Paul McCarty: all that jazz and the death of my friend

Almost two years ago now, one of my best friends, from a past life growing up as a country girl in rural northeastern Ohio, passed away.

The summer he passed, I was a new Ohio State graduate, broke, living out the rest of my lease in Columbus, Ohio. I was busy trying to save up money from working promotions in order to pay for a poorly planned, almost-sure-to-fail, move alone out to Las Vegas, Nevada. I couldn’t make it home for his funeral, because I was working a summer long promotion for these new Kool-Aid tablets that fizzed up in water, and I really needed the 13 or 15 or whatever they were paying me an hour. Actually, I ended up being fired from that job, as seems to be the case with almost every job I’ve ever held, and I could have made it home for the funeral, but I didn’t know that until it was too late.  This time, I maintain that I did nothing wrong to be fired and was, in fact, the victim of a jealous harpy’s wrath. Other times I’ve been fired from jobs, I have not been nearly so innocent. I seem to have problems following rules and respecting authority figures…

“Write something about Paul McCarty,” my father cajoled me over the phone. “You always do such a nice job expressing what we’re all feeling.” No, there wasn’t time, I had to hock Kool-Aid to the thirsty masses, and more profoundly, I didn’t have the words I needed to express the depth of what I was feeling. He’d been so very special to me, and I feared anything I wrote at that time about my dear friend would sound contrived.

Paul McCarty was my high school band director, and for years, for a minimum of an hour and a half, five times a week, under his fatherly gaze, I’d honk away on my saxophone. (Alto, tenor, bari - I’ve played and loved them all.) The first 45 minutes would be the regular band, those just then learning instruments or filling a credit, and then they would leave, and the last 45 minutes was all that Jazz. The Pymatuning Valley Jazz Band, the real music geeks, those of us in it for the love of playing music worth playing, would stick around for the real fun.

He had blond hair, and glasses, and a big jolly Santa belly. He played the trumpet, which is the coolest wind instrument – after the sax obviously – and I loved him – we all did. The man was music, and there’s not a single thing I don’t love about music. 

“It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind,” he’d say with a mischievous head bobble whenever his beloved children, his PV Jazz Band, would complain about a change in song selection or whatever modification he’d flippantly made at the last minute.

He told us one of the silliest, most inappropriate, most band geeky jokes of all time, and of course it’s remained one of my favorites and most oft told to this day.

“What did the flute player say to her saxophonist boyfriend?”  Carty asked the entire jazz band with a twinkle in his eye.

“I dunno Carty, what did she say, oh King of the Band Geeks?”

“Ouch! Pull out! You’re sharp!”  Hahahahahahaha!

If you got this joke, then take comfort that at least you’ve got rhythm – you’re a band geek through and through.  Additionally, this joke is the only way I’ve been able to remember how to correctly adjust my mouthpiece to get my instrument in tune. That dirty old man sure knew how to teach.

One year, he took us to see the jazz legend, trumpet player, Maynard Ferguson and his band play. What other band director from such a small isolated area could possibly be so groovy?

I was the only little Jewish girl in my farming community, and every year I’d complain to Carty that we only played Christmas songs and never any Hanukah songs.

“It’s religious intolerance, is what it is. I feel persecuted,” I’d say to him while skipping class, hiding out in his office. (He’d always be game to vouch for me and sign fake passes saying that it was regrettable, but necessary, that I skip calculus to sit joking around with him in his office.)

My junior year of high school, I lived for a year in southern Brazil as an exchange student. I don’t know how lonely all of you were during high school, but at that time in Brazil, my Portuguese was still so-so, and it doesn’t get too much lonelier than not only not being able to fit in but, literally, not being able to speak the same language as your classmates. That December, I received a package from Paul McCarty in the mail. Inside there was a CD, and recorded on that CD was the entire band, having rehearsed for months, playing the song “The First Night of Hanukah.”

“Happy Hanukah, Leah!” A world away, Paul McCarty had used his authority as our teacher to have the band shout for me, wishing me a happy Hanukah. Bless that man. In the days before Facebook and Skype, when I felt very much alone at sixteen on the other side of the planet, he made me feel loved and missed.

And I sat down today to write something else, but with jazz playing in the background, I had Carty on the mind, and I wrote this without thinking, in an improvised style, because I finally, years later, knew what I wanted to write for him. Hopefully this will appease my father.

Rest in peace, Paul McCarty, my dear friend, the man who taught me to love jazz – you are not someone easy to forget.

