Do the Oscars Matter Anymore?


It’s that time of year again: when people come together to talk about what some famous actresses wore—who wore it best—oh, and which film won Best Picture. Probably something artsy and serious. Sometimes it’s deserved—a film of true excellence and craftsmanship in writing, acting, and directing. But usually it’s just a film that you may or may not have seen. (I don’t know about you, but I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve decided all serious dramas will be relegated to DVD viewing—‘cause, you know: why do I need to see talking faces on a big screen?) Also, movie prices are astronomical, so—okay, I see it: I’m part of the cycle and why Hollywood is nickel and diming every potential film that passes through their gates in the hopes of production. No wonder they’re settling for the bottom line so often—a “sure” thing (read: sequel, prequel, or remake of something that did legitimate business once). But I digress.

Anyway, it’s the Oscars again. And of second most importance, it is 2017. I make a point of the year because frankly, I don’t believe the Oscars are nor have been the same for a long time now.

I often wonder what my younger doppelganger today would think of this Hollywood pastime now. What do young, budding (okay, and gay!) dreamers like me today think of this rapidly declining tradition of awarding the “Best” in Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences?

Cut to: me in the early 1990s. Maybe because things often look better in retrospect or I just didn’t know any better because I was a kid, but: the Oscars felt like they meant something back then. The five, count ‘em, just five nominated films for Best Picture (more on the topic of that category being expanded to ten nominations later) really felt like they earned that coveted spot. Each film that was nominated felt special, and it was usually a tight race that was more or less about merit and not just politicking by studios and adhering to social trends of the day.

Culturally, budding gay—I mean, budding dreamers of all stripes only had a few outlets to view their favorite stars back then: People magazine, and “Entertainment Tonight”. Which meant we were primed and hungry to see all these stars convene on one epic night—a smorgasbord of glamour, glitz, and at least to an idealistic kid like me back then: talent!

The Oscars have been cheekily dubbed “The Superbowl for Women”—in terms of annual cultural impact and significance. But unlike the actual Superbowl, the Oscars have been morphing and changing notably, and gradually eclipsed by other smaller Superbowls in the past two decades.

In the age of Twitter, TMZ, and the E! Channel, we can literally follow our favorite stars online 24/7 to see what they ate for breakfast or what color their kids’ poop is; spy on them as they exit an airport terminal via shaky video footage, or consume their daily lives in a craftily executed weekly reality TV show.

With these enlightening options that we’ve been blessed with through technical progress, the mystery of what it means to be rich and famous and talented has become rote and accessible in ways never before imaginable.

I have a feeling my teenage doppelganger today would view the Oscars the same way I viewed silent films or drive-in movie theaters when I was a teen in the 1990s.

Perhaps in response to this changing culture (read: poorer ratings for the telecast—undoubtedly due to the Academy’s penchant for nominating “serious” films that don’t do much business at the box office)—the category for Best Picture was expanded to include up to ten nominees, in 2009. The Academy claimed this was a throwback to the early years in the 1930s and ‘40s, where there were up to ten nominees per year—but many cynical observers assumed it was a blatant attempt to nab more viewers for the annual show. The quip “Are there even ten films worthy of being nominated every year?” hit the web quicker than you could say ‘Action!’. Incidentally, the Oscars suffered its lowest TV ratings ever the previous year, so read into the subsequent change however way you want.

As I alluded to earlier, I could relate to the criticism on the merit of today’s films—let alone their worthiness of being nominated for such an honor. In our current cinematic climate, I think the cap of five nominees is/should’ve been more relevant than ever—an elite prestige worth striving for, artistically.

Nearly a decade later, the expansion of nominees hasn’t made a mark on me as an Oscar viewer or a movie fan. If anything, it makes it harder for me to remember what films were nominated each year—but that could be more of a reflection on my waning interest for the show altogether.

