“Where do you live?” I asked a friend of a friend, who I’d just met. It was his birthday and he was really celebrating, and his jovial attitude made me want to engage him in conversation.
“Palm Desert,” he said, sheepishly.
“I hope you’re not driving home tonight!” I said, gesturing towards the cocktail he gripped in his hand as his lids drooped and knees bounced up and down.
To my relief, he explained that he’d come up to Hollywood for his birthday and was crashing here for the night.
“Oh you know I’m going to be down in Palm Springs on Halloween weekend,” I mentioned, even though I’ve been considering cancelling my trip in favor of whatever festive opportunities might present themselves here.
“Well we should hook up!” he said, “Here take my number.”
And I did. I was grateful at the prospect to have someone else to hang out with. I still feel really new in town, and in the short time that I’ve lived here, plenty of friends have already come and gone. During my last trip to the desert, things went a bit sour with a friend who cancelled our very platonic dinner plans and then tried to show up to my hotel room in the middle of the night with a bottle of wine - despite his wife and children. So I was hopeful in making a new friend to keep me company when I inevitably return down desert.
“OK cool thanks,” I said, as I plugged the number into my phone.
“You better give me your number too…” he said, leaning in.
“Okay…”
“No really, you should give me your number, and you should hurry,” he urged, eyes shifting around the room. I noticed his wife was no longer sitting on the barstool behind him. Had she gone to the ladies’ room?
“Six four six…” I started, rattling off my old New York number that I’ve refused to give up despite my new West Coast address.
He came in even closer. “Maybe we should hang out sooner than that. Maybe I’ll call you sooner…”
I sneered. And then, always eager to please, I smiled. “Okay…”
His wife returned for a quick consultation, and then they both got up off of their barstools and started to collect their things. I put my hand out to shake, and he leaned in and said, “You know I’ll give it to you good, right?”
“Um, okay, sure.”
I knew he would want to. I knew he would try.
For the next hour or two, I received a series of text messages that postured sexual prowess and then pleaded to see me the next day.
“Sorry I’m in New York City this weekend, back Monday,” I responded. “Besides, you’ve got your wife to deal with.”
“Forget her,” he wrote. I didn’t reply.
“So Monday then?” I didn’t reply.
“Tonight?” I didn’t reply.
The text messages subsided, and I hoped that the birthday boy had ceased his celebrations and retired for the evening. I went home and did the same.
But when I woke up in the morning, I saw that I’d missed a 2:30 a.m. message: “Hello?”
I bet that he wouldn’t even remember any of it. Enough alcohol can make people do bad things. And nothing good happens between 2 and 4 a.m.
Twelve hours later, the text messages began again – at first innocently enough, complaining of overdoing it the night before, not enough sleep, the resulting hangover.
And then the propositions resumed.
“Just looking for a friend,” I wrote, “Don’t need to sneak around any more wives/girlfriends. Enough of that already.” It seems like the only guys that are interested in me are those who are otherwise occupied.
“Friends with benefits,” he suggested.
I stood my ground. “I don’t need to be another guy’s other woman, sorry.” It was easy because I barely knew him. It was easy because I wasn’t dying for it. It was easy because there’s someone else’s boyfriend who I’d much rather have. I’d rather just pine after him.
“I hear ya. See ya around.”
And then it was over.
I felt stupid and naïve for trying to make new friends, for putting my misanthropic, antisocial nature aside to embrace optimism in humanity. I felt stupid for thinking a guy in a bar would want anything from me other than to sleep with me.
I wondered why I’m such a magnet for cheaters – both guys who cheat on me and guys who want to cheat on their girlfriends and wives with me.
And then I wondered, are there any guys who aren’t cheaters?
“It’s just so f’ing slimey!” Michelle complained when I told her my story. “Why are so many dudes slime?”
“Because girls let them,” I wrote.
And I hoped that maybe turning this one dastardly dude down would help stop the vicious cycle of enabling bad behavior. But turning this one dude down doesn’t make up for all the times I didn’t turn other dudes down. And just because I wouldn’t do it doesn’t mean he won’t find some other girl who will.
