by Jennifer Cox
I was staying at the Best Western on Sunset Strip, much nicer than it sounds and incredibly central, especially as my first date was with a comedian called Lowell, across the road at the Comedy Store. My friend Lizzy had given me his number but suggested I catch his show tonight and ring him tomorrow if I liked him. I knew my Date Wranglers well enough by now to know I’d live to regret not taking their advice when it was offered.
Date #28: Lowell—Sunset Strip, L.A., U.S.A.
It was open-mike night at the Comedy Store: twenty-four comedians each with three minutes to be funny. Such rapid turnover meant that the audience never got to know or care about the comedian, but looked for quick laughs instead. Faced with such performance pressure, most comedians lost first their confidence and then their audience, whose wandering attention made them chat and heckle.
Watching the audience smell the blood of a dying comedian, then finish him off with brutal indifference, was a chilling sight, like seeing a gladiator fighting for his life in front of a jaded mob.
I missed Lowell’s entrance onstage: An Australian impersonator (he’d impersonated a swallow by holding the mike to his throat and swallowing) was asking me if the audience hadn’t laughed because they couldn’t understand his accent.
Instead of answering, I turned my attention to Lowell, who was a few moments into his act. He had an electric presence: Tall with a tense, sinewy body and short, dirty-blond hair, Lowell spoke with a deep southern drawl. There was nothing languid about him, though; his act was deeply offensive, performed with the furious belligerence of a drunk being bundled into a police van at midnight.
He did what virtually no other comedian had managed, though: He got the attention of the crowd. After telling one of the sickest jokes I have ever heard spoken aloud, his three minutes were up and Lowell stormed offstage to such howls of outrage and abuse that for a moment I wondered if stage-struck actually meant someone coming up onstage and punching you.
Although appalled, I actually thought he was a pretty good comedian, but there was no way in the world I was going to date him (and I suspect Lizzy knew this). I drank a beer and watched a few more of the acts, before deciding to call it a night.
Outside in the parking lot, a knot of spent comedians paced in distracted agitation, like a gang of street fighters licking their wounds after a violent clash. Lowell was among them. He didn’t know I was Lizzy’s friend; still, he caught my eye as I passed. “Thanks for coming,” he called out.
“I admired your act,” I said over my shoulder as I continued to walk.
“Really?” he asked, running to catch up. He walked a couple of paces ahead, then turned to face me. “It gets me right here,” he said, hitting his fist on his chest, arrogant yet clearly stung by the reception he’d just received.
“I thought you were funny,” I told him honestly.
“Really?” he asked again, his need for approval naked and demanding. “I thought it was a disaster.” He looked shocked, whether at his act or the audience’s response, I couldn’t tell.
“You’re original,” I said evenly, “You weren’t like the others. You weren’t trying to please, you stood out.”
Behind him, the strung-out comedians continued to pace, ebbing and flowing around each other as the adrenaline surge slowly abated. “Will you be coming back?” Lowell asked.
“Maybe.” I shrugged as I walked off. But I knew I wouldn’t: Funny was what these men did, not what they were.
Date #29: Brian—CBS TV Studios, Fairfax, L.A., U.S.A.
Brian wasn’t what he appeared either.
When I’d told Ellie about my difficulties in finding a date in L.A., she promised to find me someone and, sure enough, her friend Brian was coming on a TV Date with me.
I wanted to go on a TV Date to test a theory. As I see it, once you get past the initial mutually obsessed and introspective stage of a new romance, it settles into something cozier, and that generally involves staying in and watching a fair amount of TV together. Since L.A. is where most sitcoms are recorded, I thought watching TV on a date—or, to be more specific, sitting in on the recording of a TV program on a date—would be a good way to see if we were compatible.
Sadly, my theory went untested as there were apparently two CBS studios in L.A. and we ended up going to the wrong one.
Brian picked me up from the hotel in his car and we made the short trip over to Fairfax. Tall, with short dark hair, huge blue eyes, and a body gymmed to perfection, my first impression was that he was cute…and gay.