Ultra Music Fest: Yoga and Raging Proper (post from March 2011)

Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a woman of wealth and taste…

Ha, not quite. But here’s what I am:

An Ohio State graduate of June 2010 who couldn’t stomach the idea of using my communication degree to sell knives door-to-door.

OH - IO!

Upon graduation, I packed up my beat up, 2003 Toyota Corolla and drove cross country to seek my fortune in Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada.

How’s it living in Las Vegas? Weird. Yesterday, I was lying on a sofa, watching a movie, contemplating how Angelina Jolie is so perfect, when the wife of a super famous comedian burst in wearing a Mexican wrestler mask and tried to coerce me into giving her a lap dance. This is normal for Vegas.

I’m a yoga instructor and an electronic head

PEACOCKING AT ELECTRIC DAISY CARNIVAL IN LAS VEGAS

and if any of you remember an offensive little Ohio State publication called The O Face, well, I was its Editor-in-Chief.

I just got back to Vegas from The Best Party EVER in Miami, Florida: Ultra Music Fest.

I do not use the “Best Party EVER” label lightly. 

from left to Right, that's an Australian boy, a German girl, a Canadian boy, and another German girl. All high school exchange students. All together on a beach dressed as women drinking all day and night on the beach in Southern Brazil. Not too shabby.

When I was 16, I raged hard for days on Laguna Beach in southern Brazil, widely regarded as the best Carnaval in southern Brazil - dancing on the beach, drinking underage, no Americans in sight, Sambaing my little heart out with exchange students from around the world. Ultra was equally mind altering.

I want to share my Ultra experience, one of the best of my life, with all of you through the lens which I viewed it: Pantanjali’s 8 limb path of yoga.

The first yogic limb: Yamas

Yamas are the guidelines to living your life with universal morality. Pantanjali talks about 5 of these, and I’m going to talk about one of them - Ahimsa or non-harming.

Over 100,000 people in attendance at Ultra and No Fights. Bump into someone? Say “Sorry,” they say, “No problem,” the two of you begin dancing together.

An amazing amount of RESPECT for everyone permeated the Ultra Experience.

Everyone dressed in their most outlandish rave wear, and everyone quick to compliment the ingenuity of new friends around us.

No vulgar grinding – meet a handsome girl or guy and the two of you DANCE. Really dance. Even if you do touch, it’s beautiful, rhythmic, a celebration of the Present Moment.

I danced for three songs with a gorgeous man. After the first song, he told me, “I’m already in love.” After song three, he told me, “I’ll see you on the other side.” Then he danced away.

The 2^nd limb: Niyamas

Niyamas are personal observances to lead a spiritually fulfilling life. Pantanjali discusses five of these, and I’ll explain one, Ishvarapranidhana – surrender to the absolute.

Holding an asana – or yoga pose - for 12 long slow inhalations and exhalations teaches you to take a deep breath and let yourself relax, surrender to the pose. When you surrender, you’re able to Sink Deeper and you experience the stretch, and life, at a New Level.

At Ultra, it’s the music to which you must surrender. If you fight the music, stay in your contracted shell of neurotic mind chatter, you’re not experiencing the music correctly. Let the music wash over you, enter you, surround you. 

                                                                              Transcendental

Surrender to the blissful unity that is dancing full force with a group of like-minded people. 

The 3^rd, 4^th, 5^th and 6^th limbs: Asanas, Pranayama, Pratalyahara, and Dharana

These four limbs are: yoga poses, focusing on your breath, cultivating control of your senses, and one pointed focus. 

While dancing at Ultra, all four of these limbs came into play. Yoga’s made me a better dancer with crazy backbends and utilizing the full movement of which my body is capable. Breath control helps keep the rhythm flowing, and controlling my senses, and one pointed attention let me focus on what’s important – my body moving in unison with all of the great vibrations around me.

One pointed focus is one of the secrets to living a better life. Discover what’s truly important to you, and then devote all of your attention to it. Watch as the obstacles fall away.

The 7^th limb - Dhyana

Dhyana is meditation.

Every morning I sit for 30 minutes meditating. This works by focusing on my breath and listening to the silent voice “I am” in my mind. Whenever thoughts, memories, worries, whatever, intrude in the peace, I label it. I say, “thought.” I say, “memory.” Labeling the mind chatter helps me to become aware of the way my mind works.