Because I’m not special, and neither are they. We’re not selected because of who we are. We’re chosen because they think we’ll be willing.
And sometimes I am. But not this time, and not anytime soon.
Related:
Pacific Standards
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Making up for lost time and missed opportunities, one adventure at a time.
October 14, 2011
October 13, 2011
Upon My First Trip Back to New York
I've been nervous about my first trip back to New York City for some time now. (Note that I didn't say "home to New York City," for that city has not felt like home for years.)
But now I sit in anticipation of a redeye flight to JFK, and my stomach is in knots.
I don't want to leave LA.
I've left LA plenty of times since moving here - to visit Joshua Tree, Palm Springs, Big Sur, San Diego, Anza-Borrego, Mono Lake, Vegas, etc. - but something about this trip recalls too closely the times last year when I visited LA, when I fell in love with LA, when I fell in love in LA, and had to leave and return to New York.
I never wanted to leave LA then.
I always wanted to come back to LA then.
A part of me thinks that I could never return to New York City again, pretend that it doesn't exist anymore, that it never existed, and maintain a perfectly wonderful existence. That is, if the place were only a place.
But New York City is more than its claustrophobic skyscrapers and subways, its pollution, bad weather, bad attitude, and endless nightlife.
For those of us who dedicated a large chunk of our lives to living there, New York is still embodied by the good people we left behind.
I say that I'm returning to New York City for my favorite weekend, Open House New York, but in truth, I wonder whether I'd really go back if there were no good people to experience it with. It's not just about whether I'd have a couch upon which to crash, but what (or who) would really make the trip worth it? I mean, haven't I seen enough? Is it worth a cross-continental flight (and then a cross-continental return three days later) just to paddle the Bronx River, or tour the old TWA terminal at JFK?
When it comes down to it, the people weren't enough to keep me in New York. I had to leave.
But they're probably enough to keep me coming back.
I guess we'll see after this weekend.
But as I sit here in the Bob's Big Boy in Burbank, a place I love inexplicably, I already can't wait to come back home to LA.
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But now I sit in anticipation of a redeye flight to JFK, and my stomach is in knots.
I don't want to leave LA.
I've left LA plenty of times since moving here - to visit Joshua Tree, Palm Springs, Big Sur, San Diego, Anza-Borrego, Mono Lake, Vegas, etc. - but something about this trip recalls too closely the times last year when I visited LA, when I fell in love with LA, when I fell in love in LA, and had to leave and return to New York.
I never wanted to leave LA then.
I always wanted to come back to LA then.
A part of me thinks that I could never return to New York City again, pretend that it doesn't exist anymore, that it never existed, and maintain a perfectly wonderful existence. That is, if the place were only a place.
But New York City is more than its claustrophobic skyscrapers and subways, its pollution, bad weather, bad attitude, and endless nightlife.
For those of us who dedicated a large chunk of our lives to living there, New York is still embodied by the good people we left behind.
I say that I'm returning to New York City for my favorite weekend, Open House New York, but in truth, I wonder whether I'd really go back if there were no good people to experience it with. It's not just about whether I'd have a couch upon which to crash, but what (or who) would really make the trip worth it? I mean, haven't I seen enough? Is it worth a cross-continental flight (and then a cross-continental return three days later) just to paddle the Bronx River, or tour the old TWA terminal at JFK?
When it comes down to it, the people weren't enough to keep me in New York. I had to leave.
But they're probably enough to keep me coming back.
I guess we'll see after this weekend.
But as I sit here in the Bob's Big Boy in Burbank, a place I love inexplicably, I already can't wait to come back home to LA.
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October 11, 2011
Facing the Unknown
There are certain things in my life I have known. I knew my parents didn't love me. I knew I would eventually leave their house and never speak to them again. I knew I would go to Colgate University and that I would belong there. I knew who I would be friends with for life.
I knew I would ultimately be alone.
I knew I would get my jobs at Atlantic and Razor & Tie.
I knew Freddy would cheat on me.
