a whisper) "I wish to penetrate you."

I said, "Let me think about this. I don't really care for casual sex. It’s not something I do. But . . . I am curious. (beat) Your penis is intimidating. Have you ever hurt a girl with it?"

He said, "Yeah . . . I have. But I have learned how to enter slowly, and when you open up to me, it eases in comfortably."

Those words, 'when you open up to me' turned me on. I said, "When was the last time you had unprotected sex with a girl?"

He said, "2 months ago."

I said, "I see." I thought about disease but desire already trickled down my thigh to the bed sheets.

We had sex. Something is terribly attractive about base pleasure right now; eating a big dinner, sunbathing, sleeping a lot, making love (none of which I have been able to do) . . . my mind and heart have been on overdrive and I just wanted to surrender to something. Like when I passed out at the club on Valentine's Day. That minute I was unconscious, I was aware of being lost in darkness and it was a relief. The moment I came to, my financial and emotional burdens hung hard on my shoulders.

I should also note, Joel is the third guy to put his hand around my neck in an intimate gesture. They don't squeeze, but it kind of puts them in control. Abe did it, and I allowed it. When I was drunk and the Comic crashed my bed, he put his hand on my throat while my mind danced in and out of a whiskey coma. Now Joel had his hand around my throat. It’s interesting; it’s a bold gesture and forces me to trust them right away. I am not sure I like that.

The condom slowly killed his erection. I said, "Condoms suck. I know. I'm sorry. We could have unprotected sex if you didn't sleep with another girl for 6 months."

He said, "Isn't there a test I can take?"

I said, "The gynos at Planned Parenthood said the herpes test is unreliable, and really the only way to know you have it is if you have an outbreak within 6 months of contact."

He said, "6 months without unprotected sex with a girl, or protected too?"

I said, "Probably protected too because of the genital to genital contact." Too much?


We fell back asleep but I had to get up and go home.

He said, "I really would like to do this again some time."

I don't know if I answered him. I thought I would like that too . . . but the change in demeanor has my mind spinning a bit. I don't know that I do trust him, but I am not sure that matters. I need the sexual release and I enjoyed his body and conversation. I think I understand why men integrate sex into their daily life, the release helps your mind focus in on more important things.

That said, a part of me wished he was a little more like the cowboy whore who giggled after we kissed and walked me to my car. That chid-like embarrassment with intimacy keeps it light in our minds and heavy in our stomachs.

Today, Em and I went to see Hall Pass at a second run theater. (It sucked.) Afterward, we sipped coffee outside an Armenian café on a hot afternoon. We were both half asleep from hang-overs and the first breath of summer heat. We were comfortable exploring private tunnels of thought, while sitting across from each other in silence.

I told her about Joel and she said, "He probably read the blog about how you were turned on and thought I'm gonna ask her out and .  . you know . . ."

I nodded, "I was a sure thing."

She said, "Yeah. But why would that make him less chivalrous? Because he knew he could get it? That's disturbing."

I said, "Yeah . . . maybe chivalry is only meant to appeal to the mystery of a person. Or it’s just a form of seduction."

The opportunity to compare staged love scenes in character to a real sexual experience as ourselves is fascinating. I gave up my power, and he regained it. I required some coaxing and time, he worked me until I got there.

Was he just that good of an actor?

It is easier now to have sex with someone who isn’t my boyfriend. That worries me . . . just a little.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

How to Seduce any Random Stand-Up Comic

Sunday night was my last night to see Rummy before he flew back to Florida. I was already almost a forearm into a bottle of wine when he showed up. Monday was the year anniversary for my first date with Abe; we drank at a bar, made out in his car and went to Disneyland the next day.

On Friday, I asked Abe via text to see me on our anniversary. Nothing implied, just as friends.

No response.

The shitty part of all of it was I really thought he would agree and I was in a good mood that day fooling myself. Instead, he blew me off. I told him I would not reach out again. And I haven’t.

He has sent a few texts back under the 'Too Little, Too Late' category. Sunday night was the last night I mourned him.

Rummy said, “You deserve so much better. You are going to find someone . . .”

Slurring, I said, “He and the Prophet were special because they understand a part of me that no one does. I don’t really tell people about it, but there are weird, supernatural things that have happened . . . dreams, feelings. They know about that stuff. They relate to it.”

