The Headache

Seriously. I am pissed. Hence, I'm listening to Agent Orange ("Bloodstains" on repeat) as I write this.  Now, I'll warn you, this post has nothing to do with Whole Foods because the economy is in the toilet, so I can't afford to shop there right now. I hunt for my food now. At Ralph's.

Okay, stick to the script, you dick.

So, I go out with this girl the other night. An MFA screenwriting candidate from Loyola University. She was pretty cute: tall, giant tits, bleached blonde hair and a pair of watery eyes. Very cute. She would be a knock-out, or a very well-paid porn star, if she didn't eat ice cream every night in bed while she watched Battlestar with her Jackrabbit. She wasn't fat, but puffy with an ass as flat as Frankenstein's forehead. Anyway, it was better than nothing. And nothing was all I've been getting.

I pick her up at her dilapidated apartment in Marina Del Rey. I got out of my newly washed Volvo like a knight in distressed jeans and t-shirt. I gave her a big hug (fag move) and felt her giant bazookas trampoline off my man tits. She gets in my car. I've got on my 'Punk Music for Girls' mix CD with lots of New York Dolls, shit like that. I always make it clear: my taste is better than yours.

In the words of the Joker: "And here we go..."

We get down to Venice Beach. I'm thinking pizza, but before we turn into the parlor, Ms. Final Draft wants sushi.

"Sushi, huh?"

"I know a great place. It's just next door."

Pause.

"Alright."

This was her plan all along, I think to myself.

We duck into a place called Naked Sushi. No one's naked, but the place is full of sexy beach volleyball players and I realize just how out-of-shape my date is. She's not puffy, she's fat. We sit down at the bar.

Hiroshima!

My date starts ordering everything. Everything with an MP (market price) after it. Translation; 2nd Mortgage sushi. I suggested hand cut spicy tuna rolls because they are usually fresh and cheap, but no. She wants Eel Penis and Cockcream Scallops w/ Toro flapjacks.  The orders keep coming and she eats it up like a little pig. At one point, she stuck her tongue into a Philadelphia roll (the one with cream cheese in it, and the only cheap roll she ordered ) and removed just the cream cheese filling, then discarded the rice, seaweed and salmon. Polite.

Hiroshima!

Sushi's done. Check comes. 

"I'll buy you Cold Stone, if you pick this up."

I look at her like she's the Anti-Christ. I put down my debit card. There's $134.23 left on it. The bill is $122.11 -- she better get my Cold Stone, or this chick is going to be found washed up on the beach with crabs eating her flesh.

Hiroshima!

Now, I'm sitting at a sticky table top outside Cold Stone as I watch hot, sexy couples walk and bike back to their places to fuck; meanwhile, I watch Slobbikins hog down a Brownie Sundae creation while she avoids the waffle cone jock cup because it has "gluten" in it. The hypocrite. 

Hiroshima!

We're in my Volvo leaving the parking lot by the beach. At this point, I feel like I'm with Slimer from Ghostbusters. But, I'd still take a BJ from Slimer. Moist, you know?

I pull down the street and she turns to me.

"Jeez, I got this headache all a sudden."

"Really?"

"I ate so much."

"I didn't notice."

She turns to me.

"I did."

"Okay."

Silence.

I drive her back to her place. She opens the door and turns to me.

"Thanks."

"So..."

"Bye."

She slams the door.

Hiroshima!

I never thought I'd be the guy who gets the headache excuse, but I guess I am. Back to Whole Foods.