I knew Phil and I would never last.
I knew I wouldn't have babies.
I knew when I was done with New York.
I knew which jobs weren't meant to be, even the one that moved me to LA.
I've always known when my period is coming, when I was going to be fired, and when someone was mad at me.
I haven't always known when the bills are due. I haven't always known when I've had too much to drink. I haven't always known how to seal the deal.
But now, I know nothing. I know not where I'm going; I know not where to go. I know not what to do; how to wake up; how to live; how to die.
I know not what the future brings.
I know not what it means.
I only know how I feel, how I love, how I want, how I hope. I only know what I don't know. I know what's not there. I know what hasn't happened.
I know that where I am is where I want to be.
And that's all I can know.
For now.
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I knew I would ultimately be alone.
I knew I would get my jobs at Atlantic and Razor & Tie.
I knew Freddy would cheat on me.
I knew Phil and I would never last.
I knew I wouldn't have babies.
I knew when I was done with New York.
I knew which jobs weren't meant to be, even the one that moved me to LA.
I've always known when my period is coming, when I was going to be fired, and when someone was mad at me.
I haven't always known when the bills are due. I haven't always known when I've had too much to drink. I haven't always known how to seal the deal.
But now, I know nothing. I know not where I'm going; I know not where to go. I know not what to do; how to wake up; how to live; how to die.
I know not what the future brings.
I know not what it means.
I only know how I feel, how I love, how I want, how I hope. I only know what I don't know. I know what's not there. I know what hasn't happened.
I know that where I am is where I want to be.
And that's all I can know.
For now.
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Photo Essay: The Faces of Hollywood Forever Cemetery
There's this relatively recent trend - especially among Armenian-Americans, for some reason - of putting your face on your own headstone.
It's a little weird to see the faces of the dead smiling up at you as you walk over their buried bodies.
But there are plenty of other faces in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, faces frozen in time and in stone, looking over those who have long passed.
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It's a little weird to see the faces of the dead smiling up at you as you walk over their buried bodies.
But there are plenty of other faces in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, faces frozen in time and in stone, looking over those who have long passed.
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October 09, 2011
Proceed with Caution
One of the highlights of my entire 14 years in NYC was getting up early in the morning one day last summer, taking Edith's bike out from her 34th Street apartment, and riding it up and down Park Avenue while it was closed to motorized traffic. At 8 a.m. on a weekend day, Park Ave - given the moniker "Summer Streets" - was safe, welcoming, and wide open like never before, all the way up to the 90s, and all the way down to the Brooklyn Bridge.
So when I switched coasts and heard that LA had something similar - the unfortunately named "CicLAvia" - I was thrilled to try it.
But in the flurry of my move and starting a new job, I never got the chance to buy a bike, and I never got the chance to run the shut-down streets of the first CicLAvia.
Fortunately, it returned this weekend.
And I have a bike now.
But I haven't ridden my bike much. I've only just gotten a helmet, and traffic and parked cars still intimidate me - so much so that I wiped out while nervously trying to avoid them on Melrose. I'm terrified to ride at night. And before today, the farthest I'd gone on that bike was probably 2 miles.
So how was I going to get to CicLAvia, mapped through Koreatown, Boyle Heights, Downtown, and other far-flung enclaves of LA?
Throw my bike on the rack of a Metro bus....?
The thought of riding my bike 5.2 miles through the city streets of Los Angeles - which are sometimes terrifying enough to drive through - was so nerve-wracking, I almost aborted mission and bailed on the whole idea.
But I forced myself to go.
Even on relatively traffic-free roads like Oakwood through West Hollywood or 4th Street through Hancock Park, there are plenty of hazards to make a bike ride harrowing: pavement cracks, drainage trenches, palm tree debris, swinging parked car doors, tumbling trash, camouflaging shadows, blinding sunlight, and thick layers of road paint can all trick a wheel, destabilize your grip, and sabotage the ride.
But at CicLAvia, on those wide streets blocked off by cones and police tape, guided by crossing guards and surrounded by first aid stations, water filling stations, food trucks and port-a-potties, the biggest hazard of all was other cyclists.
