"Who Are You Doing For Fun Nowadays?"

I was in attendance at a friend's premarital party last night. Held in an independant bookstore on Abbot Kinney in Venice and featuring a taco truck and a fruit vendor, it was the cultural equivalent of a short ride on the L train out of Manhattan, into the terminally hip territory of Williamsburg (for those of you reading this from my old haunts.) While I didn't spot any mullets (which I definitely did more than once on the L train) the ambience and attractive, hipster crowd brought me back. I hadn't seen so many skinny ties and heavy plastic-framed glasses since I left New York. There was sharp, self-consciously retro fashion everywhere. I was observing all this from a distance until my friend Jason asked pointedly, "So, who are you doing for fun nowadays?" (How do you even begin to follow that?) He then persisted by asking me if I found anyone at the party attractive. I took a look around, and concluded the following: it was hard enough to tell if the men were straight or gay, and possibly even harder to tell if they were single or attached. Were there attractive people at this party? Oh my, yes. Would I even know how to begin to instigate picking up someone amidst such ambiguity? I don't think so.

The situation was compounded when I was having a lovely conversation with a tall, handsome black man wearing a neat, fashionable pair of tailored pants and a close-fitting shirt and tie. I was mesmerized by his skin, the most poreless skin I had ever seen. He told me he had flown in from New York and was DJaying the follow night's festivities. I could feel him growing ever more fond of me, but for the life of me I couldn't tell if it was because I was looking especially fabulous (as in, he liked my short dress, fishnets, and high boots) or because I was looking especially FAH-bulous (as in, he was coveting my short dress, fishnets, and high boots.) Just as I was pondering this, a photographer snapped our picture for posterity, and as we posed, his hand grazed my (fishnet-clad) ass. But it was impossible to tell if it was an accidental graze from a comfortable gay friend, or a copped feel from a straight dude. I eventually left the conversation, just as flummoxed as when I began it.

Another equally fascinating element of the party was dessert. I had a dangerously good Cake Monkey pastry...the kind that's supposed to resemble a Ring-Ding, or a Ding-Dong, or something like that. It was coated in chocolate--two light, fluffy chocolate circles filled with a delectable cream; a self-conscious re-working of the convenience store standby. The idea of making upscale junk food and selling it for 3 times the original price is pretty ridiculous, but I'm totally into it. It costs more because the Cake Monkey Ding-Dong Ring-Ding-thingie is an updated, better-for-you version of an old classic (no preservatives). Maybe it's like the straight guys at the party...perhaps they are slightly updated (re: more fashionable?) versions of the old classic...but the question remains, are they better for you? (And do they come without preservatives? Never assume anything, especially when you live in LA.)

Los Angeles: where the pastries are self-consciously hip, and it's next to impossible to tell the gay from the straight. Needless to say, I never had this problem in Boston.