The Gods Must Be Crazy

Today, I went to the gym to sweat out the vodka, gin and tequila from my birthday. I showed up at the LA Fitness on La Cienega looking like a bloated pumpkin (I wore an orange shirt that made my droopy man tits look really unflattering). I get on a Precor (because I've convinced myself treadmills are bad on the knees to avoid a 'real' work-out) and start gliding off like a homo (nothing against homos). At 'calories burned 103,' the girl from the check-out line the other day at Whole Foods gets on the treadmill in front of me. Yes, 'Organic Unfiltered Apple Cider Vinegar Girl'! That girl. I can't believe it. Of course, she doesn't see me. But I see her. And she's fitter than a fiddle. She mounts a treadmill, spreads her ridiculously tan, tone legs across; loads her iPod playlist (probably titled the 'guys eye fuck me fuck off mix') and snaps it on her armband. She starts off in a walk jog, then starts getting gazelle on that bitch. (Now, mind you, I had just come from peeling my ass of my couch where I had watched '10' w/ Dudley Moore and Bo Derek for the first time, so this was particularly cool). Anyway, I keep pace with her (at least in my mind).

I switch my Lil Wayne over to Faith Hill's "This Kiss" on repeat. I'm inside my own romantic comedy now, and I imagine life as her boyfriend as Faith sings to me...

Her motivating me to get in the best shape of my life. Blowjobs while I drive her to PACE in Laurel Canyon in her Toyota Highlander Hybrid. Picnics at Point Dume. Her crying over a B- she got on a grad school paper, then me doing a mangina dance to cheer her up. Me making her Soy pasta. Her farting. Her giving me a bubble bath with expensive bath salts from Whole Foods after I pulled a hamstring on one of our hikes in Runyon Canyon. Her reading my screenplay in bed and laughing, then making love to me. Me giving her a membership to Trashy Lingerie. Her getting me a gift certificate to see like a million movies at Archlight...

All I have to do is approach her.

I dismount the Precor and head to the nearest mirror. I use my perspiration to make my baby soft thin hair appear a little thicker, then I pinch my my flaccid sand dollar nipples to get them hard. Phew! I'm ready. I look over to the treadmill and...she's gone. What? Oh no! WTF! Fuck me with a rusty Prince racket. I take a seat on a sweaty leg raise machine. I scroll back to Lil Wayne and listen to a track to try and pump my spirits up again. Then, she re-appears. She's lacquered in sweat, but not the gross kind. The sexy kind. The 'I work hard' kind. I dig. She heads over to the mats to stretch. This is my chance...

I take a deep breath and walk over to where she is, careful not to stare, and get on a nearby machine. I do three reps on no weight and head over to the mats. I stand there for ten seconds before she looks up from her stretch. Then, her earbuds come out and she waits...for me.

"Hi," I say.
"Hi," she says.
"I tried the vinegar thing," I lied.
"Oh, yeah," she remembers me.
"It made me sick," it just came out.
"I'm sorry," she says.
"Yeah, it tasted weird."
"Did you just take a tablespoon or did you glug it?"
"I dunno. I just had a little."
"Have it after a protein shake. Try that."
"Okay."
Fuck, I feel like I'm her son.
"Well, I just wanted to let you know I tried it."
"Cool."
I give a little wave and head off.

The exchange wasn't all that awkward. I actually felt like I was the one who came off as disinterested, not her. Not sure that's possible as I approached her, but it was weird nonetheless. Maybe I had a chance though? Her word count was higher than mine. I should have asked her for her name. Damn it! I was actually cool for once. I mean, I wasn't, but I was decent. I actually left the gym feeling like I had blown her off. Then I got in my car and started to bang my head on my steering wheel. Fuck! That was my chance. The Gods were putting it in my court, and all I could do was complain about some fucking vinegar I never even tried? Even a self-aware loser loses points on this one.

Okay, that's enough for now.

Yours truly,


Cilantro

It's working...kinda

So, here's the latest. I started sending out the URL to my blog to people on Facebook and MySpace. I sent a few links to people I didn't know just in a fit and fury, like Jerry McGuire. Yes, not many care, but this one girl did. Here's what she wrote. I've cut and pasted it. She shall remain nameless.

First of all, you're ugly, second, you're laughable. Basically, you go to grocery stores to ogle chicks... then you make a blog about it? That's the epitome of pathetic. No wonder you're single at 27; you're an unfunny creep and a failure of a writer. You'll never find a woman, and you will never be able to afford organic pasta on a weekly basis. A middle class voyeur, what a catch! There are 500,000 clones of you walking around L.A. at any given moment. I hope you're getting used to being alone.