We rode close and tight, like a wild pack of beasts, menacing and advancing forth, handlebar to handlebar, basket to basket, each bell echoing another in a constant cacophony of metal on metal. Some cyclists wore costumes. Some rode low and hunched; others perched high above in tricked-out frames whose saddles reached the sky. A few towed babies and toddlers; one towed a skateboarder.
I labored and sweat. I smiled and squinted. I pedaled and coasted. I gazed and gawked. There is so much to see in LA, and so much of it you just miss out on by speeding past in a car.
I got over my fears while I floated through the streets of LA on the wave of cyclists, but once I'd gone nearly eight miles and decided to turn back, the trepidation set in again.
How was I going to get home? All the way home?
I retraced my ride, in reverse, repeating the names of streets and recalling the perils of intersections, cross-traffic, and left turns - not to mention the basket-rattling bumps. My return wasn't hazard-free, but it was accident-free, and passed quickly.
Before today, the farthest I've ever gone on a bike was 12 miles, from E. 34th Street to W. 34th Street around the southern tip of Manhattan. Today I conquered nearly 16 miles. Today I conquered my fears.
Next time, I'll have to figure out how to proceed with caution without letting the caution make me a neurotic mess.
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So when I switched coasts and heard that LA had something similar - the unfortunately named "CicLAvia" - I was thrilled to try it.
But in the flurry of my move and starting a new job, I never got the chance to buy a bike, and I never got the chance to run the shut-down streets of the first CicLAvia.
Fortunately, it returned this weekend.
And I have a bike now.
But I haven't ridden my bike much. I've only just gotten a helmet, and traffic and parked cars still intimidate me - so much so that I wiped out while nervously trying to avoid them on Melrose. I'm terrified to ride at night. And before today, the farthest I'd gone on that bike was probably 2 miles.
So how was I going to get to CicLAvia, mapped through Koreatown, Boyle Heights, Downtown, and other far-flung enclaves of LA?
Throw my bike on the rack of a Metro bus....?
....No, I would have to ride it.
But I forced myself to go.
Even on relatively traffic-free roads like Oakwood through West Hollywood or 4th Street through Hancock Park, there are plenty of hazards to make a bike ride harrowing: pavement cracks, drainage trenches, palm tree debris, swinging parked car doors, tumbling trash, camouflaging shadows, blinding sunlight, and thick layers of road paint can all trick a wheel, destabilize your grip, and sabotage the ride.
But at CicLAvia, on those wide streets blocked off by cones and police tape, guided by crossing guards and surrounded by first aid stations, water filling stations, food trucks and port-a-potties, the biggest hazard of all was other cyclists.
We rode close and tight, like a wild pack of beasts, menacing and advancing forth, handlebar to handlebar, basket to basket, each bell echoing another in a constant cacophony of metal on metal. Some cyclists wore costumes. Some rode low and hunched; others perched high above in tricked-out frames whose saddles reached the sky. A few towed babies and toddlers; one towed a skateboarder.
I labored and sweat. I smiled and squinted. I pedaled and coasted. I gazed and gawked. There is so much to see in LA, and so much of it you just miss out on by speeding past in a car.
I got over my fears while I floated through the streets of LA on the wave of cyclists, but once I'd gone nearly eight miles and decided to turn back, the trepidation set in again.
How was I going to get home? All the way home?
I retraced my ride, in reverse, repeating the names of streets and recalling the perils of intersections, cross-traffic, and left turns - not to mention the basket-rattling bumps. My return wasn't hazard-free, but it was accident-free, and passed quickly.
Before today, the farthest I've ever gone on a bike was 12 miles, from E. 34th Street to W. 34th Street around the southern tip of Manhattan. Today I conquered nearly 16 miles. Today I conquered my fears.
Next time, I'll have to figure out how to proceed with caution without letting the caution make me a neurotic mess.
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A Season of Holidays
I moved to California at the end of January, when the biggest holiday I had to face for months was Valentine's Day (which was pretty tragic).
