My first stop was at Taco Bell.  Since I’m still on this fucking diet, I haven’t been able to enjoy Taco Bell very much recently.  But I took a three-day LA hiatus from the diet and went with my standard order: two beef burrito supremes and two soft taco supremes (all with no tomatoes).  I threw in one of those crunchwrap supremes for good measure.  It was going to be a good night.

Next, in keeping with the “two” theme, I stopped at the supermarket and got two bottles of wine and two cans of Red Bull.  It was going to be a very good night.

The next three hours I can only describe as a Bacchanalian feast the likes of which (I’m certain) that hotel room had never seen before.  Between the sour cream, caffeine, booze, and masturbating, it was a one-man orgy: drinking, eating, and fucking (myself).  No longer will I fantasize about Miss America contestants or remember steamy sex with ex’s when I masturbate.  I will think only of those three glorious hours.   

(Is anyone else grossed out by my comfortable use of “steamy sex with ex’s?”  I mean, ewww.)

By now, the night had completely turned around and I was ready to go.  (Pretty much) Drunk and full of caffeine and Taco Bell, I headed to the bar to meet Allan and friends. 

Well.

…

Let’s just say that I do much better in LA than I do in New York, as the women there are much more receptive to what I have to offer.  Let’s do some comparisons, shall we?

In Los Angeles, saying “I have a development deal” to a woman is equivalent to saying “I have a ten inch penis, I love kids and my mom, and I donate half of my income – which is substantial – to help orphaned children with AIDS in Africa.  I also spend most of my springs in Africa, killing lions who threaten the AIDS orphans, with my bare hands.  Actually, my hands are not bare, but rather wrapped in soft and fluffy pillows.  Otherwise, it just wouldn’t be fair to the lions.”    

Saying “I have a development deal” to a woman in NYC does not work nearly as well.  When I mention the deal to women in NYC, the response I get is usually, “You have an onion ring in your beard.  Or maybe it’s funnel cake.  I can’t tell – it’s really mashed in there.  Is that your balls that I smell and did you throw up on yourself?” 

In LA, the “I have a deal” line gets something like, “Do you want to see my tits now or later?  I know a nice alley close by.  Can I buy you a drink?  Maybe rub your dick a little?  Wanna see me make out with my friend?” 

Why, again, do I not live in LA right now?  I am unstoppable out there.  Absolutely unstoppable.  I thank my LA friends for this, who introduce me to new people by saying, “This is my friend Jason – he is a very talented writer” and then mention the TV show and book.  Again by comparison, my New York friends almost never introduce me to new people, and when they do it’s more like, “This is Justin or something.  He pays people to watch them jerk off.  Also, he’s got the hairiest back I’ve ever seen.  He’s like a gorilla, but without all the strength and strange eroticism.  Hey, do you have any drugs?  I’ve done so much cocaine my dick is buzzing.”    

[But I can’t get too full of myself.  Out in LA I met a girl who works at People, a friend of a friend, and when the friend told her that I was in the “Bachelors” issue last year, she said, “Oh, I remember you.”  Then I did my standard joke whenever the People thing is brought up, which is to say, “Yeah, well, 2005 was a slow year for bachelors.”  Usually the girl laughs at this.  This girl didn’t.  Instead, she got pensive and said, “Yeah, I was in that meeting and we really didn’t have much.”  Ouch baby.  Very ouch.]

At the bar, I saw a girl that I went to college with, an attractive Eastern European broad.  However I didn’t say hello, even though we made eye contact and we both know each other.  Our relationship soured in my junior year when she learned that I wrote (and was frequently performing in post-bar jam sessions in my apartment) a song called, “Elena, I Want Your Slovakian P-ssy.”  I personally did not want her Slavic special place, but a buddy of mine did.  Generous guy that I am, I wrote the song for him (I was kinda like the Kris Kristofferson of the Boston College class of 2001 – and no, I’m not entirely sure what that means).  It was only a small hit though, not nearly approaching the popularity of my other hits “Monkey Man,” “Eviction,” “Masturbation,”  “Fucked Up for the Weekend,” and my last hit, “It’s Not My Fault I Like to Drink (It’s Not My Fault I Like to Puke Some),” all of which were co-written with my old college roommate Dan.  God I fucking miss college.  At any rate, I did not feel like this was the appropriate time for me to try to mend our fences, what with me now reeking of tequila and self-importance and her with some guy in his late-30’s who looked like he owned a Hummer (and possibly several other cars) and had an STD.

At the end of the evening, my friends invited me to an after-party in one of the Canyons or something, but I had to decline.  Not just because there was mention of a jacuzzi at this place and I did not want to stand awkwardly in the corner while the dozen or so girls and guys I was with were having half-naked fun, but also because I reminded them that I actually had an important meeting the next day that I could not be (too) hungover for.  Well, mostly it was the awkwardness of the Jacuzzi that kept me away and not so much the meeting.  Whatever. 

The bar was about a fifteen minute walk from my hotel.  I turned down a ride and instead chose to walk, taking advantage of the gorgeous Southern California night.  If I were sober, I would have enjoyed it more, but instead I sang Hall and Oates’ “I Can’t Go For That” to myself as I zig-zagged down the street, text messaging nearly every girl in my phone book, writing either only “hi!” or “.” hoping to illicit a response (the period worked much better than the “hi!”, which was generally ignored).  Though no one responded that night (since all but maybe three or four of the text messages went to people on the East Coast), I did have a dozen responses the next morning, which required me to apologize for my weird behavior. 

I woke up without too much of a hangover, got a grand tour of LA from a friend, and had my meeting, which was excellent and left me convinced that I’m going to make bundles of money (read: I will be eaten alive).  An excellent day.  The following day after a leisurely brunch I made my way back to NYC, just in time for the 115° heat index. 

On the flight home, I watched “V for Vendetta” (sweet movie) and wondered why I don’t live in LA.  The weather is great, the people are nice, and I’m pretty sure that I could probably get laid out there, maybe even on a consistent basis, maybe even by a woman who’s not sleeping with me just so she can buy formula for her baby.  So what’s the hold up?  What’s keeping me in NYC?  I have a good job here, but we have an LA office.  I have some friends here, but many have moved away.  And I have no girlfriend keeping me here, only certain “women” that I have cybersex with (and that chick with the kid).  So why don’t I just move to LA?

But then on the cab ride home from JFK, I looked at the skyline of New York City and was nearly moved to tears by its beauty.  And I realized I how much I love it here.  For better or worse, I am a New Yorker.  For all its faults – the high rent, the millions of tourists, the B&T trash from Jersey and Long Island, the alarming rate of HPV, the oppressive summers and frigid winters, the lack of fake breasts, my Chinese neighbors who sell live fish on my street all summer long, the fact that I’ll never have a car or a yard as long as I’m here – this is my home. 

And then in a perfect New York moment, the cabbie, in his soft Haitian accent, said, “Hey, hey – fattie, fattie” and angled the rearview mirror slightly, just enough to give me a view of his exposed penis, which he was wiggling in his hand.  I smiled, nodded, and gave him $7.  And I knew it was true: I loved New York more than ever.

It was good to be home.