Rummy said, “I understand. There is a part of yourself you shared with them that you don’t show other people.”

I heavily nodded my head and sipped out of the top of my glass, spilling some on my hand and on the floor. Sloppy. “And this day was sacred. It was our day and he threw it away.” And sweet Jesus, out came the tears.

He said, “There are spiritual communities. I am sure there are people there you could talk to.”

I said, “I don’t want to talk to flaky, air headed people about it.”

Rummy said he understood, “There are those types, but I am sure you can find someone that understands.”

Who understands and I am sexually, spiritually, emotionally, intellectually attracted to? :-(    Doubtful.

Rummy said, “Will you let me tuck you in before I go?”

He did. I was crying with red teeth and lips, like I was drinking my own blood. He pulled the covers over, leaned in and kissed me in the dark. Then he left.

When I woke up, I was hung over but there were no more tears for Abe. The mourning after.

I booked audience work on a gig shooting at The Improv that morning. It was for a reality show challenge and the job was pretty much the best it can be; sit down indoors and laugh at Kevin Nealon.


I showed up early, recognized one or two other people but the crowd has really changed since I started audience work. It’s a new slew of unemployed actors and musicians now, all just arriving to Los Angeles with the one suit their mothers bought for graduation day.

One guy I recognized was the black kid from the Bank of America commercial I worked on last year (, we will call him Brian.  He is about 5’8, black, bald with soft features. He looks like he would have been on the chess team for a semester before quitting and taking Drama.

I said, “Look who’s here. I still have your business card in my wallet, so I see your face every time I need to pay for something. Are you the one black guy here?”

He said, “Yeah, the call was for ‘Caucasians mostly’ but I emailed her back and asked if there was a spot for one bald, black guy and she booked me. I need to work; I am going to be homeless in a week. If you know anyone who needs a roommate . . .”

I, myself, am trying to find a way to ease up my expenses so I can continue to live life the way I have been without the financial strain. Ideally, it would have been fuckhead-Abe to move in with me but I have done the denial-bargaining-depression-anger and finally now feel the slight relief of acceptance.

Me, "You could stay with me but I have two pit bulls in my living room."

Him, "I don't do pit bulls. No . . .I mean it sounds good but . . . pit bulls? Nah."

Me, "Why do you keep saying pit bulls like that? What’s your problem with pit bulls? You talk about them like they are Jews?"

Him, "Why don't you say it a little louder?”

Me, "What, JEWS!"

Brian looks around, "Its ok, she is dating a Jew."

Me, "No, we broke up. But yeah, (to the crowd) I date Jews."

No one was listening to us.

He said, “That sounds good, call me when your dogs die.”

I said, “Fuck off. If you met them you would like them. They are super sweet.”

He said, “They can turn on you in a second. Not you . . . but a black man . . .”  His head started boggling like a car ornament. “Yeah.”

I said, bored, “Give me a break.”

He said, "Yeah, well, maybe . . . those cats are gonna bounce so I gotta move fast."

I said, "Your cats are going to bounce?"

Brian (slowly, like a white person), "My roommates are moving out."

I said, “See, now I understand what the fuck you are saying.”

Brian, “As long as you don’t have cats, I can deal with dogs. I am allergic.”

I said, “Shit. I have a cat, too. Bummer.”

Brian said, “No way then. I can’t do cats at all.”



Brian, “Where are all the cute girls?”

Me, “They are all cute. (motioning down the sidewalk) That girl is cute, that girl is cute. (On the other side of me) That girl is cute. They are all cute.”

Then I yawned and used my thumb to point back at me.

Brian laughed.

The millionth actress to bother the audience wrangler about a restroom break stood in front of us, trying to push her way to the toilet. It seemed that was something inspiring all the actresses, to push for the right to visit the restroom at any cost, as if it was the signature of liberation itself.

I said, “What about that chick?”

Brian, "Yeah, she's straight."

Me, "Straight means . . . attractive?"

Brian looks at me and after a long silence, “Yeah.”

Me, “Well, I just thought it meant heterosexual, now I guess it means attractive. Doesn’t make any God damn sense, but whatever. She is straight. Got it.”


