Finally an answer….

Since the very beginning of this blog I’ve grappled with the question of love…

Two years ago, my innocent mind advocated the golden rule – the idea that a woman mustn’t give herself to a man too soon if she wants to be taken seriously.

It was a lovely, totally unrealistic sentiment.

Months later in Paris I discovered the subtle, intimate allure of slipping into a love affair that has no rules, no name, no ending….The sort of romance that burns entirely on passion and is absent of figures of regularity.

“Perhaps this is the difference,” I explained to a friend once I’d returned, “Americans hold love to rules and equations, while the French are not afraid amble hopelessly into their love affairs.”

The gentleman smiled at me, “I think it’s a matter of age, quite honestly.”

Age? Oh, I hadn’t considered that…

More time passed until we find ourselves in the present day and quite frankly…

I really don’t give a damn anymore.

If a man is going to fall in love with you, he’s going to fall in love with you. If he’s not, he’s not. Hold the act of love to your own standard. Enjoy your life, make the most of every moment, invest in your well being, and always move forward.

That is my motto.

His terms. Her terms.

I’ve been told several times that women have all the power.

Each time I almost choke up my drink from laughing so hard.

“Really? You think that we have the power?” 

Men usually stare back at me blankly, unsure if I’m being sarcastic.

So I explain, “Do you know how many relationships I’ve been in that were on his terms?”

Sure, when it comes to sex with a respectful man it is usually does begin on my terms. But the golden rule philosophy that I advocated so fervently two years ago is long, longover. Who wants to wait three weeks, three months, (heck even three days) for something that is so mutually wonderful?

What does it mean to be on his terms? You see each other when he is available. You have an exclusive relationship if he wants to. You stay mainly at his place. Yes, he may be kind enough to take you out to dinner or buy your movie tickets, but it’s still on his terms.

You’re here because he wants you here, when he’s ready for you to go, you go.

It’s pathetic. I don’t blame it on culture, it’s purely my own damn fault. But I have no interest in manipulation, I enjoy intimacy, I give in too easily. My best friend knows how to catch ‘em and keep ‘em with her sharp tongue and quick temper. She uses sex as punishment and reward. She likes to play games.

And so, my young mind inquires how does a woman have a relationship on equal terms without playing stupid love games. Is it a matter of whom you choose? How you choose? Where you choose? Does it depend on where you are in your life?

I’m going to ponder this question, experiment a bit, and get back to you about it later. Surely, there is a smart answer. I’m so tired of feeling like I have no control because I took control of what I really wanted.

Summer Lovebug.

They say that spring is the season for love.

That may be true for some, but here in Los Angeles it’s all about summer. Pool parties, dance festivals, weekend trips to Vegas, perfect weather — there’s a virus in the air that everyone is breathing.

It’s hard not to get wrapped up in this summer’s love feast with the tan bikini wearing blonds strutting around the poolside in heals. Finally, the tall actor hotties you lust for can take off their shirt to reveal six pack they work so hard on all year long. And yes, you can shove your bikini clad booty into their pelvis to the lyrics “oooh baby you want me? You can get this lap dance here for free…”

It’s summer time.

And even if you’re not into the hotel poolside culture, who can resist all the girls in crop tops and see-through sundresses strolling down Venice Blvd?

Fall in New York may be around the corner, but this summer there is no better place to be than LA.

…except Ibiza…..maybe….

Delere de facebook amicus…

In the Roman Empire…

The senate employed practice called Damnatio Memoriae in which condemned rebels, traitors, and villains were erased permanently from all historical records never to be mentioned again.

In the 21st century we have something like that…

It’s called “deleting someone from Facebook”

There’s something purifying about deleting a friend who has fallen out of favor from Facebook. It has arguably become one of the most poignant social snubs of our time. Not only does the victim accidentally stumble across the rebuff several days later, but is forced to think “wait, what the fuck?! Is this an accident or…” and contemplate the action for hours.

The snubber says, “Ya, that’s right. I saw your picture, took the time to actually navigate those complicated privacy setting buttons, found your picture and I deleted you, bitch. We are NOT friends”.

I’ll admit it, I deleted an x from Facebook a couple of months ago….

It was one of those damn compulsions where I just couldn’t stop going on his page and looking at his pictures and checking out the bitches who wrote on his wall. (Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, we’ve all been there). It was ridiculous, finally I just had to delete him. And with that cybermorphic connection severed, I could moved forward. Damnatio memoriae.

And then a couple of days ago it happened to me. I was wasting time perusing Facebook profiles when I noticed an old acquaintance and I were no longer friends. The reason? It really doesn’t matter, baggage from a long long time ago that really should never have been. But the tension was still there.

So what to do? Damnatio memoriae. And somehow we are purified.

I explained the social custom to my mother, who thought it was ridiculous. I had to explain that before our eyes, the nature of human interaction is changing. It is already perfectly acceptable to have an entire relationship without a single bit of human interaction. One day we’re going to tell our grandkids: (grandma voice) “In my day, if you liked a boy you added him on Facebook, then you texted each other for a few days, and finally during the weekend you saw each other…What you kids do today makes no sense.”