In 2016, the Academy was confronted with yet another issue—this time one of moral. The lack of diverse nominees that year spurred a boycott by many African-American artists and viewers, who claimed a racial bias against them. Although I understood the greater issue of diversity, as a minority myself even I had reservations about the campaign. Was the Academy biased, or were there simply no quality films that year that starred African-Americans (or other ethnic groups)? If it was the latter, for instance—the issue wasn’t the Academy, but the movie industry itself.

Nonetheless, in true form, the Academy reacted swiftly with their image in mind—claiming they would add a significant amount of women and people of color to their voting bloc. The validity of this gesture aside, the consequence of this detrimental publicity also left a viewer like me wondering how sincere future nominations would be. As well intentioned as the campaign was to shed light on the Oscars’ lack of diversity, the fallout could be that they might overcompensate and recognize films (not people, mind you) of lesser merit to meet political correctness.

This shifting of objectives and influences only aided the rapidly declining relevance of the Oscars in my eyes. It was not about simply awarding the best films anymore—but a commercial and social experiment gone awry.

But this was nothing new overall: the Oscars have always been about more than just the merit of moviemaking, of course.

I turned eighteen when the world entered a new millennium in 2000, and the year “American Beauty” won against a highly publicized award campaign for its chief rival nominee that year, “The Cider House Rules”. Maybe because I’d technically became an adult and therefore achieved full enlightenment at last, but the fact that a movie studio launched a publicity campaign to swarm voters to choose their film was not lost on me. Apparently, voters don’t just go into hibernation and pick winners, then emerge back into the real world alive and rejuvenated by the purity of their choices.

The validity of their choices has often been debated for other reasons as well: awarding an actor or director for their current, less stellar work simply to acknowledge their greater body of work is another common longstanding ploy.

That being said, it’s safe to say that the curtain has finally gone down on my love affair with the Oscars. Honestly, the last few years I’ve been less and less drawn to the extravaganza. As late as 2013, I still recall having a few vestiges of excitement that I’d had in my youth—feeling like I was witnessing something greater than myself. But the past two years and on the eve of this year, it’s dawned on me now that the heyday of the show has long joined the past. It doesn’t detract from the merit of truly good movies, but that’s the thing: good movies and the Oscars are not the same thing, and they haven’t been for a long time.

So it’s that time of year again—when people come together to talk about what some famous actresses wore—and who wore it best. Oh, and which film won Best Picture. Exactly. That’s all it is.




Pop Culture and Me: a Forbidden Love Affair


No one expects me to like pop culture. I believe two key factors play into this: my race, and my lack of style. I’m not going to change either one. Or the unyielding fact that I’ve always been quite enamored by pop culture.

Okay, my race I can’t change. But could I change my style so that it translates into a media-savvy hipster? Or at the very least, someone who looks like they watch TV?

How does that work? Should I wear “Walking Dead” t-shirts? Get a “Breaking Bad” Tattoo? Wear everything I see from Forever 21 to prove that I’m just like everyone else?

The funny thing about being misunderstood is that although we loathe it, we secretly enjoy it too—because it proves that there’s more to us than meets the eye.

I suppose there are some people out there who are happy being simple and straightforward—easily “read”, or as the kids call it these days: basic. See, I am hip enough to know that.

For the rest of us, we instinctively feel that that translates to being shallow, which is generally seen as a pejorative term unless you’re a reality star. Check. I know what constitutes a reality show star.

The truth is, I do play a role in my own conundrum too. It’s my lack of desire to assimilate on some levels that distances me from my peers, which fosters animosity and misunderstanding. But if I’m not interested in jumping on the latest bandwagon, that’s my right too. And being an individual does not preclude an awareness of what’s current in popular culture.

It’s not all bad either, to be fair. When I mentioned something about the Golden Globes one year (yes, I’m even an awards show junkie), a friend innocently remarked: “Wow, I thought you’d be—too cool to watch something like that.” Aww, ain’t that sweet? So maybe there is a contingent out there that isn’t attacking my character when assuming things about me. They’re simply deeming me to be more enlightened than I actually am, which is flattering—and less insulting.