Brian (singing) “Rolling with the homies . . .”

Me, “Poor Brittany Murphy.”

Brian, "Yeah ... she's really dead."


We were informed the lighting department was dealing with a major technical difficulty, so production was seriously delayed. I had to go to Doggie Daycare after this but I knew that the Improv would kick out this production no matter what with shows slotted in the afternoon.

We got chairs and seated ourselves along the sidewalk of Melrose mansions, then we watched all the good-looking dog walkers grab coffee.

The crowd was growing restless. I don’t know why, we were getting paid and it really made no difference where we were. We weren’t going to get food, coffee or freedom, so we might as well just enjoy the sunshine.

Brian, "They should give us food."

A very skinny white boy with tight clothes and a thin mustache stood up, “Dude, they aren’t giving us SHIT!”

Jesus, what do you want to do, start a revolution because we weren’t given coffee and donuts?

I turned to Brian, "Why should they give us anything but money?"

Brian, "For the inconvenience."

Me, "What inconvenience? We would just be sitting inside. Now we are sitting outside."

Brian, "Eh."

Me, "I see what this is about. Its because you're black."

The guy next to us put down his book to listen.

Me, “You aren’t all black though, you got a little something else in you?"

Him, "Yeah, slave owner."


We were finally escorted in and walked passed an olive skinned man, sitting outside a café alone with one 9-inch cigar and a small teacup of espresso.

Brian, “See, that’s the life right there. Middle of a Monday morning, just hanging out and smoking a cigar."

Me, "But we are doing that. Its just we don't have a cigar."

Why does everyone have to complain?


We were all brought into the Improv main room. I was given the seat front and center to the stage next to a comic disguised as a bar patron. Then, someone from production came and switched the comic sitting next to me with another comic disguised as a bar patron.

There were stand-up comics assigned specific seats throughout the audience to deliver an “improvised” but actually scripted line. Nothing in Hollywood is real.

The new comic sitting next to me was a gigantic white guy; 6’3, well over 240 lbs . . . but nice brown eyes.

Comic, "Now, when he comes out, laugh a lot and look really happy. Smile big!"

I said, "Don't worry your pretty little head. I am a professional."

I was pulling my tube top over my brassiere for the millionth time. It kept slipping down below my bosom, exposing my black lace bra and new amethyst crystal resting at the base of my cleavage. No one really noticed, it looked Madonna-esque with my open-chested, aqua-blue top draped over.

I squirmed back in place.

Comic, "All squared away in there now?"

Me, "Oh yeah. I am an actress, I am used to exposing my breasts."

He said, “Oh, you’re an actress? Do you get lots of work?”

I said, “You know how it is. Sometimes you do, sometimes you don’t. I am just going with the flow. So how is being a comic?”

He nodded, “Same thing. Up and down.”

I said, “Stay sober.”

He laughed.

I said, “Of course I’m not. I am a ganja girl myself, but I am out, so I have been drinking wine the last few days. Its a bitch of a hang over.”

He was getting me, finally. He stopped talking to me like I was a hand puppet. He told me his name was Sean.

I said, “Were you cast on this by an agent or were a bunch of you just picked up from the same social circle?”

He said, “They just grabbed a few of us out of the same social circle.”

I said, “Are you getting paid well?”

He shook his head, “No, people think you make lots of money being a comic. At the Comedy Store you make $13 a show. At the Improv $8.”

I said, “That’s it!?”

He nodded.

Throughout the shoot, he was distracted with his buddy- a tall, black bald guy to our left seated between two blond, white girls (of course). They kept making bad jokes to one another, winking and nodding. Another not-always-funny comic . . .

Sean kept referring to me as his wife. I played along.

Sean, "How many kids do we have?"

I said, dry, "Do I look old enough to have kids?"

He seriously took that in for a moment before smiling.

Sean, "We could spoon?"

I said, "Only if I get to be on the outside."

Still in his own mind, he said, "I would be more of a ladle. We could take pictures and make them our Christmas cards."

I said, dryly, "Totally in the nude."

He said, "Like John and Yoko."

I sipped my watered-down, cranberry juice prop-drink, "That’s right!"

He said, "Wow, you remember that?"

I replied quite seriously, "Yeah, I look young for my age."


