February 2009

The only problem with L.A. is the pesky paparazzi. Honestly, who knew the DABA Girls were so big out west?

As you may have concluded from the lack of posts last weekend, Megan and I were out of town over President’s Day.  Fully inspired from our Sundance jaunt we decided another vacation was in order, hoping to cure any Valentine’s Day depression with sunlight and new boys, we hopped on American flight 29 to our old abode, sunny Los Angeles. Unlike our Utah trip, this time we were serious about finding ourselves nice new media boyfriends. But not without some trepidation, we had after all left LA in search of greener, more exciting, banker-filled pastures in NYC just a few years ago. 

The first day there we were taken around town by trip MVP Andy B., first stop: lunch at authentic sushi restaurant Sasabune, where along with two of Andy’s media friends we washed our blue crab rolls down with sake.  Sake bombs over a long lunch on a work day without any judgmental stares? (one point LA). Despite Megan’s black satin Gucci dominetrix pencil skirt and razor sharp bob not quite fitting in, and my I’m-so-poor-I-may-be-homeless-soon jokes not garnering the same it’s-funny-because-it’s-true response as they did at home, we otherwise blended right in. Just as the sake started to kick in, our blackberries started vibrating. Our trusty DABA intern just sent us an urgent email reporting that the markets had closed with the Dow down 100 points and S&P down more than 500 points. We looked up, fearful of the doom that was sure to descend on our carefree lunch, but nobody else’s blackberries were anywhere to be seen. And could that be laughter we hear? Sure enough, Harvey, Yan, and Andy were totally caught up in a debate over Jessica Simpson’s fat jeans. Desperate to be part of this happy-go-lucky world we decided to blame our inability to smoothly re-enter into west coast society on our jet-leg and embrace the ignorance. Three more sake shots and we had all but forgotten the market’s mood swing.

En route back to the BH (short term for Beverly Hills used by those in the know) one of our lunch dates started shreking with delight. Used to only hearing these noises coming from a man on 8th Ave in Chelsea, we turned around to see half of Harvey’s body hanging out of his window. 

Harvey: “OMG, OMG the dog in the car next to us looks exactly like my dog!” motioning to the car next to us “Pull up, pull up!”

The lady in the car pulls up and rolls down her window, her French bulldog sticks his nose out. 

Harvey: “Frenchie, frenchie, oooohhhh you’re sooo cute, how did you get soooo cute??”  To the lady, “How old is she?”

Lady: “Two going on three.”

Harvey: “Mine’s almost 4 now, ohhhh your dog is sooooo cute!”

The light turns green and we speed off.

Harvey: “That dog isn’t nearly as cute as my dog.”

Me: “Yeah I could tell.”

Harvey: “Really??? Wow, how could you tell?”

Me: “I read your energy.”

Megan, deadpan: “Yeah, Laney’s really good at reading energies.”

Harvey (serious): “Really? I’ve never met an energy healer before.”

I look over to Megan whose head is cocked to one side, with a bewildered look on her face. Apparently our sarcastic, in this case hippy-dippy, humor didn’t translate either. Ok, cross off sarcastic, dark, and Self-deprecating jokes. Was this why we left LA. in the first place? (Two points New York.)

It’s 4 pm and it’s off to the Havana Room we go. Megs and I are ushered into a smoke filled room to meet more of Andy’s talent agent friends. Sitting at a round table in the middle of the room are three late twenty something guys, each dressed to the nines a la American Psycho. Side Note: We have no future as professional age guessers in LA.  They were all in their mid-thirties but hadn’t aged exponentially from the work hard, play hard mentality that we’ve come to know and love in New York.  On the other hand, who cares if we misjudged their age?  Dating guys twenty years your senior is A-Ok in LA. (One point LA)

Sitting down at the table Megan and I are facing a ratio of 2:1, guys to girls, but we’re not bothered in the least. Despite most of our jokes having fallen flat on this trip, we perform best under pressure. As the saying goes, “If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere.” Besides, we’re not just anyone, we’re the DABA Girls! We can out flirt anyone, no matter the coast. Determined to impress our new found media men, we tossle our hair, press together our spray tanned cleavage (hey, sometimes Paris Hilton gets it right), and break out our most charming smiles (more of a smirk in Megan’s case, she’s adopted Posh Spices no teeth policy) and wittiest stories. 

Megan doesn’t waste anytime launching into one of her favorite schtiks, “It must be nice in L.A. not having to worry about acquiring a winter girlfriend.”

Jim leans in closer, one eyebrow raised: “What’s a winter girlfriend?”

Me: “You know, someone to keep you warm during the cold winter months, when it’s too miserable to go outside.”

Megan: “But you have to get one by Thanksgiving, all the good ones are gone after that.”

Laughs all around.

Me: “Seriously though, it’s rough. I didn’t even find a winter boyfriend this season.  I swear, no one in New York is dating right now.”

The men confidently lean back in their chairs, puff on their cigars, and smile at each other knowingly. Their eyes are saying, New York is so over. But, their demeanor is so confident we realize that maybe they’re not comparing themselves to our revered bankers. Maybe, just maybe, they don’t even care about their NYC counterparts. Looking around the table we realize that these guys aren’t just media men, they’re the banking guys from the 80’s. The mythical men that we moved to New York in search of. Rock solid in their decisions, overly confident in their abilities (I mean, what do agents actually do?), and totally handsome. We’re sold. (Five points LA.)

Final score: New York: 3, LA: 8.

Watch out Hollywood, here we come!