My life is a series of failures.
Saturday night I drive 45 minutes to a bar in Silver Lake to celebrate Matt Welch’s new book only to realize that the party is Oct. 20.
Sunday I afternoon I wander the mean streets of Beverly Hills looking for a sports bar to watch the Cowboys-Patriots game.
Total failure until I end up in West Hollywood.
Monday night. My friend has a birthday party. We’re to meet at Trilussa in Beverly Hills.
I park on Doheny Blvd because it’s free and with my tzitzit flying in the breeze, walk block after block of tree-lined streets (Oakhurst, Palm, Elm, Maple, etc) lost and I don’t understand why. I made this walk every Friday for two years to therapy.
Finally I arrive on Rexford and realize this is where I normally park.
I get to the restaurant and it doesn’t seem kosher. I’m ready to ditch my yarmulke but I have a problem — my jeans are so tight I’ll never be able to stuff my tzitzit into them.
It’s 8:38 and nobody’s here. This party was called for 8:30. I make a panicked phone call. The crowd is on its way.
I stand awkwardly on the sidewalk and read Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle and people passing in and out of the restaurant call me a "nice Jewish boy."
Maybe my twink days aren’t over?
At 9 p.m., the crowd arrives to celebrate my friend’s birthday.
I have this welling fear that tonight is going to cost me money.
We’re supposed to be just meeting for drinks but the crowd takes a table.
I detach myself and go to the bar and after a few minutes finally get some service and I order a 7-Up. I pay with a $10 bill and the bar man just leaves it on the counter.
Now the birthday girl is signalling me to join her at the table and my money is still lying there. Why? What’s wrong with it? Why hasn’t the bar man cashed it and given me change?
I take it back and leave three $1 bills.
The music is too loud to talk. I’m in a panic that I’m going to be expected to order some food. I can’t eat here. It’s not kosher. Normally I’d be happy to eat vegetarian here but there’s an Orthodox rabbi in my group and I’m stuck with a yarmulke on my head and fringes sprouting from my waist.
I can’t tell if the MC is a man or a woman. The person has the face and voice of a man but the bust of a woman.
He calls out Justin the singing bartender who does a smooth job through three songs but my fear of a further lightening of my wallet freezes me. Yet I feel guilty that I should order something expensive if I’m sitting at a table.
I thought we were just going to be standing around the bar where my cheapness would not be so bad?
Then this fresh-faced 17 year old beauty named Caitlin (sp?) Jones (I Googled this girl and I can’t find anything on her, I must be spelling her name wrong, does anyone have her phone number? She seems to be in dire need of the type of Talmudic guidance that only I can provide) takes the mic. She wears a slinky evening dress and a sweet smile.
I relax and stare.
Thank heaven for little girls.
Near the end of her second song, I remember my tape recorder and turn it on. Audio
She’s followed by a bloke from Nashville named Boomer.
After a couple of songs, he’s joined by Jeanette Turner. She does two numbers written by boomer, climaxed by "I Want To Spend The Night With You In A Sleazy Motel."
How are we going to keep ’em down on the farm in Pico-Robertson once they’ve seen Beverly Hills?
A belly dancer comes out. She shakes her soft tummy and lies contorted on the floor.
"Get on your knees," says the MC. "That’s how I got my start."
Sheesh, if Rabbi Weil saw me now, he’d never let me back in to Beth Jacob.
I flee.