He turned to regain his friend’s attention and pushed my head down towards his lap as if I was to give him a blow job. I shook free, took my drink and sipped with my shoulder turned away from him. Jackass!

He laughed to his friend, “Awww, our first fight.”


I said to Sean, whose arm now fell lazily over the back of my chair,  "Are you ready for your close-up? Just get in the zone. I support you."

He said, "What about you? Are you ready?"

I said, "I'm a woman. All they expect from me is to sit here and look pretty."

Production Assistant, “Ladies and Gentleman, Kevin Nealon!”

Kevin Nealon came out on stage and read his opening off some ridiculously small cue card. He looked at me once, just once, and never looked at me again. It doesn’t matter, he made me laugh. And when I cackled, I saw the ends of his mouth flicker into a quick smile, like he just got 50 points in skee ball.

Sean, “Ok, that was too much. Bring it down a notch.”

I said, “I’m sorry, am I stealing the spotlight again?”


The shoot was wrapped. The fastest shoot I have ever been on. Details of the show could not be provided because I signed a confidentiality contract with a borrowed pen.

Sean looked for a business card in his wallet, I looked over his shoulder until he gave up and put it away.

I said, “Wow, no condom and no business card. You must have quite the social life.”

He said, “I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”

I said, “Don’t be a quitter, Sean. You have to work for women like me.”

He smiled and said, “Follow me to my van after the show, and I will give you my number.”

I said, “That’s . . . uh . . . quite the invitation.”

Production Assistant, “Audience!!! Please follow me outside!”

I got up to go and said, “When are you performing at the Comedy Store next? I like comedy.”

He said, “Wait . . .um . . . I will meet you on the corner after everything. Wait for me.”

I said, “Ok.”

Why not? I like comedians.

After collecting our beautiful, clean, white envelopes of cash, I circled around. No Sean. He was probably hanging out with Kevin inside, or getting paid a lot more somewhere else. Whatevs.

I drove up to Sunset Blvd to my marijuana dispensary and picked up some Green Crack Jack, a lollipop, 2 pens and 2 condoms.

Rummy texted, he said the next night would be hard to get through and if I had some green to spare.

I drove up Laurel Canyon to meet him. He didn’t want me to pull into the driveway of his ex-wife’s house, so I pulled into a stranger’s. She knows who I am and I get the feeling Rummy doesn’t want our worlds to collide.

His 6-yr-old daughter cried the night before, begging him not to leave again. He has to get his life on track, but how can a 6-yr-old understand anything more than goodbye?

He grabbed one small bud and said, “Just something to get me through tomorrow night. I am going to be depressed. Last night was rough . . . “ He looked at me and said, “Stay in touch while I am gone. Tell me how you are doing, ok?”

I looked down and said, “I get terrible reception-“

He said, “I don’t care how you do it; text, call or email ... just let me know you are doing ok.”

I nodded and he kissed me on the lips.

My wall is growing. All the fine stones and boulders I can gather are slowly wedging in place between me and men. I don’t desire to fall in love again. I am not even sure that really existed. I just want to float away.

I drove with my windows down over Laurel Canyon Road as Green Crack Jack muffled my ears and wrapped around my head. It was a beautiful day with a cool breeze whipping all my loose trash around in the back seat.

I remembered the Doors song ‘Love Street’ was written about a house Jim Morrison shared with Pam on Laurel Canyon. I just looked it up and found out its actually on Rothdell Trail, just off of Laurel Canyon, close to Sunset Blvd.

I see you live on Love Street,
There's this store where the creatures meet,
I wonder what they do in there,
Summer Sunday and a year,
I guess I like it fine, so far . . .

Strange little song I can’t make sense of.

I felt warm and connected to my ghosts again. I don’t mind floating through life, as long as no one pushes me under ever again.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Date #4: A Real Pisser!

After my almost first love scene, I dropped by downtown to see a girl I went to college with in Washington. We hadn't seen each other in 13 years. Jesus.

I don't remember much about Jenny, other than she hated me in college. I was very good friends with a boy named Tom, who asked me to take his virginity for weeks during first semester. Eventually, he gave up and found another girl, but we remained friends. Jenny, I assumed, was smitten with him because she hated my ass.