But alas, I can succumb to frivolity as much as the next person. Who doesn’t enjoy the latest celebrity news? It’s like a large order of McDonald’s French fries: not good for you, but you’re not interested in being a saint. You’re allowed an indulgence once in a while. How utterly boring would it be if we only did things that were ethically “good” and enriching for us? If that were the case, there’d be no decent TV shows, movies, or music. We’d all be wearing white robes and chanting scriptures and talking about nothing more provocative than the weather.

So there you have it. The unremarkable reason why a person like me can enjoy the latest Adele album or the Oscars is just that: it’s human nature. Sometimes the simplest answer is the hardest one for people to see or accept. Apparently.

No One is Adventurous in L.A.

No one Adventurous

I understand now why people hate trying new things.

When I moved to LA., I was my usual self: Let’s go out and meet new people and try new things!

Little did I know everyone was like that once—when they were three years old. Then they realized everything sucks, so you might as well stick to what you like.

Meeting new people is best if you’re under the age of twenty-four, or through a mutual friend (to vouch that you aren’t a complete loser), or when you’re under hypnosis. Any other scenario is as likely to produce a favorable outcome as winning the lottery in Antarctica.

In L.A., no one likes anything outside their neighborhood. If you suggest going to a bar or a club, say, two miles away, you’re immediately shot down with the terse L.A. response: “No, I don’t like that part of town.” And you’re immediately deemed an outcast, because you don’t speak their same lingo: Perpetual Letdown. People in L.A. love to be exclusive, and when I say people I’m talking about people. Not celebrities, not people who are aspiring to be celebrities. Normal, “average”-looking people who could wake up in Pittsburgh and look like they belong there.

L.A. is warm, but its people are not. It’s not like how they’re portrayed on TV or the movies: peppy, happy to be under the perpetual sun, or grateful to be within such close proximity to the grandeur of the ocean… If you arrive here with a smile, they’ll immediately know you’re not from here.

I love trying new things (yes, I’m adventurous, get over it!). But after a while, the law of diminishing returns starts to well, reveal diminishing returns. How many times are you gonna keep feeding that slot machine quarters without getting anything in return?

When people say “no” to anything outside their comfort zone, it’s not necessarily because they’re lame and you are awesome. Okay, sometimes they are giant dorks—the type who secretly hopes new friends and a dream job will literally just knock on their door and they will just sign the form to accept. There are bozos like that. But as I’ve learned through my many forays into the unknown, sometimes saying no to something new is really just a form of self-preservation. If you know you’re gonna hate the new thing, or more importantly: the new thing is gonna hate you (I’m looking at you, trendy bar that I won’t name in Hollywood that I went to—as it turns out—for no good reason at all, because I misread my boss’s directions). Sometimes you can suss up through past experience that “Hey, this really isn’t gonna be my scene or my flavor, or my drug”.

This is really hard for me to accept, much like the majority of people in the world who won’t accept a person who just doesn’t drink alcohol. It’s an affront to my innate wiring: For gawd’s sake, we’re put on this earth to EXPERIENCE!

Some people are, to put it bluntly, sensitive. They can’t abide showing up at a place where they’ll feel judged, ignored, or at worst—forced to make small talk. I guess I have thick skin, or to put it less flatteringly: I’m just blithe and willful. If I go somewhere new and I’m flatly rebuked, instead of crying big baby tears on the inside, a perverse part of my brain lights up: ‘Hey, I’m in a weird situation! I’m experiencing something someone who looks, acts, and thinks like me—shouldn’t be experiencing! Woooaaa!!!’ I’m an armchair-twice-removed-backseat-driver-faux Anthropologist in that regard. I revel in being unwarranted, observing foreign environments once in a while—as long as I can return to my comfy little world afterwards. I’m the guy who has to peak behind the curtain, even if I might get my nose snapped off by the vicious crocodile that’s behind there.

