you're a hero, you're a freak-oh

Friday night, my buddies the Big Jew, Dubois and I got together at 217 down in Santa Monica. The place has always been hit or miss--either it's a nice place to look at the betties or it's a total sausage-fest. I hadn't been to 217 in a while. The last time I was there, there was some belly dancing function which is much cooler than it sounds. Sure, there were three gyrating scantily clothed-women of dubious morals on stage, but they were the only women in 217. Suffice it to say, I bugged out of there quickly the last time.

Anyway, I hadn't seen my buddy Dubois in a while. He'd been doing some contract work at a major BigLaw putting in long hours of document review, saving up the cashish so he could then follow his bliss--writing screenplays and producing flicks. Oh, plus his live-in has him on a short leash. This was supposed to be a long overdue boys night out.

My goal was just to hang out with the boyz, decompress, maybe (OK, definitely) check out the pretty babies. I've learned the hard way that, at least for me, going out with the stated goal of picking up some digits is a straight path to disappointment. The body language that's either too cocky or too unsure, the overly roving eyes, everything that signals desperation as the 2am last call comes closer and you haven't got the digits, boy does that raise red flags for the chiquas. I know that there are a lot of guys who can pull the rico suave, but different things work for different people. Me, I gotta go for the zen approach--not looking for digits, if it happens it happens. Body language is less tense and I don't feel like too much of a gumba. If there's someone I think I'll click with, then I'll talk to her. If there's no one, oh well. (And to the peanut gallery--yeah, I have approached women at clubs and danced with them, so keep those "yeah, I've never seen you talk to women at clubs" to yourselves).

I get to the 217 on time, which means I'm there fifteen minutes earlier than everyone else (damn Asian punctuality gene). At 10:00 pm, the club isn't too crowded and women outnumber men. So far, good sign. Then about ten minutes in, all these guys start walking in. A lot of guys. My buddies came in around 10:20 pm, and a group of slender model-types also arrived (unfortunately, not with my buddies). Among the slender model types was a lone Asian guy who was talking to this blonde a lot. At first, I thought "Hey, it's possible for one of the yellow bruthas to be pickin' up on the round-eye." As I observed the group further, I noticed he was the only guy among the hotties. I also noted that the hotties' body language toward the yellow bruthah was friendly, casual and not at all I want your hunky Asian bod. Either he was marked as "safe" or he was gay.

So me and the boyz were drinkin' and catchin' up on the haps. I'm the only guy outta the Mira Hershey Hall group who's not coupled (both the Big Jew and Dubois have live in girlfriends), and Dubois gets this idea that I should start mackin' on the pretty babies. I caught the eye of this one stunning woman with raven hair at the bar, but then I caught a gander at the bracelet she was wearing - a diamond studded black band that was worth more than my car. I looked away with a mad quickness. By the time Dubois got this idea in his head, 217 was packed (unfortunately, it was packed with more men then women). There was this one woman who I tried to make eye contact with, but she kept looking away. She was a dark blonde wearing a white beret, and a one-strap white retro-70s top with capri khakis. A friend of the Big Jew who joined us late called her "Britney Spears" in a derogatory way.

Anyway, it was about fifteen before midnight and the original plan was to bug, head over to the Circle Bar or World Cafe to see if the ratio was better. Then Dubois says hold on, and with horror, I watch him pull a high school move. One of the chicks at Britney's table went over to the bar. Dubois walks over to her, starts talking, then points over at me and point over at Britney. Fuck. Learning a lesson from a story the Big Jew told me about his pal a long while back (dull story, but good lesson which is PLAY THE FUCK ALONG), I say hi. The next thing I know, I'm buying the table drinks and having a conversation with Cindy (Britney's real name).

Cindy had an accent, a Guatemalan accent to be exact. How did I know? Because she said she was from Guatemala (that's what you get for asking stupid questions). Dubois loves Latin American accents, but he has a better shot with chicks from Latin America (his mother is black, his dad is Irish which apparently makes him sexy to women of all races but leaves us guys shakin' our heads in disbelief-- he just looks like a goofy guy with slacker fashionwear to us--the man also backs that up with game because he's able to follow the simple rule of listening to what a woman has to say and asking her questions about herself). Me? As soon as I heard that she was from Guatemala, I knew this wasn't going to go anywhere except for conversation. OK, this isn't low self-esteem speaking here. This is the realities of culture. You think some young thang who came to the U.S. with her family is going to be bringin' home a yellow brutha to the devoutly Catholic and traditional parent's dinner table?

Cindy invited me to sit with her. We talked for about fifteen or so minutes. We both kept up our ends of the conversation, so it was very easy and casual. Neither of us had to pull too hard to get the other to speak. I found out she was planning on becoming an American citizen in the next couple of months (another big yikes in my book), that she left school early, that she did billing for some doctor's office that had a lot of creative type patients. She wanted to go back to school to become a fully certified RN. She learned I was a lawyer taking some time off to write. When she went off with one of her friends to the bathroom, Dubois said, "OK Marty, tell her we have to leave and get her digits when she gets back." Well, he said that after saying, "OK, how cool am I, Marty? How cool am I?" So she comes back, and I make a couple of minutes more of small talk. Then I told her I have to go, and asked her if I could call her sometime.

She smiled and said, "Um, I'm married and I have three kids," putting up three fingers. I smiled back knowingly, and said, "You're a sweet kid. Nice talkin' to ya."

Yeah, she could be married and have three kids, and I could be the King of Siam.

Oh well. She really was sweet when we were talking, she was nice enough to invite me to sit. But c'mon, she could've thought of a better blowoff line.