Needless to say, I kept this thought to myself.
When we arrived at CBS and were told we were at the wrong studio, Brian was upset and apologized profusely: “Oh, Jennifer, I am such an idiot. I really wanted to see it, too.”
He looked genuinely disappointed but rallied quickly. He grabbed my hand and we raced from the parking lot to the scariest and most fabulous secondhand clothes shop I’d ever seen. None of the genteel manners of Help the Aged; people pushed carts around the racks, shopping here because they had to.
And in the shop I discovered that Brian wasn’t Brian and that he was indeed gay.
The Thrift Store had no changing rooms; instead about twenty mirrors were mounted close together on the long back wall. I modestly disrobed behind a stack of quadraphonic cartridges and a wall of Harold Robbins novels. Brian had no such hang-ups: A pile of clothes at his feet, he unselfconsciously stripped off in front of the mirrors (and a crowd of admiring young men). His stomach was so flat and his muscles so hard that, if lost at sea, you could have flipped him onto his back, gripped his nipples, and surfed to shore on him.
I stared at his buff body and blurted out: “Brian, you have the kind of body gay men would kill for.” Much to the disappointment of his audience, he stopped rippling his washboard stomach and looked sheepishly at me.
He held my gaze for a moment, then said quietly, “You know, don’t you?”
“Well…” My voice trailed off and I shrugged awkwardly (which, considering I was balancing on one leg, an apricot satin jumpsuit halfway up the other, was quite an achievement).
We left the clothes in a pile on the floor and went next door for coffee. Brian was a friend of Ellie’s, and also a friend of Marc, who apparently was the man I was having coffee with right now.
“Jennifer…” he said with a pained look on his face. “No question, I was going to tell you, I was just waiting for the right moment. You must be really mad at me, huh?” Marc went on to explain how Brian had had to work late, but Marc—his roommate—was a huge fan of one of the actors in the program, and had volunteered to come along instead. “We figured this way, at least you’d have a Date for the night,” Marc (aka Brian) reasoned wretchedly.
I’d missed my program and my Date was gay, but I genuinely couldn’t have been happier. To go shopping was always a treat, but to be taken shopping by a sweet man who knew where the best designer bargains in L.A. could be found…. in that respect, Marc really was my Soul Mate. Brian/Marc paid for the coffee and we went right back to our shopping. It was a wonderful date.
Dates #30–50: Speed-Dating—Redondo Beach, L.A., U.S.A.
I read in the in-flight magazine coming over that 74 percent of men know after the first fifteen minutes of a date if they are interested or not.
Fifteen minutes? That long?
Women know instantly if they are interested or not. Like playing a slot machine, in those first, dense dating moments, the tone of voice, content of conversation, appearance, body language, dress sense, height, and general vibe all spin around women’s heads until the barrels fall into place. They are then either predominantly cherries (put more money in and keep playing) or lemons (stop playing and leave the machine for someone else).
That’s why the theory behind speed-dating—twenty dates, each lasting three minutes—makes so much sense. It might be hard on the men—whether comedians or daters—but women can learn a lot in three L.A. minutes.
My friend Ian cynically accus
ed me of wanting to speed-date just to get my numbers up, but I was genuinely curious. Though it’s less convenient than online dating—it’s at a set time and you have to travel to a venue—there are real advantages. A face-to-face meeting means you quickly discover if you like someone or not, plus you see straight away if there’s any chemistry between you, without feeling obligated or involved. You’ll also find out how accurate their profile is—in my early online days I spent two weeks having fabulous e-chats with Martin, before meeting up and disappointedly discovering he was in fact 10 Percent Too Small Martin.
So I went speed-dating.
As I arrived at a packed bar in Redondo Beach, organizer Styve (it’s L.A.) smiled with pleasure and relief at the sight of me. “Oh, thank goodness, another woman, we’re running so short.” I looked around the bar and sure enough, there were five little tables with a harassed-looking woman sitting behind each one, a swarm of impatient men surrounding them, checking to see no one exceeded the allotted three minutes and edging forward in anticipation of their own.
