“Do you know where we’re going?”

Step 1 – Not knowing where you’re going.

We’re passing my motorcycle again for the second time, and she is not talking to me. Her cute countenance crinkled curiously, neck craned acutely askew towards the sky. Nope. She ain’t having it.

The buildings here in Downtown LA look ashen and lost in the miasma of suburbia that floods the general landscape of this city. The architecture doesn’t match, from one building to the other. On top of that: art deco, art nouveau, what is this shit? Howard Roark would not have approved. I feel lost. And I’ve definitely lost her. At least her interest. I god damned hate LA. I don’t know where anything is in this city, I always get turned around. Or as my mom is used to saying, “Te Norte-aste.” …I’ve always wondered about the etymology of that aphorism…

I met her months ago at a wedding planning event, of all places. I had no business being there, other than to help Tara with her newly founded candied bacon company. All I had to do was sit there and help Tara explain the product, try to get the word out, and maybe help to drive some new “wedding catering” type business to her new entrepreneurial endeavor.
I saw her from clear across the room—I swear it—and instantly noticed something about her. Very beautiful. Very elegant. Tall and fit. With a very purposeful look on her face. This kind of dame can really get a man in to trouble. …or maybe just me. Either way, I decided to say something stupid.
“That’s a beautiful DSLR, are you covering the event tonight?” (note: if it wasn’t for Kat, I wouldn’t have known what bullshit camera term I had just thrown out. Thanks for being such a camera nerd Kat, and incessantly talking about it ☺ ) “No.” She said, “This is my baby, I take it with me everywhere and take pictures for ‘me.’”

Somehow I was able to keep her interest long enough to be able to find out a few important things. 1. She’s a professional photographer, and has/runs her own photography business. (Outstanding, a woman with her own business, and creative at that). 2. She’s smart and beautiful, and nice enough to keep this very inane banter I’m spitting out, going. (I may be a macho idiot when I’m trying to get to know a girl. But if a girl is intelligent, they incur within me the deepest admiration). 3. She’s got a boyfriend, and he’s also a photographer. (What a shame. The best ones are always taken)
Now that I know she’s taken. I start talking in a more relaxed fashion, and a pleasantly intelligent—although short—conversation ensues. We exchange information and keep in touch. Although we will always remain Twitter friends ‘til the end, I expect I’ll never see her again.

She’s no longer looking at me. Hell, she’s no longer looking in my general direction. It’s been a long one mile walk, up and down Downtown, from where we went, to where we were. She’s been harassed by two bums already—one pointed out her beauty in colorful language, and asked if a fermented wheat beverage, is what she was in search of, because he may have been able to help. The other merely directly asked for spare change at an all too uncomfortable and space-invading range.
She’s hungry. She hasn’t eaten all day, and told me as much when I got to her apartment on Sunset, about a block or two away from Sunset Junction. She’s been at a shoot, and editing all day, and was writing up a quick blog when I got there, and lazily lay on her bed attempting to decide, in my lackadaisical manner, where I was going to take her to eat and woo her, while she finished blogging.

I attempt polite conversation, “At least the night is warm tonight for a walk.” Although, she’s not looking at me, I can see that she’s rolling her eyes. Might as well be rolling her entire neck, at me. At the disgrace of a man I’ve turned out to be. At what a terrible date this has turned out to be. So far the woo-ing is not really happening. At this point, its very nearly non-existent. Except for maybe the motorcycle ride here. But by now, that’s a far distant memory to the fact that she’s hungry, and now pissed.

Step 2 – be nervous, slink back from your usual gregarious outgoing self, and defer, demur, deceive

Last week I twittered I was missing one of my utmost favorite bands BRMC (black rebel motorcycle club), and how chagrined I was at missing them play at the echoplex. She replied and said BRMC is also one of her favorite bands, and we kept chatting via reply on twitter. Eventually she moved the conversation to e-mail. We went back and forth quite a bit that night. And I found out she no longer had a boyfriend for some time. Remembering how wonderful I thought she was I instantly asked her if I could take her out sometime. (I remembered how cute she was, and how much I enjoyed talking to her. I was stoked!)
Some quick research, and I found out BRMC was actually playing one more time in a couple days. One quick e-mail to my music/concert connection, and we had tickets. We went to the show and had an amazing time. I was over the moon that I got to hang out with her. Needles to say, I was ecstatic we got to make out, standing next to her car in the parking lot of Downtown Disney. Such a beautiful, smart woman. And she came all the way down here to meet me at the venue. Such soft supple kiss-able lips.