I’m not bragging. It comes with a price. I’m not insensitive. Thick-skinned and sensitive are not mutually exclusive. I’m sensitive enough to absorb all those negative reactions, but I’m still curious enough to do it again. And again. ‘Til eventually I show up at a grizzly bear wrestling contest, or a hipster bar in Los Feliz and—you can read the rest of it in my obituary.

Why Was I Even Friends With That Guy?


Do you ever look back and ask yourself, while gagging: “Why was I even friends with that guy?” AAaaaaaacccckkkkkkk!!

But seriously. Sometimes we lean on people—aww, isn’t that sweet/ romantic/technically unsound?—because we needed them at that particular time in our lives. It’s a natural part of life—like zits, falling down because your foot’s asleep, or… gagging to get that hunk of mucus out of your throat.

You know you’re taking one of these trains to “Meh” Town when:

You never integrate this person with other people in your life, because you know it will have the same effect as heating a popcorn bag inside your gas oven.

You look forward to having dinner—not having it with them.

You spend a lot of time talking about innocuous things like… movies. ‘Cause seriously: it’s the most exciting subject in the history of mankind, that ISN’T personal or revealing. What did people who didn’t like each other—even TALK about, before the invention of celluloid? Oh right—patterns in the universe that emit heat or cold.

You never develop a single inside joke to share intimately with one another, or even tell a joke —in the most extreme cases. It’s all just… well, movies probably. If you’re lucky: there’s a terrible thing that happened in the news that week. That’ll fetch you some fodder for a brief shining moment.

But alas, eventually one day, like a long overdue diagnosis—you realize it’s run its course. If you’re lucky, you came to this realization first—and the other poor sap has to learn through the Rule of Two: he can only attempt to say “hi” or plan your next dubious outing TWICE, before giving up due to your lack of interest. If you’re even luckier: both of you share this brief moment of psychic connection and part ways simultaneously! This moment of cosmic clarity is usually preceded by something telling but unremarkable—the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back: a dinner where he showed up late­— again—for the eighth time; the misguided “mixer” where his friends met you for the first time and hated you; or he keeps spacing out when you talk about movies.

Next thing you know, you’ve decided to block his posts on Facebook ‘cause you can’t stand his face anymore, and those cheesy affirmations he posts ten times a day/ via pictures with quotes, or actual quotes he managed to assemble with words that probably came from his crap factory.

You think back with smug satisfaction at your own astute, albeit delayed action of “cleaning house” in this area of your life. All is right, now.

Fast forward to four months later—you find yourself clicking on his Facebook profile again, out of boredom (hey, you have more free time now, so…). With mild disgust/perverse curiosity (like peering out your car window at a mangled possum corpse on the side of the road) you wonder: ‘What’s this bastard up to these days?’

Then you see that the world order is, indeed, still upheld after all: his cheesy affirmations are still littering this corner of cyberspace, along with posts of his ugly, cheesy friends that you hated too. And you can’t help but smile pitifully (at him, of course), with that familiar feeling rising up from your chest—say it with me:

Why was I even friends with that guy?”


Bad Friend Dates or: My Experiences with Meetup!



My first major geographical move as an adult was met with unbridled success: I got what I wanted, within a conveniently short breadth of time. This kind of fortune, like most things in life, comes with a price. With success comes hubris. And with hubris comes… expectation. And expectation can turn out either way, so when it does go the other way—you might not be prepared. But, I’ve always seeked balance in my life—or more accurately, it seeks me: for every unfettered blessing I’m bestowed, I must endure a swift lapse of misfortune to keep me humble. It’s the universe’s way of keepin’ it real, ya’ know.

When I moved from Long Beach to L.A. at age twenty-eight, I should’ve realized that I should’ve done it earlier. ‘Cause no one past their mid-twenties makes new friends, you see.

That first year in L.A. was terrible, and so were the subsequent ones incidentally. Trying to make new friends only a twenty-five-minute drive up north from where I once made friends so easily, went something like this:

My Brain: You are awesome, man. Just smile and say hi. You are mysterious, fun, and magnetic! Keep talking!

Other Person’s Brain: Get this freak away from me!

