OK. Something a little more fun and light. Oh, and if you've been to West Hollywood, you know this lady in the pic... "R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-o-th-as?" She's cool like that.
Anyway, met up with a friend visiting from NYC for the weekend. Did the West Hollywood thing, which was surprisingly quiet. Abbey especially.
So we left for a little light dinner. And as we were walking down Santa Monica Blvd., heard that sexy, cool little song by Rihanna, "Please Don't Stop The Music," blasting from one of the clubs. Rage.
We stopped in. Discovered it was 18+ night. Danced anyway. Because we're sexy, cool like that.
Got approached by a guy for a dance. Very flattering. Danced. Did the post dance conversation. Waiting for the young man to get to the deal breaker question -- How old are you? It's as if L.A. folks still haven't picked up the "Living in L.A." manual -- you never talk/ask numbers, age, income, weight. But whatever. He's young, hasn't gotten the memo yet.
He was 20. I'm 34. 1987. 1973. Fuzzy Math. Saw that crush-glow and happiness evaporate from his face. Was mentally prepared for it. We danced anyway again. I gave him a card with my book info on it.
My pseudo-public status lit up his face. He asked for my number. I told him to bring his crew to my book signing on Wednesday at A Different Light instead.
I guess the deal wasn't broken. But there's no WAY I would date anyone who's 20. Dance, yes. Date, no. Not a candidate for Chris Hansen Dateline NBC. That's one story, gossip item I don't even want to be associated with, nor will you have to worry about reading about.
But back to you. Your age dating rules?
Sometime Reaching Across Lines Is Filled with Peril
15 hours ago