Truth be told, when I was 18-19 yrs old, I was so socially awkward, I could barely have a conversation with someone. Usually, I found a person who was nice to me and followed them around. It was kind of pathetic. Throw in my unsolicited, highly passionate rants about animal exploitation in some very unflattering clothing and you have me in 1996.

Towards the end of first semester, I thrived at my hippie state college. I did shrooms and then pot. Abandoned Environmental Science and studied Art Theory.  I broke up with my high school boyfriend who I planned on marrying. And finally found the courage to dance. Slowly, I became me.

Jenny hated me. I didn't think much about it until she found me years later on MySpace or Facebook and apologized. There were a few people from high school and college that did. Social networking is a mysterious and wonderful thing. Think about people in the 80s who never got unsolicited apologies from the people of their past. Maybe they learned to let go a little easier. Maybe there is more peace when you aren't waiting to be found.

So, Jenny invited me over for lunch since Facebook advertised that my USC shoot was downtown. I headed over and met her beautiful 2-yr-old baby and her beautiful husband in their beautiful two bedroom apartment downtown.

We went to Chipotle for lunch and she told me about meeting her husband, how they held off on marrying because their homosexual friends were unable to marry then. All of a sudden, she discovered she was 5 months pregnant after being on the pill for several years. She confided that if things weren't 100% healthy for the baby, she would have terminated. No qualms. But the baby was healthy and she said, "This was going to be mine. All mine."

She said she didn't want to have natural childbirth and a few people made her feel badly about it, but it’s her decision.

After the fact, she wanted a tubal ligation, a surgery permanently preventing pregnancy. However, her doctor refused to approve the procedure because he fears she will change her mind. She said it was ridiculous the length she had to go to prevent pregnancy as opposed to having children. Prenatal vitamins were free from her doctor, but birth control was $50-$100 a month.

She begged for an IUD, but again, the doctor wouldn't approve the procedure. Jenny had never wanted children, and though her child was a blessing, a stranger was dictating whether or not she could make that decision for herself. She wondered if it was because this particular doctor was a family man, and valued how large his family was. Or is it because she had a daughter . . . would he approve the procedure if she had a boy first and not a girl?

Eventually, after much debate, she refused to leave the clinic until he put the IUD in her. Finally, he told the nurse, "Just go get one, she isn't going to leave." I mean . . . I guess I am confused. Are we not facing a global population problem? Is Jenny not an adult? I had no idea it was so difficult. My mother got a tubal ligation after I was born, I still think they should have snipped my Dad's balls instead. He may have been nicer.

As we ate lunch, I noticed Jenny and her husband were always focused on their child. It makes sense. You want her to eat, you want her to be safe, you answer her questions and acknowledge her observations. She was a brilliant little girl.

Since Em adopted the puppy, she had the same thing going on. The focus was on the safety, nourishment and education of the puppy. The female mind zones into that child/puppy and nothing can shake it off. I realized, for all my whining about never having a baby, I had the luxury of being free of that "lock down" focus. I could think about my day, eat where ever I wanted to, change my plans at a moment's notice, make mistakes, forget where I parked and get lost in thought. I'm not ready to give that up yet.

I rescued my girls when they were already adult dogs, and though I am obligated to support them, feed them, exercise them, my attention is not constantly pulling focus.

I got home, walked the girls, talked to my parents, showered with a glass of red wine and met my fourth OkCupid date at the second run theater in downtown Pasadena.

While looking for parking, I saw a guy leaning up against the wall in green and red plaid pants with thinning big hair and narrow sideburns. I said, "Please let that be him! Please let that be him!"

Ok, let me preface this with: his profile pic makes him look about 10 years younger. I was never really interested in him, but he was open to my criticism about a pic he used on the dating website where his arm was around a girl. I told him frankly, it was the reason I would never consider him. Its one of my rules on the dating website, if you have a pic of your arm around a girl or kissing a girl or a girl kissing you- I ignore.

He took it well and asked I reconsider, the pic, afterall, was of a friend.

Why not? What else am I going to do? Masturbate then smoke it up with my dogs and YouTube videos. I mean, really, that's pretty much all I do.

Two things he mentioned via email indicated he wasn't my type.