In a nutshell.

This is what happens when you’re met with initial success. You literally can’t accept the fact that the formula that once proved so lucrative for you, is completely obsolete in this new scenario.

But I can’t completely blame myself for my sudden failure; all those friends I previously made were co-conspirators for liking me so readily in the first place! Haha… It was quite stunning, and humbling, to realize that those friends were the exception to the rule though. They accepted me and were open enough to see something in myself that was glaringly overlooked by the rest of the world.

I chalk all of this malaise up into a tidy sentiment called: Finding out what the REAL world is like. In the real world, most people WON’T like you. Most people WON’T find you funny. Most people WON’T find you attractive. Most people WON’T take the time to get to know you. Especially in a city like L.A. where everyone is trying to be someone they’re currently not. Quite honestly, unless they think you can get them somewhere closer to their pipe dream, you’re just a roadblock. And no one in L.A. likes roadblocks. They’ll run you over. The sooner you learn all this, the better.

Since I was genuinely bored of (and outgrown) the bar scene, I needed other avenues to meet and make new friends. I heard from a friend of a friend (Irony? Ha), of a website just for that: Meetup. Being open-minded and proactive, I joined and eagerly took a stab at it.

One of the first meetups I went to was for aspiring “L.A. TV Writer’s”. At the time, I had the fanciful notion that I could pump out sitcom scripts for a living, all for the hefty price they typically charge. It was at a sports/casual bar on the Westside of town, near me.

When I got there, you could cut the air around these pseudo-scribes with a knife. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. “Artists” are heady individuals—it’s all that hot air.

I started chatting with this portly, amiable woman around my age at the bar. She and I shared some common ground: our day jobs were actually in the same plaza, and she also loved Long Beach. I felt harmless and noncommittal enough, but as soon as more wannabe writers materialized onto the scene, I saw her leap at the chance to extract herself from my sphere, to chat with others. I couldn’t get within breathing distance of her the rest of the evening.

Later, when I found myself sitting at the end of a long table, I found myself having as much fun as one could have at a dentist’s office: getting others to talk to me was like requesting to perform a root canal. One innocuous, quiet girl moved from the other end of the table to my side, literally sitting across from me. But in spite of this forward move, shockingly enough, she didn’t relocate to engage with me. I glanced at her expectantly, to which she looked at me with arched eye brows that genuinely indicated: “Why are you looking at me??” To which I reasoned in my head: “’Cause you walked over here and sat right in front of me!!” We traded these looks for far longer than comfort would allow (which is .2 seconds, by the way). The suspense was unbearable, not to mention the blatant silence that loomed two feet between us! I, being far less tolerant of social awkwardness, aimed to dispel it by simply speaking—asking her what kind of writing she was working on.

She answered politely, but gave no incentive for me to reciprocate. She didn’t inquire anything of me, and was not effusive in her responses. Apparently, she was there to clam up in comfort, with me! I might as well have been an empty chair.

The rest of the night followed suit. All those writers were more or less standoffish, terse, and indifferent. I highly doubt any of them attended another one of the group’s meetings again. What’s that poetic saying? We are all islands… beautiful, huh.

This is the catch-22 of life: when something simply bad happens to you, how are you supposed to know how to react—if it’s never happened to you before? There is nothing in your wheelhouse to prepare you for this. So that first encounter will simply be your one-way initiation by disaster, and God forbid if it occurs to you again—you’ll be all the more able to duck, sink and cover like a pro. Right? Well, keep reading.

That first year or two living in L.A., I was like a chicken with its head cut off: No one wanted to be near such a freak. Oh, and I kept running around, persisting, regardless of the discombobulating experiences I endured on the social front.

I went to another writer’s group—this time specifically for Lesbian, Gay and Bi or Transgender writers. I figured, two for one! The odds are in my favor, right?