Please move yourself and your 9th grade vocabulary off of blogspot (god knows we've got enough morons on the internet.) You make the world an unhappier place. Stop hogging my air and the organic cilantro I buy to help the environment; you only want it to help get your penis inside a woman with 10,000x more depth than you.


I think she likes me.

MISSION STATEMENT:

I've been single for over a year now. When I first got out of my relationship, I was depressed. Very depressed. I had dated this girl since high school. We moved out to Los Angeles together to pursue "The Dream." The dream, or mine, at least, ended with her shacking up with a electrician who lived on a sailboat in Marina Del Rey. Now, she lives with a lawyer named "Chad" (or is it "Brad"?) in Silverlake. They have a dog. It's fuckin' perfect.

Dating in LA hasn't exactly been what it's cracked-up to be, if it's cracked-up to be anything at all. In fact, it's just 'cracked,' more like 'whacked,' because we spend the majority of our time in cars, meeting people is a difficult proposition. But, that's not to say there aren't people out there. I see plenty of them everyday. Hotties. Particularly, at Whole Foods on Fairfax. I like to call it "Club Whole Foods," because I've never seen so many beautiful women in one place in LA. It's incredible. After I realized this phenomenon, I try to make it past the Greenpeace bouncers at least once a week, sometimes more. When inside, I usually buy a Fiji Apple or a sprig of Cilantro, something simple, you know, to look like I'm actually there for food, not flesh -- they do have food there, after all, albeit expensive. But it's a small price for admission to Club Whole Foods -- a little cupcake from heaven.

I know what you're thinking...he's that guy -- "the drooler," in aisle four, next to the organic grass fed skirt steak. Okay, maybe that was me six months ago, but I've stopped staring (well, kinda), and now try to step up my game (un poco). For example, today, I saw this gorgeous woman in these ridiculous short shorts, a green tank and her hair pulled back. She had just gone to the gym and her pheromones were matching up with mine like nobody's business. This was primal. It was perfect timing, I finished packing up my Cilantro and saw her get in the Express Lane with a big bottle of something that looked like urine. So, I booked it over there in my mandals ("male sandals," for those not in 'the know') and got behind her. Holy shit! She was way hotter 18 inches away than 18 feet; sometimes this isn't the case. Anyway, I immediately felt my heart palpitate as I read the label of her bottle urine-looking fluid: Unfiltered Organic Apple Cider Vinegar.
"What's that?"
It just came out. She turned to me. OMG, she's not wearing a bra. I tried not to stare.
"Apple Cider vinegar."
"What's it do?"
"It's a jolt in the morning, clears your stomach wall. It's not a diet thing."
I knew it was a 'diet thing,' but who cares, whatever it did, it was working like gangbusters.
"You have to get it unfiltered though," she cautioned me.
Wow, I thought to myself: She got specific with me... Maybe she wants me to get specific with her, like how we'd make a great couple?...
Before I could properly ponder this over, the cashier was already bagging-up her vinegar, and this beautiful woman was about to leave me, probably forever. I looked at her. She smiled at me. I opened my mouth, and, well...it just stayed open. I caught an organic fly. The conveyor belt pushed my flaccid Cilantro forward.
"That'll be eighty-five cents."

Now, we get to the crux of all this: I want to create a space where both men and women (straight, gay and/or bi) can tell their stories too, but I'd really love for the larger goal of this to be a place where one can actually create a dating network at Club Whole Foods. Thus, I encourage people to post appropriate pics of themselves, advertise their qualities and just maybe the awkwardness I experience at Club Whole Foods can be ameliorated once others come out and admit the same thing, which is: 'There might be attraction here, but perhaps we're both too cool and/or afraid to say it aloud' ...

Well, here's our chance. Don't be shy.

Clubbers unite!

Yours truly,

Cilantro