When I began to listen, I realized there are two of me. One of me is a little kid who only pretended to take her Adderall that morning and is going on a playing spree while she still can. She’s running around, looking at everything, experiencing everything: excited, and sad, and scared, and anxious, and foolish. And then there’s the silent observer, the energy uniting all of us, weighing in and, if I work hard and study self-discipline, having a say in what that feisty little kid is up to. 

Yoga is a moving meditation and meditation is all about Being PRESENT. Experiencing what is happening RIGHT NOW. At Ultra, I experienced the importance of remaining PRESENT. My body was busy dancing, but my mind was busy worrying. As I danced, I thought about the men I've loved, the mistakes I've made and am sure to make again, and I felt sorry for myself for being only a selfish animal.

Then, I remembered the silence and the control.

“No, this is the past, and maybe it’s the future, but none of that matters – the PRESENT matters. What is happening RIGHT NOW?”

I snapped out of my funk, looked around, and RIGHT NOW I was dancing full throttle beside some of my best friends in the world. One of my friends was giving a tripping girl a light show with his gloves that Dayglowed while he danced. MSTRKRFT was playing some of the dirtiest beats a dirty girl like me could ever ask for. 

The 8^th limb: Samadhi

Samadhi is the goal of yoga, and for me, the goal of music. Experiencing a connection with the energy of everything – understanding that we are not alone, that we are all connected, and hopefully, if only for a moment, feeling the vibrations of our own bodies become one with all of the vibrations of everyone and everything around us. Not thinking maybe, but knowing for sure that, yes, “This is the TRUTH.”

I’ve lost myself in music and experienced Samadhi, that yogi coveted experience of vibrations and energy and unity, so many times. The pursuit of Samadhi is what keeps me returning to shows, traveling the world to dance with everyone who will dance with me.

At Deadmau5, at the end of the 2^nd day of the 3 day Ultra experience, Deadmau5 had everyone begin clapping. We all clapped at different times, out of synch. Deadmau5 began to play a beat – we all clapped in perfect unity. The music brought us together, and together, we all danced. 

My own body no longer mattered, all of us together, experiencing the exact same thing at the exact same time. Finally, we were all one with the music, and the energy, and our lives on this tiny, little planet that is our home.

Party on, CO Way. I’ll see you next year in Miami. 

OK(?) Alone

This is where the yoga and the meditation and the hobbies come in. I work out my energy, clear my mind, and fill my time. If there’s no time to sit alone with my thoughts, then there’s no time for the loneliness to take hold.

I’ve gotten pret-tay, pretty good at being alone, and now the problem is being around other people. I have mixed feelings about other people.

I have many acquaintances, and I value them highly, but I can have those conversations in my sleep. I’ve had the same introductory, “So what do you do? Who are you? If you could have any super power, what super power would you want?” talk an estimated 1,000,000 times. I can recite my resume of qualities that hopefully make people like me without paying any attention at all. In Las Vegas, the people in my life with whom I’ve made it past the first ten hours of conversation can be counted on one hand.

It makes me lonelier - talking over and over and over and never saying anything new. I never feel a real connection, and I skim the surface of myself and others – never anything important. When I reach the point where my pocket conversations have all been used, every favorite story told, then I feel the panic set in. Now it’s actually me they’re going to see, not the smoke and mirrors, not the polished final product, and am I ready for that level of exposure? Just a little more time alone. Just a little more time to heal. And then I can accept the risk of caring for others and having them care for me.

In my room, in the coffee shop, it’s me and my thoughts and the silence and occasionally an ice cream truck drives by. There’s no chance of embarrassing myself, there’s no chance of offending my friends, and there’s no chance of rejection. It’s nice.

Forgive Me 12-31-11 by Oscar Young

I know who I am when I’m alone. I am the OM. I am presently Leah. That’s what I am, and people complicate that by trying to make me a part of their story. I’m not their story. I’m only my story and every story. I dislike being observed, but I love observing.

Sometimes, people compliment me. This is very nice, and it makes me happy to hear nice things said. But, sometimes, they compliment me too much. They seem too excited about me, and I get nervous. I’m not whatever they’re saying I am. I’m a girl who stares at her computer alone in her room, and I’m doing okay. I could be doing better, and I sure as hell could be doing worse. Never accept compliment or critique a great friend, who I’ll likely never see again, said once. If you accept one, then you must accept the other, and both disturb me equally, although in different ways.

Everyone is as lonely as everyone else, right? We’re all alone together. All of us live with the illusion of separateness. I think this is true… but I know some people’s minds are quieter. Some people’s minds don’t follow them down the rabbit hole, never to be satiated when unanswered “Whys” still remain.