A) When suggesting a day to meet, he wrote, "Usually, these are good times for me. Alas, not this week" Alas? Hm. So, now when I refer to him in conversations with Trent, I call this guy "Alas."

B) He then wrote, "typically I go to yoga at 11:30, but before that I could meet up with you." Ok, I don't mind men doing yoga, but something felt contrived about him volunteering that off the bat. He doesn't sound masculine. And thinking about his balls spilling out on either side of the seam of his yoga pants made me feel . . . dry.

We agreed to see Insidious, even though he wasn't "impressed" by what was playing.

So I popped around the corner and asked if he was him, he said yes. The outfit was ridiculous, but you should also understand, the way someone behaves, holds themselves, slows their speech and looks down on you when they talk, makes them more of an asshole than what they actually say.

He was a professor of film theory at a college north of Los Angeles. He asked me about acting, and it was just the way he did it. "How is that working out for you?" "How many lines did you have today?"

I said, "I don't know. I didn't count them."

He said, "Do you do dialogue?"

I said, "Uh, yeah. It was two pages of dialogue."

He nodded. "Ok."

He paid for my $3 ticket, which of course I appreciate, so please take my following criticisms with a grain of salt. I don't think he is an asshole, I think he is pretending to be an asshole to impress me.

We approached concessions and I said, "I don't require this. Do you?" He said, "I don't require it either." So we walked upstairs and I picked a seat. I was leading the damn date again. Ugh. I asked if the seating was ok, he said, "You seem to know where you want to sit, so I will let you decide."

I need to be centered to the screen. Then I need to be centered in the theater. I also need to be ideally two seats away from strangers and a row away from anyone with food.

The trailers ran, and he was talking to me. Fine. Then the opening credits ran, and he was still talking to me. "Where did you go to school?" "How did you like it?" "A student of mine is now a professor there and I am kind of upset by it since she never spoke up in class. How could she be a professor?"

Hey, film professor, um . . . there is a movie playing.

The movie started. He said, "Oh, that guy was in that Kate Winslet movie, where everyone was cheating on everyone. Remember?"

Without looking at him, I said, "He is in lots of movies."

The movie is a low budget horror movie. No big deal. I like to get wrapped up in horror movies no matter how shitty they are. I cover my face. I despise it when boyfriends force my hands off my face. I CAN STILL SEE, OK!!!! My hand is just over my face. I am not missing the movie, I promise!

He asked me, like a Kindergarten teacher giggling, "Are you hiding? From the monster?"

I said very seriously, "Yes. It can't see me."

He laughed this deep, mechanical chuckle. I mean, all he needed was a wood pipe and a book under his arm and he would be the caricature of an intellectual he was trying so desperately to be.

Anytime there was a jump or a scare, the crowd would scream. It was a good crowd. He would give his deep chuckle. Sometimes he would add, "Every trick in the book, eh?" I said, "Its a horror movie."

Right around an hour into the movie, a man in a suit climbed through the aisles and asks\ed to sit directly next to me. Its so weird, when I saw Eat, Pray, Love there, same thing happened but it was an empty theater. A guy came in and sat right next to me.

This guy had a bag of beef jerky and was sweating profusely. During the film, he would proclaim, "Oh my God . . . OH MY GOD!" or "Jesus, No! This is scary!"

I smiled. This was awesome.

He started frantically rubbing his leg and his face then groaning. I said, "You ok?"

He said, "This is really scary!" I nodded and smiled.

Then, 25 minutes later, before the climatic ending, he just got up and walked out of the theater.

Alas said, "Where is he going now?"

I said, "I think the movie was too intense for him."

Alas said, "What the hell, come storming in and sit right next to you?"

I said, "It was odd. Very odd."

After the film, he said, "Usually I would ask you out to coffee but there is a tavern behind the theater." T Boyle's, where I met Caleb the philandering filmmaker and Frank the philandering Nickelodeon actor. I agreed. Its just good to be out, even with this guy.

I only had the $3, and he offered to buy me the pint of cider on draft I always get there. We went upstairs. A boy was singing and playing guitar opposite a back-up pedal steel guitar. It was country-blue grassy . . . what is it about boys and music. I tried not to look at him as he spit memories into the microphone.

So, being a film professor, I assumed he knew film.