Regardless of how poorly received I was in the previous Meetup, I wasn’t going to throw in the towel just yet. (I’ve such a high tolerance for rejection, which in hindsight I believe is more flaw than virtue. Much like pain, rejection serves to warn you that you’ve gone over your threshold). I waltzed into that meeting at Starbucks on the Westside like a teenager joining a “Twilight” fan club. I couldn’t wait to talk about Jacob! What I didn’t realize was: I’d walked into the detention room.

About a half dozen of us gay scribes sat face to face, the median age being a decent high-30s, which is fine by me—I flatter myself into thinking I’m mature for my age anyway. Well, mature for a gay man/writer, ha…

As we went around the room sequentially, introducing ourselves and discussing any current projects we were working on, I soon learned how jaded and indifferent these people were. The contrast between their age (ahem, late 30s, early 40s) to their somewhat crass, tactless bedroom manner in speaking to veritable strangers —was jarring to say the least. I couldn’t comprehend why they bothered to show up in the first place, only to be predisposed toward disappointment. And I being such an optimist, was so clueless that it didn’t register to me this wasn’t going to turn out well.

When I divulged to the group about my TV writing plans, someone naturally pressed me for what TV shows I drew inspiration from. I confidently disclosed my love for some of the best-written shows of that year: 30 Rock and Parks and Recreation… Silence.

Complete Silence.

These aspiring writers, had NEVER seen what were two of the most acclaimed, innovative, and arguably funniest comedies of all time!

I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone, where I’d wandered into a parallel universe where everyone looks the same and speaks through a series of clucks and meows.

All the group members looked at me sheepishly. One said: “Oh, well I liked 3rd Rock from the Sun…”

The only remotely amiable person there, by way of Northern California of course, offered gently that she’d heard of 30 Rock, and that there’s “that gay skinny character named Kenneth”—to which, I had to correct her that he wasn’t in fact gay at all.

Another woman in the group simply couldn’t bear putting on a front any longer, and went off on a tirade that she wholly didn’t care for the show, and didn’t like Alec Baldwin, or “that Sarah Palin-lookalike lady with the glasses…” She said this with all the finesse of a junior high teen rebuking someone for being on Team Jacob. She was probably pushing forty, by the way.

The rest of the meeting proved to be lackluster, as you might expect from “writers” who had barely even heard of two highly-revered, well-written TV shows. Yes, I just pulled a snob card there. It’s not even snobby; it’s just fact. It’s like a minus snob-card actually. The next one I pull is free.

For the remainder of that irrevocable Saturday afternoon in that coffee shop, I was met with resigned indifference and probable covert disdain, every time I tried opening my mouth again. My youth, my race, and simply my tastes probably played into it. I do think that (some) older people tend to be ageist against younger people in these types of scenarios: someone like me is deemed green or unworldly, or just as likely: intimidating.

I never went to another meeting with that group again, although I told myself in the back of mind that I should. Again, the attendees from that disastrous first meeting didn’t seem to show up to subsequent ones, according to the website. I would’ve been safe from the Jacob haters.

Still not giving up, towards the end of my second year in La La Land, I joined a Meetup group specifically for “Gay 20-Somethings”. Down to the essentials. The turnout was impressive, and given that they were young—they were less jaded by default.

In one of the earlier events that I attended, there was a Chinese American man about two years younger than me, named John. John wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t thin either. He had some meat on him, or some robust bones underneath. He was far from attractive, but not hideous either. He was simply average.

Another “virtue” of mine, is that I don’t discriminate based on physical appearances. Having been undoubtedly on the tail end of that prejudice throughout my life (who hasn’t?) and knowing full well how surreptitiously worthy I was underneath, I always vowed that I’d practice what I preached on this issue. Besides, I’ve had “good-looking” friends before, and it’s not like they had super powers—if you don’t count superficial looks. So I naturally pursued a friendship with John. He fit the basic criteria of Sane/Decent/Coherent/Breathing.

At some point on one of the group’s excursions, we exchanged numbers.

A week or two later, John and I agreed to meet at a local gay bar in Los Feliz, one of my favorites because it didn’t require gloss nor attitude—two things I’m utterly devoid of at the clubs and won’t even bother to attempt at.