Is this nicer? The quietness? Those of us like me, those of us whose inner worlds vibrate and dance and seldom settle, we comfort ourselves by saying that although our lows may be lower, our highs are also higher! Our ability to experience this world is greater and therefore the bad and good are equally blessed. How dynamic is my world! So many facets shimmer and break apart. This is comforting in the bad times, because how lucky I am to feel so profoundly. Don’t others wish to be as alive?

No. I doubt that they do.

:)

Lucid Dreaming

            “Is this real? Am I dreaming?” I ask myself throughout the day.

            Usually, the answer is, “No. I am awake.” I am driving to the coffee shop down the road to write and drink too much coffee. I am at a barbeque in Brazil with a bunch of lawyers and my secret boyfriend. 

A big party in Brazil where I didn't speak the same language as anyone else? Yeah, that happened.

I am in LA, out drinking in Hollywood with talented young writers. I am in Las Vegas, dancing all night on the strip. 

Glee star Darren Criss playing Disney songs on a piano for a Vegas sing-along? Could be reality. 

I am dressed as a peacock watching fireworks.

            In each of these cases, nothing tipped me off to let me know that what I was experiencing was not really happening. I was awake. This was reality. 

            BUT 

           Twice now, when I’ve looked around my day and asked myself, “Am I dreaming?” the answer has been, “Yes. This is a dream.”

            Then the fun part can begin! Welcome to the Matrix! With practice you can learn to control your dream world! You can fly, teleport, have sex with young Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie at the same time and separately! 

You can fly while having sex! You can go cruising the universe with your lost lover! You can be free from the constraints of physics and philosophy! 

These are all things I aspire to do one day.

            I began teaching myself to lucid dream by recording my dreams whenever I woke up. Whatever I remembered, even if it was only a feeling, I’d write it down.

With time, I made a database of events, people, or objects that only exist in my dreams.

            I do tests throughout my day to see if I’m dreaming or awake. I’ll fully commit myself and see if I can jump from the ground and in to a tree. Most likely, I’ll only come off the ground a foot, but there’s a chance I’ll soar to the top of the tree! That’s conclusive evidence I’m dreaming.

            A funny thing I’ve discovered through this exercise – it’s nearly impossible to tell what’s reality and what's a dream. Reality is so varied, bizarre, ironic, and unpredictable that most dream experiences, no matter how exceptional, fall somewhere within the realm of possibilities. 

            Am I sitting in a field, silently watching black crows? Am I in a remake of Wet Hot American Summer? Is a woman taking a topless mug shot of me while I stand in tree pose? All of these could be happening. None of it is bizarre enough to let me know I’m dreaming. I don’t recognize, until I’m awake, the unlikeness of these scenarios.

            To realize I’m dreaming, something completely impossible has to happen: I have to be able to walk on water faster than Jesus, Ayn Rand and I have to go skiing together, Darth Vader needs to challenge me to a hot-dog eating contest (I would know that was a dream, because I'm a vegetarian).

            The first time I successfully lucid dreamed, I was laying beside my college boyfriend in his bed when, suddenly, he became a completely different man. His appearance and clothing changed completely. The jig was up! He was caught! I pointed at him:

            “You’re not real! This is a dream! I’m dreaming right now!”

            There’s satisfaction that comes from pointing at someone who’s talking to me, interrupting them, and yelling, "You don’t really exist other than in my mind!" Oh man! I get excited just thinking about it! They never believe me when I tell them it’s a dream, but I think deep down, they know their reality is merely a shadow of my psyche.

            I heard my old boyfriend’s voice coming from outside the room where I was now in bed with a man I didn’t know.

            “Baby, you’re talking in your sleep. You need to wake up,” his voice said, far away.

            “You’re not dreaming, baby,” the man I didn’t know told me. “You’re awake. I'm your boyfriend.”

            Oh no. If I’m awake then that means I’m crazy. I don’t want to be crazy. 

I got very upset because I believed the dream, when it lied and told me that it was real. I tried very hard to wake up. 

I opened my eyes to see my boyfriend was back! I did it! This was definitely reality! 

My boyfriend’s hair changed color. Shit. 

Shit. I’m crazy. The evidence against my sanity was growing. As I ruminated on my madness, James Franco burst in to the room with the cast of Your Highness.

“Come on!” James Franco yelled to me. “We need to make it through the portal!” He beckoned me in to the next room, as he went running through.