I begin to apologize. By now its been, what, close to an hour, no food, and I’m making her walk back all the way from Cole’s. Where there was no “vegetarian” food, no options, no fun. This is bad, I’m sulking badly now. The more vexed she becomes, the more I apologize. I’m coming across as a complete dilettante now.

Step 3 – feed a lady what she doesn’t want. In fact, don’t feed her at all.

Kat told me, “Have a plan A, B and C.” And I listened. I made my plan. The plan was as follows: take her on a motorcycle ride to a fancy dinner downtown. Reservations were made for two, at 9pm, at two restaurants in the downtown area—Checkers and the Lazy Ox. With the intention being, we’d go to The Lazy Ox, and in the event it was full, just move over to Checkers. After, go get a drink—and maybe dessert—at Cole’s, and/or the Red Car Bar inside. Perfect date: complete.
…I got to her place in Silver Lake, and decided to change everything.

There’s a plethora of qualities that make her an incredibly intriguing personality to me. Just to name a few examples are her penchant for being straightforward and cavalier, she plays the cello and has since she was nine years of age, and she likes to ride on motorcycles. Add to that her creativity with photography, has her own business, and is incredibly smart and has a striking beauty, and I was smitten. The problem is I let all of this bowl me over. I hadn’t eaten all day, but I could care less. But you can’t tell a lady that you’re going to take her to an extravagant meal/date, and have promises fall flat on to a dull, din and dirty concrete pavement of tabula rasa, and have the night go well.
…or can you?

We text quite a bit over the intervening days between our “big date.” I promise lots of things, and talk quite grandiosely about myself—as I am of course want to do with a lady I’m attempting to court. I tell her all I ride is my motorcycle, and I’m goint to pick her up and take her to dinner on that. She surprises me and says she rides from time to time, and she believes that going to a fancy dinner astride my motor-bike would be quite fun.

I bring an extra helmet and motorcycle jacket with me that night. I’m exited, her legs wrapped around me, wearing a dress, on a warm Summery night. She entrusting me with the totality of her life as we ride on the crowded streets of LA—on Sunset, through Echo Park, in to the thick traffic and hilly streets of Downtown LA—it’s a dangerous and thrilling ride.

I park us right in front of Bottega Louie. This is where I have decided we are to dine. I want to impress the hell out of her. And I’ve made up my mind in my head, that this place is the most impressive. We walk inside and it certainly is impressive. It’s 9:30pm by now. She’s hungry, I’m hungry: the maitre des says it’s a 1.5 hour wait. I take one luck at her, and I can tell—no, I know—I’m fucked. And not in a good way.

There is no kiss, not even a hug, as I depart from her front door the next morning. I’m a little chagrined at this rebuff. We had such a warm and seemingly warm night. It was not by any means lecherous, as I acted the complete gentleman due to my high regard and affectations for her. But no amiability upon departure, even a look in to her eyes escaped my purview. Now that—more than any of the previous nights stupid things I had done—made me reticent.

When we finally make our long way back from Cole’s. Which, let me sum up that disaster, by simply saying that, upon being startled about the long wait for Bottega Louie, I decided we would merely begin with drinks at Cole’s. Which was a gross miscalculation of how svelt, tiny, and hungry this young girl was, and she damn well needed to eat now. We got to Cole’s, hoped to simply eat there, and found they had nothing but a largess of meat sandwhiches on which to impugn one’s hunger. We sat down, she took one look at the menu, and declared, “I can’t eat anything here.” I bolted up, and we instantly left. The only clear decision I made all night.

Right next door to Bottega Louie, is a seemingly upscale Thai restaurant. No idea what the name of it is. She did not want to eat Thai, was not feeling in the mood, and just did not sound like a good first—and promised-fancy—dinner date place to either of us. That’s where we ate.

The look and mood of her face and body, I can only describe as…weary disillusionment. But she was so hungry, that upon entering and smelling the odor of the food, she said, “Oh. It smells good.” I know I wasn’t out of the woods yet, but man, was I relieved.