I've spent most of this year alone in California, and that's been okay. For the first several months.
But at the end of September, my birthday kicks off a season of holidays that I have to face spending alone, outside of my regular routines that I spent 14 years building in New York.
No after-work birthday happy hour here in LA. I didn't think anyone would come. Most certainly plenty would want to and intend to, but we live in the land of endless desires and best intentions, unrequited love and dreams deferred. As much as I hoped it wouldn't turn out that way, I couldn't bear the thought of spending yet another night sitting at a bar alone - not on my birthday - so I went to Vegas.
And now I face Halloween, a favorite holiday second only to Christmas. No clutching onto friends as we wind through haunted houses or corn mazes. No Halloween night party in my apartment with orange snacks and ridiculous games. I'm shopping for a costume but I don't know where I'll where it or who will see it.
I've often spent Thanksgiving alone, or as an orphan invited to someone else's celebration, from college weekends spent with Jon in Massachusetts to dinners with Michelle and her parents in Manhattan. This year, all the way out here in California, I'm far from almost everyone who would take pity on me, save for one friend who extended a Thanksgiving dinner invitation to me months ago, practically immediately upon my arrival to LA, with one condition: I would have to bring a date. He said it with a wink, and only wishes the best for me, but I really hope that he's kidding.
Thank God I'm managing to go back to Syracuse to spend Christmas with the family that has become mine.
And New Year's? Alone, I'm sure. Naturally.
And once again to face the humiliation of a lonelyhearts Valentine's Day
But these are choices I have made and that I continue to make. I chose to move to the Left Coast, the West Coast, the Best Coast, even though I didn't really have anybody that close out here. I chose to stay out here when I lost the job that relocated me here. And I've waited nine months to return to New York City (a trip which looms next weekend), to let me gestate properly, to become Californian, to prove that I can make it on my own.
I choose not to date people who aren't the right match.
I choose to spare the expense and travel hassle for Thanksgiving, which is really just one day.
I can't always run back. I have to figure out how to live in LA on my own.
I have to make a life of my own. Or find someone to make one with.
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I've spent most of this year alone in California, and that's been okay. For the first several months.
But at the end of September, my birthday kicks off a season of holidays that I have to face spending alone, outside of my regular routines that I spent 14 years building in New York.
No after-work birthday happy hour here in LA. I didn't think anyone would come. Most certainly plenty would want to and intend to, but we live in the land of endless desires and best intentions, unrequited love and dreams deferred. As much as I hoped it wouldn't turn out that way, I couldn't bear the thought of spending yet another night sitting at a bar alone - not on my birthday - so I went to Vegas.
And now I face Halloween, a favorite holiday second only to Christmas. No clutching onto friends as we wind through haunted houses or corn mazes. No Halloween night party in my apartment with orange snacks and ridiculous games. I'm shopping for a costume but I don't know where I'll where it or who will see it.
I've often spent Thanksgiving alone, or as an orphan invited to someone else's celebration, from college weekends spent with Jon in Massachusetts to dinners with Michelle and her parents in Manhattan. This year, all the way out here in California, I'm far from almost everyone who would take pity on me, save for one friend who extended a Thanksgiving dinner invitation to me months ago, practically immediately upon my arrival to LA, with one condition: I would have to bring a date. He said it with a wink, and only wishes the best for me, but I really hope that he's kidding.
Thank God I'm managing to go back to Syracuse to spend Christmas with the family that has become mine.
And New Year's? Alone, I'm sure. Naturally.
And once again to face the humiliation of a lonelyhearts Valentine's Day
But these are choices I have made and that I continue to make. I chose to move to the Left Coast, the West Coast, the Best Coast, even though I didn't really have anybody that close out here. I chose to stay out here when I lost the job that relocated me here. And I've waited nine months to return to New York City (a trip which looms next weekend), to let me gestate properly, to become Californian, to prove that I can make it on my own.
I choose not to date people who aren't the right match.
I choose to spare the expense and travel hassle for Thanksgiving, which is really just one day.