I followed him, but part of me was sure I was sleep walking, about to walk in to a closet alone. I would be found sleeping on shoes in the morning, my madness confirmed. I didn’t enter the portal because of my fear, my doubt, my lack of confidence in my mind's story.

I reentered the bedroom, and then I woke up to find myself in New Jersey sleeping next to my mother.

Lucid dreaming can only be accomplished by believing 100% in the reality of the world you create. Big fan. 

Invisibility Powers Make Leah A Good Girl

                                            Who watches the Leah?

            “If you could have any super power, what super power would you want?” I asked a man as we stood drinking vodka tonics by the bar in XS.

            “I’d want to be able to become invisible,” he said. 

            “That’s a good one! You’re the first person to say that. Why do you want to be able to become invisible?”

            “I don’t really know…” he said with a confused expression.

            “Oh,” I said. “That disappoints me.” 

            It makes me sad when people haven’t put hours of energy, like I have, in to determining what their superpower would be if they could have any super power they want. I mean, what do these people spend their time thinking about? The economy or some other depressing, imaginary, irrelevant crap? I decided to help him brainstorm possibilities.

“If I were invisible, I would steal all of the time. I’d steal everything that wasn’t nailed down,” I said. The man looked appalled.

            “But stealing is wrong,” he said.

            “No,” I explained. “Not if you’re invisible. Invisibility eliminates the possibility of getting in to trouble. If know I won’t get caught, then it's okay to steal.”

I was trying to get a reaction. Based on his lack of effort in answering my super hero question, I’d already determined he wasn’t my type. I figured I might as well mess with him. Now, having explained my pure and honest intentions of making a man angry for my own amusement, I’d like to add that stealing is definitely okay if you’re invisible. 

            “No! Stealing is wrong! It’s wrong to take what’s not yours. It hurts other people,” he said.

            “Except when you’re invisible. Then it’s an act of God,” I said. “Why would God have given me invisibility powers to begin with if he didn’t want me to steal? It’s just logic.” 

            “No! God gave you the power, and you need to choose how to use it! And stealing hurts people. It’s not fair.”

“I’d steal from banks. The money would be insured,” I explained. “I’d also steal makeup and clothes, because I want more of both of those things for myself and less for other people.” 

I disgusted the man now - a Vegas nymph touting the virtues of stealing. I smiled widely as I breathed in his disdain.

            “It’s just bad,” he reiterated dumbly.

            “There is no good and bad,” I said. “There’s good for something and bad for something. Are you good for a drink, right now?”

            “What?”

“Buy me a drink.”

            “Sorry.”

            “Then you are good for nothing. Do you understand? It’s philosophy.” I walked away.

            After this conversation, I thought a lot about invisibility and wondered if my own sense of “right” and “wrong” had been stripped away. Was I a bad person? Was I morally depraved? Was I corrupted past the point of redemption?

            Duh no. I’m a great person. He was a hypocrite.

            I can only think of one possible “moral” thing I could do with invisibility: I could escape from people trying to capture or hurt me. Perhaps, if I was jailed, I could trick my captures in to believing I’d already escaped, then they’d open my cell and I could actually escape.

            Other than that, I can only think of “evil” stuff to do with invisibility: you can steal, invade people’s privacy, cut the line and get in to Vegas clubs for free, watch girls undress in the locker room…

            You might argue that you’d help fight the “bad guys” as a possible justification for whatever awful, deviant plan you have for how to use your invisibility, but this is the same as my rationale for my stealing being okay while invisible - the end justifies the means.

            “But I could save lives!” You are exhausted with my refusal to admit all of the good you could do with invisibility.

            “Well, I could save lives too!” I counter. With all of the money I could steal, I’d help educate children in lower income American cities, I’d help progress women’s rights around the world, and I’d buy decent weed for recovering heroin addicts who are sincere in their efforts to change. I’d make a difference, man!

In conclusion: It would be good for me, and beneficial for humanity, to steal if I had the super power of invisibility. 

Can Men and Women be Friends?

My friend Romy Kessler wrote a hilarious blog post about whether or not women and men can be friends. 

http://hookuplowdown.blogspot.com/2011_11_01_archive.html

Romy is a prototype of nature that was, unfortunately, never put in to mass production – an intelligent, incredibly funny, pixie blonde who loves all people and will approach anyone and everyone with a huge smile. She’s been in Israel for a while now, and I’m amazed she’s made it for so long without a story where she left in the car of an unknown man who had said he’d buy her cookies, or something equally idiotic. Romy loves cookies. If I were going to kidnap Romy, cookies would be 90% of my plan. 