So what did I do about that friend? I added her back. An expression of regret, of remorse, and of defense without a single word. And if the x were to add me back? I would be 5 steps backwards from where I started.

Kees Van Dongen (1877 – 1968)

I have been reproached for loving the world, for being mad about luxury, elegance, for being a snob disguised as a bohemian – or a bohemian disguised as a snob. Well, it’s true! I passionately love the life of my time; it’s so animated, so feverish…”
Van Dongen

Dating Guide

Here is an impressively accurate dating guide about dating culture in Los Angeles. It even schooled me on a few things… Check it out.

Le Bel Ami…

I have stopped processing when a man is beautiful…

Cognitively it no longer registers in my brain.

A month ago I met the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.  He stood there tall and confident, and with a self-assured gaze. His crisp, blue button down shirt that rolled that at the cuffs betrayed him as a foreigner to Los Angeles. Upon our meeting, his first words were to inform me that he’d studied economics at Harvard. I smiled and nodded, pretending not to be impressed.

It was a magical weekend. We spoke frankly about our lives and about the world. The liaison was as intellectual as it was romantic. I felt free to be my true self — or at least free to be the idealized version of who I’d like to be.

When the weekend was over, I found out the terrible truth…

He had a girlfriend.

“What is the point of meeting the PERFECT guy,” I later vented to my girlfriends, “A man who is tall, handsome, charming, attentive, well educated, and has a great job, but who is also a man who cheats?”

What is perfect anyway? Does it lie in those superficial qualities that we deem so important (beautiful, well off, ivy-league educated), or is it something internal that is more difficult to gauge?

Sometime has passed and I assure you that I am fully recovered with many other adventures to share, but the effect is that I can no longer register beautiful. It’s like I am color blind….I can see tall, I can see sexy, I can see charming and intelligent, but beautiful no longer registers. I just don’t see it. 

Not that it’s a bad thing! With dulled senses comes the ability to perceive hidden attributes invisible to the naked eye. I have begun to sense qualities like sincere and faithful — qualities that enrich my definition of perfect.

Spotlight: Bricks & Scones

For months I’ve been searching for the perfect café.

A couple grabbed my attention for a short while, but none have grabbed me as deeply as Bricks & Scones on Larchmont. It’s a block away from the crowded hustle and bustle of the Larchmont strip and offers a quiet, serene patio to read (or draft your script) without the pretentious scenestery vibe of – say – Urth Café or Starbucks. Their scones are deeelicous, they offer an impressive variety of unique teas (j’aime le thé
rose champagne), and best of all they serve Intelligentsia coffee. Could there be anything more wonderful?

Bricks & Scones

403 N Larchmont Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90004

Needy Girls…

At lunch yesterday I decided to give the guy that I was seeing a call.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Whacha doin?”

“Nothing,” He paused, he hated when I call for no reason.

“So…” the first words that formed in my head fell from my mouth, “I would prefer if we stream a Netflix movie instead of going out tonight. I’m kind of in the mood to stay in.”

“Ya…….”

“Should I come over at 9?”

“Ya, that works……”

There was an awkward pause.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Ya, I was kind of in the middle of a nap…”

“Oh my bad, just give me a call later.”

I hung up quickly, feeling annoyed by my incessant need to hear my lover’s voice.

A few moments later my best friend called me……the one who ended it with her guy a few weeks ago.

“Hey girl!” She exclaimed with unusual exuberance.

“Hey.”

“What are you up to?”

“Ah…drinking coffee on Larchmont,” my voice was rather monotone…

“So, I’ll be ready to go the museum around three. You can come in while I get ready and we can walk to the museum together!”

There was a pause.

“Can’t I just pick you up and we go?” I asked, not concealing my annoyance.

“Come on it’s such a beautiful day and it will be good to walk, plus I want you to check out the artwork that I’ve been working on.”

I tried hard to suppress my exasperated groan.

“Fine, I’ll be around at 3.” I said and hung up quickly.

Gosh, girls are so needy.

Midnight in Paris de Woody Allen

Okay, I’m about a month late on this review.

I was nervous to see this movie, fearful that Allen would elicit my fragile memories of Paris…

But Allen portrays the dazzling Parisian panorama through eyes of a foreigner: from an intimate distance, accessible French, and wrapped in an excentric fairy tale that travels through time. The art historian, the literary critic, and the film lover will love Allen’s unique tale of a Hollywood screen-writer (Owen Wilson) eager to find himself as a writer of prose.

The story speaks to the romantic who searches for love, life, and happiness in a world beyond and fails to see the magic in the present moment.

By the way, if your a nerdy art history lover like me, I suggest you pop open your old history books and look up Gertrude Stein, Henri Matisse, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec and (sexiest best of all) Salvador Dalí — just to appreciate the full cinematic experience.