Chronicles of Crazywood: Single 4-Eva

Chapter 2

It’s been a crummy week for me in the love life department.  I finally ended it with my oldest and most favorite lover of all time because that dead-end relationship will go on forever. I’m really sad about it, like a little kid who has to give up sucking her thumb.  Gotta stay away from that one.

Let’s see, what else….I officially had a “boyfriend” for the first time in years.  Before we could even “consummate” the relationship, we decided it was best to go back to being friends.  We lasted all of two days.

I’ve long contended that those brave enough to endure the trials and madness that accompany the world of dating in Los Angeles deserve some kind of medal—a purple heart for bravery under extraordinary circumstances perhaps? Is that really too much to ask given the agony one must endure?

Second only to New York, L.A. is the quite possibly the most dangerously “Single 4 Eva’!” city in the entire world.  Two major problems arise with the dating game in any metropolis:
 
1) Rampant Workaholicism: Pretty much everyone who has moved to the Big City has gone there to rise to the top of his or her respective careers.  This means that work generally comes before love and unless you can find a clever way to incorporate the two, (see: the Hollywood “power couple” a term that makes me want to vomit all over myself), love doesn’t get much play. 

2) Unbridled Narcissism:  People in cities are selfish, self-centered, self-obsessed egomaniacs*:

    a) “artists” who are completely consumed with their ideas and will let             nothing stand in the way of their creative quest
    b)“hipsters” constantly on the search for the next cool thing (a standard         rapidly changing among the young movers, shakers and cool mavens)
    c) wannabes obsessed with fame, blinded by materialism and chasing             waterfalls
    d) older versions of one of the above who have finally settled down (funny that euphemism contains the word “settle”—and yet, how appropriate)
    e) all of the above

* I am by no means excluding myself from these sweeping statements. I obviously have huge problems with ego.

You always want what you can’t have.  This is proven in the Heartland (and basically everywhere else in the world) by the compulsive fixation with celebrity and fame.  In places where celebrity and fame are the norm, this psychology is taken to levels where nothing is ever good enough, cravings are rarely satisfied and there is always a better opportunity lurking right around the corner. 

In L.A. this restlessness has created a unique phenomenon; the third (and largest) problem with dating here. I have dubbed it the L.A. Flake Syndrome. I even came up with a little slogan for the Hollywood tourism campaign:  “L.A.: We put the lay in flake.” Flakiness is widespread here.  Plans are never really plans.  Unless it has been drafted by a team of lawyers, faxed to and from the Bahamas at least once and has a couple of John Hancocks on it—your word doesn’t mean shit.  And neither does theirs.

We are now far, far away from the days of Deadwood when you would spit in your hand, shake on something and know that they either keep their word--or you can shoot them.  We are long past the stereotypical Hollywood days of “Have your people call my people—we’ll do lunch.”  That’s because Los Angelinos have finally just ceased eating altogether. 

Nope. In Crazywood these days it goes a little something like this: “I’ll let you know by 11 if I can do lunch at noon” or “I’ll text you at 9:30 pm for drinks at 10.”  In order to stay competitive in the flexible, non-committal world of limitless options and free-form scheduling, people have been forced to become completely and utterly unreliable. 

You are only as loyal as your options.  We here in L.A, are only as loyal as our last text message. But here’s the weirdest thing about L.A.; in the culture of perennially floating plans, everything that happens, usually happens in a series of bizarre coincidences and random chance meetings (or it at least appears that way if it happens at all) so I can understand the mentality behind the flakiness, but it’s still no excuse.

What I’ve already learned here in L.A.: life experiences are enduring, but people--they come and go.  And generally if you are always searching for something better, you usually end up alone anyway.  Choose life.

So now there is one--little old me in my empty echoing apartment, bringing it all upon myself and loving every minute.  I have a blow-up bed, a folding card table and one chair.  That’s right.  I don’t even have a pair of chairs. That says it all.  Obviously a large part of me is crying out for some alone time. And after the way the past month has gone, solitary frickin' confinement sounds fantastic.  So, from my self-imposed cloistering in my fortress of solitude, the great date stories of 2007 will be put to virtual paper.  In the days that follow, these stories will be released; three classic examples of why dating in Crazywood is a life experience in and of itself.