“So, I got in his car, because he said he’d get me cookies… and then he turned on a road I didn’t know…”

“Oh my god! Romy! Are you okay?” I cried out in the hypothetical conversation I was having with Romy in my imagination.

“And I got really worried and said, ‘Hey! Where are we going?’”

“Oh no! He pulled over in some abandoned lot and refused to let you out, didn’t he? I had a Somalian taxi driver try to pull that shit on me one time. Luckily a cop was there, or who knows what would have happened...”

“Hahaha! Leah! You’re funny. No. Then he told me it was a short cut to the mall! And we went to the mall and ate sooooo many cookies! Leah, I ate way too many cookies!”

“Romy! Never do that again! That man could have raped you. Or killed you. Or anything he wanted to do with you!”

“No, he was nice,” Romy answered. “Nobody who likes cookies could be a rapist.” (Keep in mind, Romy never actually said any of this, but she definitely would have had I listened long enough to let her.) In college, I’d envy Romy’s naiveté: she seemed free from so much of what kept me awake at night about the world. She seemed untouchable, and I wanted desperately for her to always be that way.  

Romy actually listens when you talk. Romy actually cares. She doesn’t just look like she cares; the bitch Actually cares.  So what did Romy decide? Can men and women be friends? Romy’s conclusion: No. They can’t. Next question.

                                                   Romy and I with our friends from Ohio State's Varsity Swim Team

I met Romy my junior year of college at The Ohio State University. I first saw her at an assembly where writer/director Kevin Smith was talking about how fat and depressed he is these days.

“I’m incredibly fat and depressed these days,” Kevin Smith said in to the microphone. “Now a question from the audience.”

“Can I get a hug from you?” a cutie little blondie in a fuzzy, long sleeved, white sweater, with her bra straps (always) showing, had waited in line to ask Kevin Smith this question in front of over 500 students.

“I’m sorry honey, I don’t think my wife would appreciate that.” That first night knowing Romy, she didn’t get to hug Kevin Smith because his wife would have been jealous. Awesome when you first think about it, but then sad when you realize Romy will never get to hug Kevin Smith, or any married man, or any man with a girlfriend, or any man with an aggressive girl who likes him, without risking her safety and negatively affecting some poor woman’s sanity. And Romy loves hugs. If it didn’t result in so much jealousy, anger, horniness, and confusion, then Romy would surely hug everyone she met.

I had this offensive little magazine I created for fun with some frat boys during college, and after Kevin Smith’s talk, my friends and I split up and passed them out to everyone leaving. My boyfriend at the time met Romy when she approached him and said she wanted to help out with the magazine. He told her to come to a photo shoot the next day to talk to him about the magazine. The next day, he told me about her interest in writing for the magazine. I knew it was the cutie little blondie from the night before, and I knew she seemed cool, and I figured my boyfriend was probably attracted to her.

“She looked dumb,” I said. “She asked Kevin Smith for a hug. What a crack whore. She is probably a terrible writer.”

“No, she’s actually pretty good!” my boyfriend said.

“Yeah, I bet you think she is.” I rolled my eyes.

“Whatever, you’re acting crazy,” he said. False. He was acting crazy. I was sure of it. I was acting purely on reason. He showed me an article that Romy wrote. It was Great! It was so great in fact, that I quickly forgot my unreasonable jealousy and called Romy immediately. My boyfriend was never near her again, because she was pretty much my girlfriend - have you seen the movie Bridesmaids? Straight women totally date each other.

George is an exception to the rule :-) But just because him and Romy are the two nicest, most huggable people I know, and because he has plenty of girlfriends (who probably all hate Romy). 

            As Romy’s friend, her kindness irritated the crap out of me. I was always being forced to make bullshit, small talk with people I would have preferred to ignore. But Romy found everyone fascinating. Romy wanted to know about everyone. Romy is a nicer girl. I didn’t want to talk to anyone a friend, who I considered a reliable judge of character, hadn’t pre screened. This didn’t include freshman business majors sitting next to us at lunch for me, but Romy wanted to know all about intro to inventory management.

On her dorm room floor, there was an Indian boy who was in love with her – puppy-style, blinder-eyed love. It was obvious from the moment I met him.

            “He’s in love with you,” I said.