Step 4 – say too much

If I had a Dad around to teach me stuff when I was growing up, I would imagine that he would have said lofty and important words of wisdom about women to impart—although I imagined they would sound quite clichéd—like, “Son, when dealing with a woman, play your cards close the vest.” Or, “A woman likes to be played with, titillated, you can’t be brusque with a woman, she’s a gentle soul that needs to be treated with the utmost of charms and calm ease.” Or I would even imagine my dear old drunken dad could have at least maybe told me something useful like, “Pal, if a broad likes to drink: give her drink!”
But my immodesty of having been brought up by 3 women—not to mention all of my aunts and grandma who doted on me as I was the youngest of only two boys in the entire gigantic Mexican brood—has me playing at odds between a very chauvinistic fellow, attempting at every tug and pull to let out his Machismo, (or as the Dominican’s call it: Tiguerismo), and the tender extremely too romantic and genteel side of me, that wants to play the part of the Cary Grant fellow, who is a slight buffoon but is doing his best to honestly sweep you off your feet, the very way a lady should deserve to be.

Back at her apartment, this is the game we play. In fact as we leave the restaurant, and ready to ride the moto; we kiss, we hold hands, we talk as we drive. The warm air of Los Angeles flowing through us and the motorcycle carrying us steely through the night.
I have indeed brought her a bottle of wine, and she instantly goes to open it as we walk in the door. I’m reluctant to even take my shoes off. I’m so taken by this girl, that I’m at a loss. Were this to be a one-night stand, or some girl I cared not much about, but just wanted to bed, I’d know exactly what to do. In this situation I am not cavalier. I wait. I don’t plan. I’m hesitant to. I’m no longer even prodding. I’m doing something evil, and strange for the setting in which we find ourselves in: I’m being honest.

We finally sit down to eat, and we’re so hungry we can’t decide on the food. She wants to decide on wine first anyway. I’m still fucking things up. She says she wants a red wine, white wine makes her sick. Which is perfect, because white wine gives me a headache. I’m attempting to look at her menu from across our table. She shoots me a look without even looking at me, and suggest I have a wine menu in front of me I could look at. I say, “Oh, yeah, sorry.” Still apologizing…all night long. Geez.
I nervously suggest a Pinot Grigio. She points out that’s a white wine. “Uh, I mean Pinot…the other one.” “Noir,” she says. “Yeah.”
I order the most expensive Pinot Noir they have. We finally order.
We start drinking, and finally, conversation is flowing. I again apologize, but this time in a more respectful, and—hopefully—chivalrous manner. I become more comfortable with myself as I order a Shochu for myself, and I explain that I’m quite nervous, because I think she’s beautiful—in all senses of the word—and I wanted to take her to the best restaurant. Show her the best time. But I fucked it up by going for too much.
She reddens with shyness, and this seems to both calm her down, and somehow, completely win her over in to my graces again. And we haven’t even eaten yet.
Wow, so far so good.

The light is turning off and on, as I’ve got her pushed up against one of the walls of her living room. Apparently there’s a light switch there. I move her to another wall in the kitchen. We drink more wine. I look in to her eyes and tell her what I’m thinking: she’s a great gal, think she’s smart, great kisser, interesting personality. I’m maybe looking too deep in to her eyes. I think I even realize this. But it doesn’t take much to get me drunk, and I’m one of those I-love-you-man drunks; get me drinking and I become the most romantic guy around. She’s turning pink, her dimples are scrunched up to her now almond shaped eyes, as I’m embarrassing her now, with all my platitudes. And time passes quickly now that we’re both buzzed, drunk, tipsy, whatever it is. Were on the couch. Were taking off shoes. Were on the bed. I lie next to her in my jeans and tee shirt and wrap my arms around her comfortably, while she holds my hands. …she has a remote that turns off the lights in her room. (Eat your heart out The Clapper)

The good thing about riding a motorcycle is that it takes most, if not all, of your focus when driving. There are few distractions, and you have to constantly be aware. Additionally that morning was warm and sunny. Such a good day for a ride. I made my way South on W. Sunset, passing the turns I should have made to get on the Freeway, like Silver Lake Blvd. But I wanted to stop at Echo Park. Sometimes you need serene beauty—even if it is of a man-made park and man-made fountain/water display—to shake lose events which…maybe weren’t, or did not turn out as, beautiful as you wanted them to be. Then again maybe that’s the problem with memory and hind sight. Maybe that’s the problem with people. I imagine I’m Steve McQueen, riding the streets of an old bygone LA. I swiftly pull off Echo Park St., and station my bike next to the park. I take out my iPhone and take a picture or two of the park. I’ve captured the beauty of today: a warm sunny day, families at play, with the background of a water park in front, maybe behind them. The city surrounds, but you can get away from the reality of the grey ephemeral grip she has on you. You get on the freeway back to the beach. You ride fast. You ride away from her. Even though this time. You don’t wan to.