Torn Between Two Girlfriends, Feeling Like A Fool, Loving Both Of Them Is Breaking All The Rules

An oldie but goodie from my blog Jan. 29, 2004:

I park beside the Beverly Hills Hotel with my ugly van (Thursday, January 29). A man in front of me gets out of his Mercedes and looks at my vehicle with horror. I follow him down the walk, down the corridor, to the ballroom for the Wednesday Morning Club lunch with guest speaker John Stossel of ABC News.

A few months ago at the WMC, I sat beside two middle-aged women I'll call Cathy and Marie. They were a tad catty.

Today Marie asks me where's my redheaded girlfriend who writes for Rolling Stone. I was bewildered. I know I've been with many women in my time but I don't remember this one. Marie says it's my friend, the one I sat next to the day I met her.

"Oh, you mean Cathy? She's not here yet. She's not redheaded. She's blonde. And she doesn't write for Rolling Stone."

Marie: "Oh."

Cathy walks in at noon. She can't get into the A-list table upfront with the bigshots, so she deigns to sit with me. She wants a clear view to the speaker.

I suggest a table at the back. She suggests four other tables. I suggest the table at the back. Eventually she agrees. Next I persuade her to move the yucky onion off my salad.

Cathy sits beside a former publisher of the Orange County Register. She tells him the Register should carry her column. Cathy believes every paper should carry her column including The Weekly World News and the Zimbabwean Morning Star.

David Horowitz promotes his Stakeholder summit February 7. I open the brochure and my eyes pop open. All six featured speakers are black.

"Scary for you," says Cathy. "She [Genethia H. Hayes] looks like she could kick your ass."

Why's a Jew holding an economics conferences with schvartzes on Shabbos?

The average age of the attendees at these WMCs is about 50. They should have more speakers on topics such as spirituality and mysticism. That tends to attract beautiful clueless young chicks of which I need more in my life.

John Stossel gives a 25-minute speech and takes 12 minutes of questions. Stossel protests he is not a conservative and that consenting adults should be able to do what they want.

A feisty, salty, sassy old blonde woman next to us, the same one who gave a rant against religion to Victor Davis Hanson, yells "Yeah!," when Stossel says he supports decriminalizing prostitution and drugs.

"We own our own bodies and we should be allowed to rent them to other people. If doctors can earn money with their doctors, why can't a woman?"

About a fifth of the crowd clap. I hope that a fifth of the crowd don't have the clap. I doubt it.

"I believe homosexuality is perfectly natural and you should be able to burn a flag. Yet they call me a conservative because I believe in free markets."

Stossel says that when he reported on corporations, he was popular with his peers (winning 18 of his 19 Emmy awards). When he turned his scrutiny on government, his colleagues changed their tune.

As Cathy and I walk out, she asks me if I'm going to say hello to my girlfriend. She means Marie. I explain that Marie thought Cathy was my redheaded girlfriend who wrote for Rolling Stone.

At this point, an ABBA song took over and I lost touch with reality.

Cathy walks away, tossing a few sentences over her shoulder. "I don't want to talk about the things we've gone through. Though it's hurting me, now it's history. I've played all my cards and that's what you've done to me. Nothing more to say, no more aces to play."

She marches off.

The winner takes it all. The loser standing small beside the victory that's our destiny.

I was in your arms, thinking I belonged there. I figured it made sense, building me a fence. Building me a home, thinking I'd be strong there. But I was a fool, playing by the rules.

I run after Cathy. She turns to me. "Does she kiss like I used to kiss you?"

I'm nonplussed. John Stossel and David Horowitz are listening in on our conversation. I feel embarassed. My face flushes.

"I don't think this is the time or place, Cathy," I say.

"Does it feel the same when she calls your name?" Cathy demands. "Somewhere deep inside, you must know I miss you. But what can I say? Rules must be obeyed.

"The judges will decide. The likes of me abide. The winner takes it all. The game is on again."

Cathy Seipp remembers things this way:

Today at the WMC I sat beside two middle-aged men I'll call "Mr. Smith" and "Mr. Ford." One was a snappy retired newspaper publisher who told me funny stories about his movie star neighbors near his new Hollywood Hills home. The other seemed vaguely Australian, and confused at the notion that salad should be eaten with a fork.

Mr. Smith gallantly moved my coffee cup closer to the waiter when he heard I wanted coffee, and told me that one of his handsome actor neighbors insists on wearing a sarong in public.

Mr. Ford scanned the room for "hot young chicks" and then demanded my help removing the frightening mushrooms and onions from his salad. Still, he's a dear old thing. I look forward to cutting up more food for him when he finally leaves the hovel for that assisted living facility we've been looking into.

Well, this dear Mr. Smith didn't mind snaking his arm around Cathy's chair in a protective fatherly gesture. I believe they exchanged phone numbers and a toke on a joint.

Robert writes:

Luke is clearly out of his league in anything but, a complementary buffet setting. We all think it and I'm going to say it. Luke Ford is an absolute failure as a metro-sexual! He wants to move in the circles of the "beautiful people" yet he has never had a chemical face peel, his graying hair lighted, his crows feet botoxed or even his scrotum waxed. Luke get with it!! Get thee to a beautician post haste!

Emmanuel Richard writes Cathy Seipp:

Procrastinating with 2 deadlines looming dangerously, I laughed so hard reading Luke's little fantasies. And your counter-attack. His blog should be capsuled and launched into space for aliens to find sometimes in the future: imagine an alien anthropologist scratching his green fuzzy head, reading this weirdo slice of humanity? To help them, and humanity as a whole, Luke should post more pics. He used to have good photos back in the old days… Whoops.

Cathy replies: "Whoops indeed! Don't you remember the one he posted of his sore tongue? On the other hand, if you muck around in Luke's archives like the Luke Ford Fan Blog guy does, you can find some good pictures of him in his underwear."

About Luke Ford

I've written five books (see My work has been covered in the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, and on 60 Minutes. I teach Alexander Technique in Beverly Hills (
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