            “Who? Rohit? Hahaha that’s funny! Rohit definitely doesn’t like me! He hates nice, funny, smart, cute blonde girls! No, we’re just friends!”

            “Romy, you can’t be friends with boys like Rohit without them being in love with you. You can maybe be friends with guys who get so many girls to sleep with them, that it’s like a cute, weird thing they do to have one attractive female friend, but if a guy isn’t getting laid, you just can’t pretend you’re friends with him. It’s weird. You need to make real friends.”

            “Rohit doesn’t like me. Rohit is my friend,” Romy reiterated. When Rohit inevitably professed his undying love for Romy she called me confused.

            “I had no idea he liked me! This sucks because I really liked him a lot, I had such a fun time with him, but now it’s weird to spend time together.”

            “I’m sorry, Romy. Just learn from this and move on.” 

Through our two years at Ohio State together I watched innumerable “friends” come and go. I think Israel is finally what broke her to reality. A normal friendship can be hard enough to fake, but a friendship between an American blonde girl who has a boyfriend and an Israeli man is out of the question.

I can think of only four exceptions (that sometimes work) to the no-friendship female- male friend rule:

1)   Gay men

2)   Friends of boyfriends/girlfriends (and this friendship often expires with the relationship, but can sometimes lead to actual friendship...)

3)   Men who can get any girl they want, therefore it’s kind of a fun, nice change to have a non-sexual female friend.
     My very few male friends that I grew up with and are now basically honorary brothers. 

     Can men and women be friends?

No. Don’t be silly.

But I’m a firm believer that men and women can enjoy spending quality, non-sexual time together until: one of the “friends” gets in to an actual relationship where the partner forbids them from communicating with the other “friend”; one of the “friends” gets drunk and tries (successfully or not) to sleep with the other “friend”; One “friend” confesses their true feelings to the other “friend.” So that's kind of like being friends. 

Any way, Romy’s article was better. Read that. http://hookuplowdown.blogspot.com/2011_11_01_archive.html

The Worst Date I’ve Ever Been On

            “Hey, I’d love to meet up for sushi and then Afrojack at Surrender tonight.  Interested? Mike.” I rubbed my hung over eyes and looked at the text I’d just gotten – it was 1 pm – what was this guy doing writing me so early on a Sunday? I didn’t remember who Mike was, or what Mike looked like, but at 4 a.m., I remembered there had been a fuzzy shape that I’d enjoyed talking with, and I assumed that was Mike. No, of course I didn’t want to hang out with Mike. I ignored the text. I looked through my phone to see what actual person I could spend some time with that day.  Several hours later, when no friends had returned my texts, and I’d become hungry and wanted to eat free sushi, I texted Mike back.

            “Yeah. That sounds great! I’d love to see you! When and where?”

            I walked in to the lobby of the Cosmopolitan where I’d agreed to meet Mike. Not knowing what he looked like was a real problem now, and I looked around passively trying to see if anyone was looking back at me.

            “There you are, Leah!” a good-looking man, tall, with a weak chin, and brown eyes came over and gave me a hug.

            “Mike! It’s good to see you again! I had so much fun with you last night! Let’s get dinner!” We went to sushi at the Cosmopolitan, and Mike told me that he lives in LA but also promotes in Las Vegas. 

            Oh no! I’d accidentally agreed to a date with a promoter! This was going to be bad; the very skill set and personality necessary for being a successful promoter is the exact same skill set that’s necessary for being a complete douche bag.

            “Oh that’s cool!” I said as I ordered a second glass of wine from the waitress, “How do you enjoy being a promoter?”

            “I just do it for fun. I actually have a very large trust fund. My dad is basically the Bill Gates of wine.”

            “We have so much in common. My dad is basically the Bill Gates of Motown music,” I said.

            “Yeah, everyone’s always impressed by how wealthy my family is. He has a lot of money. He has eight houses, or maybe nine, I can’t remember. I’ll fly you to LA so you can go on my yacht with me. We can drink margaritas that our in-home chef makes. It’s really fun for my friends and I to float our yachts next to each other for parties. You’ll like it.” I would have bet money I’d borrowed, on threat of death, from a psychotic mobster on this kid being completely full of shit.

             “I look good on yachts,” I said.

            “He’s likely pathological and doesn’t even know he’s lying anymore,” I reasoned. “Which is good, because I won’t have to pay to see Afrojack if he thinks he’s rich.”

            “… We’d met at the Hamptons and became fast friends one summer.” I stopped looking for tell-tale liar body language, and came in for the end of the story Mike was telling.