I can't always run back. I have to figure out how to live in LA on my own.
I have to make a life of my own. Or find someone to make one with.
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October 05, 2011
Photo Essay: Lake Mead Railroad Trail
When we booked our trip to Vegas for my birthday weekend, I had one instruction for Michelle: "Bring your sneakers."
We were going hiking.
Edith found a rail trail in the Lake Mead Recreation Area right by the Hoover Dam, where you can hike right through the railroad tunnels. We figured even in the desert heat, it would be a relatively easy, short, flat hike for any hiking novice (especially one who carries a leather purse on her shoulder instead of a pack on her back).
The trail parallels the main road for a while, and winds through an active power line field.
"What's that clicking sound?" Michelle asked, worried about rattlesnakes, beetles and whatnot.
"That's the electricity," I said, pointing upwards at the lines above us. I'd first heard that sound while night rafting down the Lehigh River in Pennsylvania, but I'd heard it many times since while hiking through the urban canyons and mountains of LA.
We kept hiking and hiking, the sun beating down on our sweat-soaked faces...
...and kept thinking we'd find one of the railroad tunnels around one of the bends...
But it felt like we hiked forever until we spotted one.
It was so narrow and dark and winding, we wondered how a train could've actually ever run through it.
The long wait to the tunnels paid off with a spectacular view on the other side of the first one we found...
...emboldening us to continue despite our heat prostration to find two more tunnels. We stopped short of the two miles to the turnaround point, cut our losses, and returned the way we came, the sun now behind us, our faces cooling and fading in their redness. A hot breeze relieved us somewhat, as did the promise of returning to our air conditioned car soon.
There was more - lots more - we could've done there by the Hoover Dam, plenty of other trails and excursions near Lake Mead and Boulder City (including an actual historic train ride), but we were anxious to return to our hotel room and get ready for our evening out.
But it was nice to escape the madness of the Las Vegas Strip for a while, and return to it later when we wanted to. You really can have it both ways in Vegas.
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We were going hiking.
Edith found a rail trail in the Lake Mead Recreation Area right by the Hoover Dam, where you can hike right through the railroad tunnels. We figured even in the desert heat, it would be a relatively easy, short, flat hike for any hiking novice (especially one who carries a leather purse on her shoulder instead of a pack on her back).
The trail parallels the main road for a while, and winds through an active power line field.
"What's that clicking sound?" Michelle asked, worried about rattlesnakes, beetles and whatnot.
"That's the electricity," I said, pointing upwards at the lines above us. I'd first heard that sound while night rafting down the Lehigh River in Pennsylvania, but I'd heard it many times since while hiking through the urban canyons and mountains of LA.
We kept hiking and hiking, the sun beating down on our sweat-soaked faces...
...and kept thinking we'd find one of the railroad tunnels around one of the bends...
But it felt like we hiked forever until we spotted one.
It was so narrow and dark and winding, we wondered how a train could've actually ever run through it.
The long wait to the tunnels paid off with a spectacular view on the other side of the first one we found...
...emboldening us to continue despite our heat prostration to find two more tunnels. We stopped short of the two miles to the turnaround point, cut our losses, and returned the way we came, the sun now behind us, our faces cooling and fading in their redness. A hot breeze relieved us somewhat, as did the promise of returning to our air conditioned car soon.
There was more - lots more - we could've done there by the Hoover Dam, plenty of other trails and excursions near Lake Mead and Boulder City (including an actual historic train ride), but we were anxious to return to our hotel room and get ready for our evening out.
But it was nice to escape the madness of the Las Vegas Strip for a while, and return to it later when we wanted to. You really can have it both ways in Vegas.
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October 04, 2011
Birthday Matters
I turned 36 on Friday.
I must admit I'm a total baby when it comes to my birthday. I want people to remember and wish me well and cook me French toast and send me flowers and kiss me and come home with me and tell me how young I look.
Last week, I bought myself flowers. I asked my friends to come meet me in Vegas. I drove myself to Vegas through the desert. I breakfasted on French toast and eggs at the Big Boy buffet in Baker. I brought a bottle of champagne. I blew up the birthday balloons.
