The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me. --Ayn Rand

21.7.06

Grinding with Gucci

I met up with my roommate for lunch yesterday at Cafe Pinot. I had been there once before, on Valentines day three years ago. I remember spending $100 on my meal, not being carded for my wine, and being so seduced by the atmosphere that I kept dating the boy who took me for another month and a half. This time was considerably more economic, but not as tantilizing. We shared the Japanese yellowtail sashimi, which I found was delicious (who knew that it wasn't that I don't like fish, I just don't like cooked fish) and I munched on the cream of arborio rice with assorted wild mushrooms for the entree. A shame, though, that we didn't have time for dessert and cognac.

Work work blah.

Then, my Thursday evening began with JT canceling our dinner. I was disappointed. That's the second day in a row someone has canceled on me for dinner. Although, I was only annoyed the at the first one, since they didn't even try to reschedule (rude people, psh). Now we're scheduled for lunch and cuddling today... in an hour and a half.

I planned to begin an intermediate gay ballroom dance class rather than attend my final rumba class, so I made myself up and found my way over to the Hollywood Dance Center.

All the while, I was wondering, "What type of gay people would go ballroom dancing in Hollywood at 8:45pm, cutting into precious pre-clubbing time?" My fear was that it would be a lot of coupled 30 year olds or large lesbian women who pretend to move gracefully.

I walk in. No one greets me. I look at several people standing around, they stare back. No smile, everyone was blank. No one said a fucking word. I walk over to look at brochures and check out the dancers. Forty or fifty. That's how old these people were. Forty or fifty. Ballroom at that age isn't about fun or looking amazing in tights, but some attempt at bonding after you haven't had sex in years. I walked out immediately and drove to my rumba class, only a few minutes late.

Later was Rage, of course. Gabby encountered an old friend of his with a lot of her italian friends (and one french lady). She was crazy. The things she did. I mean, jesus. When the music was low enough for me to hear him, he told me, "She's a Gucci. Her grandfather started the line." Wow. I was rubbing up against an heir to the fortune that comes from expensive crap that you can buy anywhere for less. Hot.

We left when the club closed at 2. Walking out of RAGE, Gabby spotted a band of black women, then screamed, "WANDA I LOVE YOU!" "Who?" I shouted. Then I saw her!

I met Wanday Sykes! We hugged! Gabby apparently gave his mother Sykes' book when she was undergoing kemotherapy. I was a little too under the influence to be as excited as I should have been. We didn't take or ask to take pictures--that would have been rude.

It was a fun night. I'm not even too hungover, just extremely hungry. I hope the menu is good with JT. mmm.

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