First I saw Willem Dafoe on a Jimmy Bean commercial and said, "You know it’s a recession when Willem Dafoe is doing commercials."

Alas said, "I haven't seen him in anything for a long time."

I said "He was in that movie in 2009, that controversial movie . . . . what was it?" I googled, "Anti-Christ."

Alas said, "Never heard of it." Nor did he seem interested. Then he added, "I still haven't seen the one where he plays Jesus."

I rolled by eyes at him and said, "The LastTemptation of Christ? Are you serious!? Um, you need to rent that tomorrow!" He laughed. Prick.

We climbed the stairs to the balcony and I said the music reminded me of “Crazy Heart”, with Jeff Bridges. He nodded and said, "Haven't seen it."

I said, "Do you usually see the movies nominated for awards?" I would if I had a decent paying job.

He said, "Eh, if someone recommends it to me."

Ok, I would be pissed if this guy was my film professor.

We spoke about vintage horror, which he didn't know much about. He said Insidious borrowed from Poltergeist, which I don't totally agree with. He amended, "Well, if you picked a movie it was the closest to, it would be Poltergeist."

Then added, "Have you seen real vintage horror?"

I said, "Like what?"

He said, "That movie about a little girl . . . she is evil."

I said, "The Bad Seed?"

He smiled at me, "That's right. You know about it."

I thought, "Yeah, and you don't."

Then I said, "When I get fascinated with someone, I go down the list and watch every single one of their movies. I did it with Cary Grant."

He smiled as though he was impressed. Then I added, "And Leonardo DiCaprio."

He said, "Oh . . . ok. Has he been in a good movie?"

UM! HELLO!!!!! I said, "ALL of them are good."

Deep, mechanical chuckle with a head throw back.

He said, "He was in that awful movie that won the Oscar a few years ago."

I said, "An awful movie won the Oscar a few years ago?"

He said, "Oh, maybe he wasn't in it. Matt Damon and . . . Scorsese directed it?"

I said, "The Departed!?"

He nodded.

I said, "I loved that movie. Its based on a Hong Kong movie, Internal Affairs."

Apathetic nod, he looked away and muttered, "Was it?"

Um. Yeah. It was!

He said, "You must like young men then, since he has very boyish features."

I said, "I like any display of passion. Age is irrelevant. Have you gone on many dates through OkCupid?"

He said, "Only one other one."

I asked, "How was it?"

He said, "She was ok. Nice. A filmmaker. We had coffee."

I said, "Why no second date?"

He said, "She wasn't my type."

I said, "Let's be blunt. Was she fat?"

He swallowed his ale, looked away and said, "She was on the heavier side. Not fat but chunky."

I said, "Gawd, I can't believe I called that one!"

He said, "Well, it doesn't take a highly perceptive person to figure out she might be overweight."

I rolled my eyes. New band on stage now, some rock-a-billy, Buddy Holly action going on down there. I said, "Oh, they have a bass. I am excited."

He said, "Men lie about their age and women lie about their weight, that’s what happens right."

Well, he definitely looked older.

He swallowed again, and puffed, “Are your dogs (head swagger) vicious?”

I narrowed my eyes. “No.”

He said, "I admire you are trying to make it on your own."

I said, "Aren't you?"

He said, "I live in the back house to a place. Its all I can afford until I am a full time professor."

I said, "Who lives in the front house?"

He said, "A woman . . . I know . . . she um . . . takes care of my father."

I see, over 40, condescending and living in his father's back house. Yikes.

His Dad kept calling on his chipped, flip phone. I said, "You better pick that up."

He said, "Yeah, it must be an emergency or something." He still kept staring at it. Lights. Buzzing.

I said, "Pick it up. I will look at my phone, its fine."

He said, "Thanks, usually I don't answer phones during a date. That would be rude."

I overheard him on the phone, "I have your car keys. Yeah, well, do you need them now? I will be home soon."

This was my way out, thank God. I was watching the lonely country singer grab a drink at the bar and I thought about approaching him. Then I thought, no, don't be one of those.

I told him I had to get home to feed the dogs and he should go back to his Dad. He walked me to my car, where someone was pissing on the street.

Pisser, "I'm sorry."

I said, "I'm sorry too."

That was that. #4 date out of the way.