Posts Tagged ‘Jane Booke’

Happy Hour

Thursday, April 25th, 2013

paparazzi photo from rivabella


What the hell is Happy Hour and why is everyone talking about it?  The happiest hour for me is when I eat.  But if it means standing around with drinks in your hand, eating from some communal barrel of glop, count me out.  I don’t think Happy Hour would have appeal for me even if it were at a restaurant I wanted to go to.  It just sounds awful.  Or am I a snob?

The other day, I was recommending my new favorite restaurant in L.A., Tar and Roses, to someone who then asked, “Do they have a Happy Hour?”  I was baffled by the question.  It’s so foreign to me.

And then I got an invitation to join my daughter and her best friend Cody and a bunch of their hot 27-year-old friends for what I thought was dinner.  But it wasn’t.  It was Happy Hour at some Mexican restaurant’s bar (Marix Tex Mex).  And while I think it’s brilliant for young people not yet making big money to be able to eat like that, I just couldn’t do it.  I asked for a proper menu. (more…)

Hand Me Downs

Thursday, August 30th, 2012

Some people get hand me down clothes, I liked getting hand me down apartments.  Specifically, from my friend Jane.

Jane would move into a groovy little pad, trick it out with her certain style and I would beg her to give it to me if ever she moved.  She did.  And, I got it.  Twice.

First place was in West Hollywood, walking distance to some fun activities, like restaurants.   Probably better proximity for a gay man.  Oh, speaking of gay men….I’m not a fag hag  (remind me to look for my memo to find out if it’s PC to say that) and never have been.  There is a distinct possibility that gay men hate me.  How do I know this?  Because of our (first Jane, then my) landlord right there on Keith Ave.  The duplex, stunning, almost New Orleans-style building, was owned by a couple.  The older man was lovely and soft-spoken and then there was his younger, good looking German boyfriend.  I’m telling you he’s German on purpose because I want you to envision our fighting. Me, little Jewish broad, landlord, hot-headed Aryan, sporting six pack abs and a heavy German accent.  Screaming matches.  Over what?  I don’t remember.  Then, because one other gay man wasn’t keen on me, I came up with this lame conclusion that is just not true.  What is true is that I’m either loved or hated.  By everyone.   Not usually an in between for me.  There’s not a neutral reaction when someone is asked if they like me.  It’s strong.  Get it?   Not sure what it is they hate, pretty sure it could be my really big balls.   I now know a few gay men that really like me, so I’m throwing the theory out. (more…)