At the bar, we drank and chatted lightly. He lived in San Gabriel Valley with his parents, currently, where he also grew up. He had just returned from a sabbatical in New York City sometime earlier that year, in which he studied/worked/lived/didn’t earn money/somehow made it work… It was clear that his heart was there, at the expense of L.A., even though he grew up here. Well, no one joins Meetup because they’re doing well and fitting in…

Everything went well, in that nothing was particularly amiss that evening. I do remember when John finished his one cranberry vodka, I caught a glimpse of him melodramatically putting the glass down with a peculiar upwards and down motion of his arms—stretching histrionically, as though he were a ‘real housewife’ who just finished her fourth high ball.

Well, maybe he’s just not much of a drinker, I surmised.

When we bid farewell that evening, I politely offered that we could hang out again sometime.

John succinctly replied: “Oh—I’m gonna be really busy these next few weeks.”

Okay, I thought. Whatever…

What I didn’t realize was that I was ostensibly under surprisingly heavy scrutiny this entire time. John wasn’t simply looking for a casual drinking buddy, apparently. He had standards.

This—coming from a guy who was neither attractive, cool, nor popular by any means. I don’t mean to brag, but if you were to see both of us sitting at a bar in Los Feliz, I was clearly more conventionally appealing in appearances and demeanor. But to John? He was something else. I can’t help but feel though, that it’s tantamount to a guy crawling through the desert, coming upon a stream and saying: “Uh, I only drink Evian bottled water. No thanks.”

But conversely, I also get it: sometimes we can sense differences in mindset and sensibilities that foretell imminent incompatibility with someone in the future. But as I also alluded: I would’ve been fine just being simple drinking buddies with John. Not every friendship has to be the holy grail of interpersonal dynamics. I don’t think I was pushing him to be my bff/bro/emergency contact.

A couple of months later, John surprised me with a text: “Sorry I’ve been anti-social. Let’s hang out.”

Oh, okay, I thought. Maybe he was just busy.

John arranged for me to meet him at a Thai restaurant closer to his side of town, in Silver Lake. This time he was in better spirits. The food was delicious, and I always loved the boho vibe of Silver Lake. John and I had sparkling enough dinner conversation about polite and innocuous matters, continuing where we left off. He regaled me with an enticing session he recently had with a legitimate psychic, and advised me to give her a shot.

The night’s pleasantness was misleading though, because I was still the unsuspecting contestant in a game show called: “Are you good enough to grace my presence?” with John being in the deciding seat, and I running through an obstacle course to win his heart.

I’m embarrassed to admit, we did engage in a couple more nights out on the town, where I blithely overlooked red flags that were there in hindsight. John had an incessant need to say exactly what was on his mind—even out of context. This is a breed of human that is as distinct a species as Bluebirds, Bobcats, or—Assholes. People who say whatever they think, often claim that they’re just “Real”, or they simply “Have no filter”, but really it’s often that they’re just: “Lazy and don’t want to take responsibility for themselves.” It truly is just that: Life is not so simple that we can say whatever we want—whenever we want. I have a very straightforward example to illustrate my point: When you see a fat or ugly person, would you think it’s appropriate to walk right up to them and say: “You’re Fat/ or Ugly, and it’s TRUE—so I can say it”?

No, you wouldn’t. Because A) It’s completely out of context B) That person probably already knows it, genius C) It’s a dick move.

I won’t bother recalling the exact vocal excrements John unleashed towards me, but I’m sure you can imagine how I felt about them. They were never outright mean, but again—they were uncalled for. It was no accident this guy had no friends.

It finally ended one night, when we met again at the Los Feliz bar. John was already edgy in the first few minutes. “Why isn’t anyone talking to us?” he opined, dejected. He’d expressed this before in a previous outing too. This to me, is never an issue by the way—and I’ve met many people who will back me up on this: When you go out on the town with friends, the best way to shoot yourself in the foot is to make the misguided promise that you’ll “meet someone new” that night—propelling yourself into a higher elevation of being. Not only is it presumptuous, but it’s not even probable in a town like L.A. where everyone is secretly afraid of each other. Just go out with your friends, and if you meet someone “new”, that’s just a bonus. Duh. Win-win!