All of these things were nice. I can do nice all by myself. But the nice things don't really matter.
Our room at the Flamingo stunk like an ashtray. We had to switch rooms. I forgot my ticket to get into the pool party at the Palazzo. Michelle's flight was on ground delay because of sudden storms ravaging New York. When she finally arrived, we could barely find a restaurant that was serving dinner past 10:30 p.m. The Justin Timberlake and Friends concert we all came to Vegas for featured five hours of performances by everyone except Justin Timberlake.
All of these things were annoying. They could have derailed our trip. But the annoyances don't really matter.
What really matters on my birthday?
It matters that I have two friends who love me so much, they dropped everything - school, work, patients, husband, responsibilities - to fly across the country to be with me.
Long gone are the days of cupcake parties and birthday clowns twisting animal balloons at the Ground Round, paper crowns from the Burger King and unicorn cakes from the Wegman's bakery. Instead, together we three friends sipped champagne while we showered, sang along to the radio while we drove, and stared out into the desert together.
I didn't think about getting older, because, at 36, I'm not too old for anything. Then again, as a friend reminded me last week, I'll never be too old for anything.
Related reading:
The 35-Year-Old Spinster
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I must admit I'm a total baby when it comes to my birthday. I want people to remember and wish me well and cook me French toast and send me flowers and kiss me and come home with me and tell me how young I look.
Last week, I bought myself flowers. I asked my friends to come meet me in Vegas. I drove myself to Vegas through the desert. I breakfasted on French toast and eggs at the Big Boy buffet in Baker. I brought a bottle of champagne. I blew up the birthday balloons.
All of these things were nice. I can do nice all by myself. But the nice things don't really matter.
Our room at the Flamingo stunk like an ashtray. We had to switch rooms. I forgot my ticket to get into the pool party at the Palazzo. Michelle's flight was on ground delay because of sudden storms ravaging New York. When she finally arrived, we could barely find a restaurant that was serving dinner past 10:30 p.m. The Justin Timberlake and Friends concert we all came to Vegas for featured five hours of performances by everyone except Justin Timberlake.
All of these things were annoying. They could have derailed our trip. But the annoyances don't really matter.
What really matters on my birthday?
It matters that I have two friends who love me so much, they dropped everything - school, work, patients, husband, responsibilities - to fly across the country to be with me.
Long gone are the days of cupcake parties and birthday clowns twisting animal balloons at the Ground Round, paper crowns from the Burger King and unicorn cakes from the Wegman's bakery. Instead, together we three friends sipped champagne while we showered, sang along to the radio while we drove, and stared out into the desert together.
I didn't think about getting older, because, at 36, I'm not too old for anything. Then again, as a friend reminded me last week, I'll never be too old for anything.
Related reading:
The 35-Year-Old Spinster
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October 03, 2011
Lost Vegas
Everybody thinks of Las Vegas as the crime scene of the "lost weekend."
Don't they?
Because whatever happens there...
...happens in movies like The Hangover.
But I've pretty much remembered everything and regretted nothing.
In a land of intentional regrets, I guess I just don't belong.
I don't gamble.
I don't like comedy shows.
I don't walk around with a giant souvenir cup slung around my neck.
But I love the desert. I love hotels. I love bright flashing lights and sitting by the pool under the bright hot sun.
So I was happy to lure my two girlfriends from New York City to the Land of the Lost - to find myself again through the eyes of those who know and love me best, and to make some new memories that will last me through the lonely days in LA.
And I'll be happy to return to Las Vegas, and, like Los Angeles and San Diego, to use its metropolitan center as a jumping off point to other far-flung places like Death Valley, Boulder City, the Grand Canyon...
And I won't apologize for remembering every single moment.
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Photo Essay: Neon Boneyard, Vegas
I'm probably the only person who visits the boneyard at the Neon Museum in Las Vegas and gets really sad.
