2003 LA MAG GALA

 Retro stuff   2003

She Said I am the glamorous type. I said “SO WHAT!”

     -Stanley Kowalski in  A Streetcar Named Desire

 

    I thought I knew what it was like to be invisible when I last visited a college campus. A Middle-Aged man strolling past co-eds apparently does not register on the girl radar. The Oji-san smell (Japanese term for men over 45) and bland autumn colored wardrobe sort of make the man like shrubbery for recognizability. Anyway, the point here is that I fielded a question from Los Angeles Magazine bounced my way a month or two ago about an unsung, great book about Los Angeles. Being a map guy, I immediately thought of W.W. Robinson’s Maps of Los Angeles. As I told the editor at LA Yupazine this amazing little book of maps does more to trace the early physical development of the city than all the words in 979.41 l881 section. Somehow, because of a lack of time and other resources or someone at the magazine who actually read books they chose my selection. Thus, after layers of administrators demurred  attending a “gala reception” at the Peterson Automotive Museum in Beverly Hills I was chosen to represent the library.

     Imagine arriving at a true palace of automobile art in a 1992 Toyota Corolla with no side mirrors, 233,000 miles on the odometer and more dents than Charles Bukowki’s face. I knew I was in for it when I saw the parking valets were perky babes in hot pants, neckerchiefs and hairdos. They, known as “the Valet of the Dolls” bounced around the Beemers, Escalades, Range Rovers, Maseratis and such while my tired ride sputtered to a noisy stop out on Fairfax. Approaching the “welcome table” I saw yet three more products of the beauticians arts. Unfortunately, neither my name nor institution could be found on the guest list while I stood sweating like a gate crasher at Studio 54. Finally, they did find something under Richard Riordan Library. I squelched the desire to inform them of our nickname for that phony moniker: “the Big Dick” and humbly accepted a blank label because they didn’t seem to have the printed one. Like the official printed one that every single other person in the building was wearing. It was also at this time that I noticed that everyone else appeared to have paid some designer to dress him or her in the latest Sex and the City designer clothes. That might mean a many thousand-dollar Armani suit or some really sweat producing poly blend disco shirt over toreador pants. Most of the women had exposed tiny waists and hair on men’s heads was definitely out of style. Since when did baldness become the dominant gene? I also saw a resurrection of the little boys coiffures of my 1950’s youth. For gay men, the current beau monde of hair is this grown out crew cut with some kind of butch wax holding the hedge up in front. I think this came from Will and Grace but I have never seen Will and Grace except on a stalled airplane in the Pittsburgh airport.

     I digress.  After being handed a blank nametag and not being able to see well in the muted light I pressed forward with a hand-lettered ID that read LA Public Libr (the label ended and the border began without a line of demarcation.)

I confess that the cars were spectacular and as I strolled I made obligatory eye contact and nodded several times to no response to the other “revelers.” After all, not all of these people were glitterati and some were even shopkeepers, bakers, ice cream scoopers or (shudder) even a library administrator from Cerritos PL.   Being a rather inept icebreaker but decent schmoozer I looked for an opening to attach myself to anybody willing to listen to the desperate ramblings of a liberrian. There were no takers. I found no eye contact, no shared pleasantries, no winks or come-hither looks. In short, I was HG Wells’ invisible dude except I was wearing a short sleeve shirt instead of wrapped gauze. By the time we were herded up to the reception area I had bounced my goofy smile off at least twenty stony-faced people. As I stood drooling at a shiny Cord automobile my stammered “to think I came here in a 92 Corolla!” whizzed over the head of a big-haired beauty whose nametag screamed “best club booker.” Considering this woman was a trendoid twenty-something who spent her hours arranging all-night wing dings at places like Spaceland the pairing with a 50-something librarian seemed perfect but her response was something like “yeah, fabulous cars!”

     The coup d’ grace took place after I migrated with the herd to a large hall filled with the golden 101 where small cocktail lounge tables dotted the floor. I took to one and set down my complimentary magazine and a glass of two buck Chuck (Charles Shaw Cab $1.99 at Trader Joes). There I read of gay rodeos, posh handbags, deejay Jun, perfumes, reptiles and my dignified, scholarly book astoundingly described as “Barns and opium joints pepper W.W. Robinson’s Maps of LA…bla bla bla. Just as I reeled from this dissing of dear Mr. Robinson’s life work I spied a trio of glitties heading my way. The man in the suit that cost way more than my car asked if they might join me and I accepted them as my own. I searched in panic for a nice “best” but I saw the words Neiman Marcus. That was enough for a man whose wardrobe hails mostly from Value Village and Territory Ahead sample sales. It was the NEIMAN MARCUS SHOE DEPARTMENT!!! Since I am a little weak on my Flower-painted Badgley Mischka mules or bejeweled Dolce Gabbiana boots with grommets I merely brought up the corners of my grimace while they chatted about cash business and marvelous sense of style. The trio was lead by an unctious Britisher who rang like a cash register when he saw money. The young porcelain doll-faced woman of the three looked at my crudely lettered badge, saw the word library (no doubt) and I was then treated as if I was dusted with Anthrax powder. They spoke not to the form across from them, chatted vacuously about almost exclusively business, sales, marketing, high style and fashion. Only brightening  when the two owners of the most fabulous gay bar (not that there is anything wrong with that) in town floated toward our ghetto of library Oji-san. The owners of  the Abbey squealed with delight at seeing these queens of footwear and I instantly became as welcome as a turd in the punchbowl. When they returned from the champagne fount they gazed at me with rolling eyes and said “ooh , there just doesn’t seem to be any room!” I bolted with uncharacteristic quickness away from this cabal of stylishness and wandered, dazed into the bullring of bull ca ca. It felt something like a scene from a Fellini movie with me as the wounded, bleeding animal. I set down my wine glass, turned heel and took off for the exit like I was being chased by a pack of Canary Island cattle dogs. When I reached my miserable Corolla and jumped inside to the smell of loamy floorboard flotsam and dirty sweat socks it met my nostrils like a perfume of Sarah Horowitz-Thran’s custom “best” parfumerie. I needed TV, I needed baseball, I needed real people. I needed to get the hell out of LA Magazine.