Ye Olde Rustic Pick-Up Joint

Last night, I caught my pal Eddie Pepitone's one man show at the Fake Gallery and then went over to the Rustic with J. Keith Van Straaten to have drinks and, in his case, a quesadilla. I got there before he did, and I bought myself a drink. I don't usually walk into bars by myself. I'm not afraid to. But there is a barrage of approach I am often looking to avoid. And there, right before my eyes, I saw two dudes gesturing towards me explicitly as if to say, "Are you going after that one? Oh, it's me? Okay. I'm on it." So the one comes over and says, "Are you here alone?" And I said, "I'm waiting for a friend." And he said, "Your boyfriend?" And I said, "A friend." And he says, "So is it okay if I hit on you then?" And I said, "Wow. That's the most directly I've ever heard that put." And then he told me his name was Joshua, and he asked where I live. Eventually J. Keith walked in, and I was relieved to be able to excuse myself. When we walked into the dining room, another fellow grabbed my hand and told me I had beautiful ankles. But he was distinctly looking at my tank top. And I figured maybe I'd better put my jacket on. It was oddly warm yesterday, but apparently a gal like me can't just enjoy the cool reprieve of a wifebeater without having a lot of beer breath aspirated in her face in the form of a how-do-you-do. Later, waiting for the restroom, another fellow asked if he could go before me. And I was thrown, wondering if the men's room could possibly be more crowded than the ladies' room. He made more chitchat and then plainly said, "I was just looking for an excuse to talk to you." And then it was my turn for the restroom. And I wondered if this section of Hillhurst is really just a strange pocket of foreign in an otherwise too-good-for-me landscape of L.A. poseurs and ladies with parts much lovelier than mine.

I drove home too early for my tastes. But there was only pain and the absence of sleep for me, so what difference does it make.