Part of me thought I should feel intimidated by the pressure and the incredible air of competitiveness that permeated the room, but instead I was delighted. L.A. is a social barometer for the rest of the world: Was this the future of dating? Single men outnumbering women five to one?
Styve gave me a badge with my name and a number, pushed a clipboard into my hand, and told me to write down the number of any guy I was interested in. They would email me the results (like some kind of weird dating pregnancy test: Congratulations, Jennifer, you’re going to have a boyfriend) in a couple of days.
God, I suddenly realized, I hadn’t thought up a story; what reason would I give the Dates for being here? I didn’t want to tell them about my quest, as that would take the whole three minutes. But if I told the truth—I was here for two days and wanted to meet someone—even in therapy-hungry L.A., that was going to scream “relationship issues.”
As it turned out, I needn’t have worried: With so few women and so few minutes, the Dates did all the talking.
Date #30 told me Jesus didn’t mind us doing this and asked, which church did I attend? Date #31 was an analyst of something I didn’t catch because he muttered (his username was “no_talking”; I felt like replying “no_kidding”). Date #32 worked in defense: “I can’t tell you anything else until I get you security-cleared.” I asked Date #33 if he had ever been to one of these events before. “Last night,” he replied. “I’m ready to have children and need to meet my wife.” Date #34 was German and desperate to talk to another European. Date #35 was a sweet, lonely Vietnamese man: “I’ve decided I need to chill out and meet more people. It doesn’t have to be dating—I just want some friends.” Date #36 was a management consultant who talked about how much he enjoyed Nepal. “Why?” I asked. “They floss their teeth in the street,” he replied. I liked Date #37, though he shouted at 2 minutes 59 seconds, “I have two children,” as Date #38 dragged him away from my table by the chair.
I felt slightly overwhelmed by the time I’d completed Date #50 and couldn’t get away fast enough. Like being under the spotlight on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, I thought there had to be a less stressful way of getting the prize.
As I arrived back at the hotel, Lizzy rang from London to see how it had worked out with Lowell. I told her he was a little too intense for me, but he was completely laid-back compared with some of the speed-daters I’d just met.
We laughed about it and Lizzy commented: “Jennifer, this is the first time I’ve heard you sound really happy in ages. I was worried it was all beginning to get to you.” I hadn’t thought about it, but she was right: I felt excited and alive in a way I never had in Europe.
“For some reason, I found it really hard to get under the skin of the Dates in Europe,” I confessed, realizing for the first time that this was true. “I always felt like an outsider. Maybe because American culture is more like ours or everyone loves my accent here and wants to talk to me…. I feel part of what’s going on rather than just a spectator.”
It could also be that, rested from a spell at home and now with quite a few dates under my belt, I was more experienced at handling the “workload.” It had felt incredibly intimidating when I’d started out, but now there seemed to be a natural rhythm and order to events. It was easier to know what to expect and be prepared.
“You know, I actually feel excited to be here; in fact I’m even looking forward to dating. I don’t know that I ever did in Europe; there always seemed so much of it.”
We then chatted about normal stuff—how her baby Connie was, the fabulous pair of boots I’d bought on Rodeo Drive—before saying good-bye.
Although it was late, I felt really cheery and full of energy, so I popped next door to the House of Blues to catch Arthur Lee & Love. It was good, simple, loud fun. Talking was impossible; I smiled and shrugged at the guys who tried to engage me in conversation. Encoring with a scorching version of “Smokestack Lightning,” Lee removed his sunglasses for the first time and croaked to the audience: “Hey, ya’ll do me a favor: Love each other.” So different from the hard-nosed comedy crowd across the road, the audience cheered and danced wildly.
This felt like a good omen and I cheered and danced along with everyone else. Lizzy was right, I felt happy and flirty, and seemed to be getting chatted up like mad as a result. I can’t explain why, but for some reason I knew I was on the right path, doing the right thing. My Soul Mate was getting closer; things were going to change, I could feel it.