It's a junkyard of sorts - broken glass everywhere, rusted metal - where (mostly) neon signs take their final resting place, waiting to be either reincarnated or brought back to life through expensive restoration.
Letters and light bulbs are missing. Some lie on their sides, propped up against each other...
It's also somewhat of a hall of fame for the hotels, casinos, gambling halls, restaurants, and other businesses of the much-heralded "Old Vegas" - the days of the Rat Pack, strip clubs, and prostitution, and in some cases, the days before air conditioning.
Some of the signs there are from businesses that are still standing - the Flamingo, Fitzgerald's - but have just upgraded their signs.
But many are from places long-gone...
With the advent of fluorescent and LED lights, neon has become a lost - and expensive - art. These days you wouldn't find an intricate two-sided duckie sign welcoming you to (just) a car wash.
Interestingly, the boneyard has begun to collect relics and ephemera from the more recent casinos less associated with neon signs, like one of the giant skulls from the old Treasure Island hotel & casino (before it was known as "TI," in its days themed more like Pirates of the Caribbean). I always said I didn't like Vegas much because it had transformed into some odd version of Epcot where everything was a reproduction of something else - New York New York, Paris, Circus Circus, Excalibur - but after walking through the boneyard, I realize now that that's what Vegas has always been. The themes might have evolved over time - especially into the faux riche over-opulence of Caesar's Palace, Bellagio, Venetian, Palazzo, Wynn - but throughout the 20th Century, people came to the middle of the desert from all over to experience the Sahara Desert, the Frontier of the Old West, the Alps, the Moulin Rouge...
And those that stand there today may fall out of fashion in 20 years, be remodeled, redesigned, or altogether imploded, like many casinos before them (unfortunately many with their neon signs still lit, and lost forever).
I first visited Vegas in the late 90s after college, when many of the historic casinos - the (New) Frontier, Desert Inn, Stardust - were still standing. I didn't know I had to go see them then. I didn't know they wouldn't be around forever.
Now, all I can do, is visit a graveyard, where their signs serve as their own headstones.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
It's a junkyard of sorts - broken glass everywhere, rusted metal - where (mostly) neon signs take their final resting place, waiting to be either reincarnated or brought back to life through expensive restoration.
Letters and light bulbs are missing. Some lie on their sides, propped up against each other...
It's also somewhat of a hall of fame for the hotels, casinos, gambling halls, restaurants, and other businesses of the much-heralded "Old Vegas" - the days of the Rat Pack, strip clubs, and prostitution, and in some cases, the days before air conditioning.
Some of the signs there are from businesses that are still standing - the Flamingo, Fitzgerald's - but have just upgraded their signs.
But many are from places long-gone...
With the advent of fluorescent and LED lights, neon has become a lost - and expensive - art. These days you wouldn't find an intricate two-sided duckie sign welcoming you to (just) a car wash.
Interestingly, the boneyard has begun to collect relics and ephemera from the more recent casinos less associated with neon signs, like one of the giant skulls from the old Treasure Island hotel & casino (before it was known as "TI," in its days themed more like Pirates of the Caribbean). I always said I didn't like Vegas much because it had transformed into some odd version of Epcot where everything was a reproduction of something else - New York New York, Paris, Circus Circus, Excalibur - but after walking through the boneyard, I realize now that that's what Vegas has always been. The themes might have evolved over time - especially into the faux riche over-opulence of Caesar's Palace, Bellagio, Venetian, Palazzo, Wynn - but throughout the 20th Century, people came to the middle of the desert from all over to experience the Sahara Desert, the Frontier of the Old West, the Alps, the Moulin Rouge...
And those that stand there today may fall out of fashion in 20 years, be remodeled, redesigned, or altogether imploded, like many casinos before them (unfortunately many with their neon signs still lit, and lost forever).
I first visited Vegas in the late 90s after college, when many of the historic casinos - the (New) Frontier, Desert Inn, Stardust - were still standing. I didn't know I had to go see them then. I didn't know they wouldn't be around forever.
Now, all I can do, is visit a graveyard, where their signs serve as their own headstones.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
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