            “The Hamptons are for the lower-income rich,” I countered as I swirled my wine around in its glass before inserting my nose to test the bouquet.
             “My family only vacations at a VIP resort we built for ourselves on our private tropical island. We only invite our most fabulous friends.” He hadn’t heard a word I’d said all night, therefore he nodded and smiled.

            “You're so interesting. Everything you say is interesting to me," Mike said. "Girls always try to use me for my money, you know?”
            “I want someone to like me for me and not my money,” he confided. What? He’d just talked nonstop for the last hour about how much money his family has and everything his dad owned. The only thing I knew about him was that he was “rich” and now he was saying not to like him for that. 

            We left dinner and stopped in at Marquee, where he promoted, to see LMFAO before heading to Surrender for Afrojack. The only song of LMFAO that I knew was Party Rock, and by the millionth time I'd heard it, I’d wanted to water board every last member of the group until they promised never to make more music. But Mike got us in for free, and we got to cut the line, and he bought me a drink, so that was easily the best part of the date. Mike knew a lot of people at Marquee that night, and he walked around introducing me to all of them as his girlfriend. As we’d walk away he’d tell me how the people who’d gotten discounted bottles from him that night were his best friends.

            “Usually, I’d offer to buy the next round on a date, but since you keep saying how rich you are, It be pretty strange for me to buy it,” I said when I’d finished my first vodka tonic.

            “Actually, that would be great if you could get the next round,” Mike said. Wait, what? No. What was happening? I thought he was trying to have sex with me, and if that was really the case, then there’s no way I should be paying for my own drinks! It's just wrong! You might as well ask me to tie myself up and put myself in your trunk.
            Please don’t misunderstand me; I typically fall in love with young, broke artists, and when I go out with them, at the end of the night, we split the check at Denny’s, and I buy us both ice cream. BUT if your entire game is to tell me how rich you are, and that by being with you l will be able to get a lot of glamorous free stuff, then you MUST buy all of my drinks. I bought us a round, and as I simmered about how unfair the world can be, Mike grabbed my hand.

            “Let me introduce you to LMFAO! I’m really good friends with the one guy. We’ve hung out a lot, and I helped book them tonight.” Mike attempted to dodge LMFAOs bodyguard, by their VIP table, but was stopped.

            “I know [DJ team member], can you get his attention for me?” Mike asked the bouncer. The bouncer went to tap [DJ team member] on the shoulder, and pointed over at Mike. [DJ team member] looked directly at Mike, maintained a blank face, and shook his head No. 

            Mike looked as though he had taken a turtle hit in Super Mario and shrank to half his previous size. Oh my goodness, that was so embarrassing – for me. I felt so bad for myself. I’d just gotten dissed by LMFAO. I felt dirty. I wanted to go home and scrub myself until I felt normal again - if that was even possible now.   

            “They aren’t even that good,” Mike snarled as he pulled me away, “They only have that one song and the rest of their music sucks.”

“Ah, at least he was humiliated,” I thought, "That's nice." He drew me to stand by a low wall. A group of good-looking club-goers walked over to him, said hello, and thanked him for the table. He introduced me as his girlfriend again. When they walked away he was smiling as though he’d just farted a rainbow.

“Wow, babe!” he said. "You must be so impressed by how humble I am! I'm good looking, and rich, and everyone knows me, but I’m still so humble! You must be so impressed!"

“It’s not humble to tell people you’re humble,” I explained. Mike’s face dropped in total disbelief that he'd failed to impress me. Maybe he hadn't articulated how awesome he was enough yet? Maybe if he talked about it some more...

We took a taxi down the strip to Surrender to see Afrojack and Feed Me. I really love these DJs, and I wanted to watch them that night, but when we were standing in line to get in to the club it all became too much. One more story about his fictitious wealth, or how his ex-girlfriend was famous for being on Nip/Tuck, or whatever it was – it was too much. I made up my mind. I quickly yelled I had to go, something about Cinderella and pumpkins, and ducked under the velvet rope before sprinting away in my heels. I was concerned he was going to chase after me. I paid $15 for a taxi back to the Cosmopolitan to get my car before driving to my friend Avalon’s hotel room to recount my gift from the comedy gods.

Mike called me the next day to invite me to lunch and later that night about a pool party he was throwing that weekend. What part of me sprinting away didn't he understand? I chalked it off as another Vegas lesson learned: there’s no such thing as free sushi.