“So where are you stripping tonight?”
It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to turn and see who in the Southwest Airlines check-in queue had just been asked that question.
It cleared one thing up, though: why so many big-haired, big-boobed, teeny-outfitted blondes were walking around L.A. airport. One woman wore a small (and I mean tiny) red T-shirt and red plastic shorts that covered just the top half of her bottom. As she bent over, struggling to lift her heavy bags onto the check-in scales, she oozed from her shorts like peanut butter out of a sandwich. The queue watched, helplessly transfixed, unsure whether we should call a porter or a gynecologist to help.
Thursday afternoon was obviously when all the strippers traveled to work: We were catching the Red Thigh to Vegas.
“You wanna see a show tomorrow, ma’am?”
The top-hatted ticket tout waved flyers energetically at the fiftysomething woman and her husband ducking into the air-conditioned sanctuary of New York New York to escape the searing heat of the Strip.
“We’re going to a wedding tomorrow,” she barked back in a thick Brooklyn accent. “That’s the biggest show there is.”
Las Vegas is famously both the wedding and gambling capital of America. You’ve got to wonder if there’s a relationship between the two. Apart from legalities (i.e., it’s quick and easy), why do so many people get married in Vegas? Is it because, a theme park in the middle of a desert and cut off from the rest of the world, Vegas brings out a what the hell impetuosity? Or having bet and won in the casinos, do people feel more prepared for the ultimate gamble?
And if relationships are a crapshoot, could I learn anything helpful from a professional gambler? How much was luck and how much was knowing and playing the system? I’d arranged to meet Chester through a third-generation Date Wrangler. Aware this could be a little dicey, we were having a drink in my hotel bar so I’d feel more secure on “home territory.”
The problem was that my usual hotel, the Alexis Park (cheap but really homey, with three swimming pools and huge comfortable rooms), was full at the last minute, so I had to stay at the Days Inn off the Strip.
It wasn’t a bad hotel; actually I grew incredibly fond of it by the time I had to leave, but it was threadbare and in a very iffy neighborhood. A dark bar ran the length of the lobby, a cluster of slot machines was behind it, and a large, basic diner was through an alcove off to the right. All was guarded by a one-armed maintenance man in his seventies cal
led Neville.
The place was full of old people, all waiting either for the slots to pay out or the macaroni and cheese to be served up. Outside it was more lively. On the first night I was chased by a gang on chopper bikes. The second, I narrowly missed getting hit with a chain in a fight between rival chopper gangs. On the third night, a brawl between rival chopper gangs exploded onto the hotel porch where I was sitting quietly. The Days Inn was like an old people’s home in a cul-de-sac off Armageddon.
And it was here that Chester came for our date.
Date #51: Chester—Professional Gambler, Las Vegas, U.S.A.
Chester, a big man in his late forties with dark hair and an expanse of Desperate Dan stubble, and I sat at the bar. He immediately became engrossed in a poker game on TV and stayed engrossed for the duration of our date.
Poker is huge in America. Not only are the games televised (including a long-running series of celebrity poker), special wrist-cams have been developed so you can see the hands of star players and follow their progress.
Chester didn’t want to miss the big tournament currently under way and after several failed attempts to engage him in conversation, I resigned myself to sitting and watching with him. I set a two-drink time limit: If the program was finished and we’d talked by then, great; if not, I was going to my room to catch up on email.
The game wasn’t particularly interesting, but I found the intensity of the players utterly compelling. Chester did too. “Look at his hands,” he said, nodding up at the screen, “they’re shaking. That means he’s got a good hand.”
“Really?” I asked, impatience immediately forgotten. “How do you know?”
“You can tell a lot about a player and what they’re holding by their body language,” he replied, his eyes never leaving the screen. “See him stare at his cards, that means he’s got a good hand. When they stare at their chips, that means they’ve got a bad hand and they’re wondering how much they can afford to lose.”