But like his drinking habits, I suspect John lacked the experience to attain this savvy.

He began to unspool that night, revealing through verbal admissions that he was “just not an L.A. person”, and “people here don’t like” him—that maybe he didn’t “wear the right clothes”, even though he didn’t look like he was out of step fashion-wise, at the very casual bar we were at.

John basically descended into a mini-meltdown, dragging me down in the process with his usual backhanded comments—telling me I wasn’t an “L.A. person either”. He was so transparent, that I literally saw his face go from concerted effort to be interested in me when I began to speak—to a dour frown, revealing his utter disinterest in me. Again, I’d never encountered this before, so I was initially genuinely confounded.

But it really was that simple: John didn’t like me. And he had no ability to conceal it… like a polite person would, ha.

After that night, I vowed never to hang out with him again. John probably did too, but retracted his natural instinct out of desperation: he texted me a couple of months later with this enticing invite:

“Hey, how are you? Do you wanna go to West Hollywood and hang out? I’ve had a terrible week.”

I thought: Oh, yeah: I’d love to put up with more of your bitching and moaning! Sounds like a blast! And why are you telling me you had a ‘terrible’ week anyway? We aren’t even close enough for you to tell me something like that!

In all honesty, he didn’t deserve a response from me at this point anymore—but being such a slave to etiquette and politeness, I didn’t have the heart to shaft him with complete silence. I waited two hours, and texted back:

Hi. Sorry, I’ll be out of town.”

And I never heard from him again.

All these botched scenarios aside, I don’t want to imply that I got nothing out of such a well-intentioned platform for companionship like Meetup. From the very same group that introduced me to the nefarious John, I met two willing “casual drinking buddy”-type guys, in fact: Ben and Dylan. They were five and two years younger than me, respectively. And they were essentially the opposite of everything John was: accepting, eager, fun-loving, and unprejudiced. But—it probably won’t surprise you anymore at this point—there were some discrepancies afoot, from the get-go. Ben and Dylan, turns out, were too far to the other extreme of everyone who was incompatible with me previously: they were just too entrenched in the party scene—drinking multiple nights a week and not wanting to engage in any activity with me that involved anything else. If I’d met them when I was twenty-four, we would’ve been soul mates. But I was thirty. We stuck around as casual friends for a couple of years, going out now and then with no contention whatsoever, which is fine. I met some people through them, and had some truly memorable moments now and then—like a Halloween house party where an overweight girl literally broke a chair after sitting in it for an hour, and a gay guy wore a Hermes toga that revealed his balls from behind when he bent over. It’s nice not being alone for the major events like that, and I’m grateful for those chances.

I also met a guy from that same Meetup group, who turns out—lived a couple of doors down from me, on my street. He wasn’t looking for a “bromance” either though, so we just ended up as “monthly dinner companions” for a consolation prize for a while.

So my final summation of Meetup? All I can say is, I tried. My ‘monthly dinner companion’ summed it up, sadly aptly: he quipped that Meetup was for socially awkward people, so the results to be reaped from it were… the exact product of what’s sowed. I’d love to say he’s just a self-inflicting defeatist, which he is—but my own outcome proved him right. But I, still being an optimist after all this, think it was merely circumstance and would never outright attribute it to the website and its members. Sometimes things just don’t work out—whether it involves organized social events or not. That’s just life. Not just Meetup.

Here’s the thing: I love the idea of Meetup—a bunch of people getting together with a shared common goal or interest? Sign me up! Unfortunately, like everything else in life—it’s people that fuck it up. They show up with their issues, agendas, and prejudices that inevitably stir up animosity and ill will—and then… it’s over before it even began. Meetup tends to bring all that shit into focus, even more than usual.