Huey and Voltaire

Name-dropping, punk shows, and the perils of LA dating

OMG. I think this guy just asked me out.

He came to pick up some vintage glasses I had posted on Facebook, and we ended up name-dropping in the noon heat. I don’t know why I mentioned Mothersbaugh, which he countered with Neil Young. Which led to Kim Gordon. A typical LA conversation of puffing each other up—the music edition.

He asked if I like the VU, and my dyslexic mind turned it into ultraviolet. I said, Well, like sunbathing? I had never heard of anyone refer to the Velvet Underground as UV. That definitely counted against him—too casual, trying too hard to be nonchalant. Like calling San Francisco “Frisco” or Southern California “Cali.” It annoys me to no end.

Also, I don’t date. I’m done with all that. Done with men, their stunts, and silly shenanigans. But when I went back inside after he left, I thought about it:

Dating.
Famous people.
Dating famous people.
Famous people I dated.

Yes, I know, talking about it is dégoûtant. Like telling people how much money you make. So I never do—talk about famous people I dated, that is. And yet… I did mingle with a few semi-illustrious individuals.

There’s the actor who was a big somebody in the Culver City Masonic Temple and had a very specific fetish. He also collected wizard paraphernalia. The seemingly normal producer—ten types of cereal and his kids’ bicycles in the yard at his Hollywood Hills mansion—who went to jail for, dare I say it, multiple counts of SA. And the English ‘80s songster who hung up on me in a tizzy, saying, I don’t need another wife.

Because my mind is usually all over the place, the latter got stuck in my head today. He actually gets stuck in my head a lot. One of his two “hit songs” often assaults my ears when I shop at Trader Joe’s. This immediately catapults me back to the top floor of a certain posh boutique hotel, ordering oysters and Champagne while he plays guitar naked in bed.

Here’s another non sequitur.

When I first dabbled on Tinder eons ago, I met a guy—let’s call him Voltaire (that’s actually his real name)—and regaled him with the story about the ‘80s has-been without saying his name. I told him he was British and that we communicated in Beatles lyrics. I told him he still tours to sold-out shows, and that middle-aged ladies throw their panties onto the stage. I also told him his voice sounded a lot like Bowie’s. I guess I was bragging. Voltaire didn’t believe me anyway. No one sounds like Bowie, except for Bowie.

But because I wouldn’t cough up the English dude’s name, Voltaire started calling me Huey, after Huey Lewis. I don’t really know anything about Huey Lewis, other than that I probably hate his music—but the name stuck. We were Huey and Voltaire. That’s a whole other story.

I digress.

Anyway, this Facebook Marketplace guy asked me to go to a punk show tonight. When I didn’t immediately bite, he also invited me to the local breakfast club next week. He said it meets at 7 a.m. on Wednesdays, but we could go back to bed afterward. I ignored the innuendo and—I cringe—gave him my real number. Why, oh why? Was it because he—supposedly—knows Neil Young? Or am I so starved for the male gaze that I turned into an inane flirt?

Truth is, I never meet guys out in the wild these days. Certainly not in the wild of Los Feliz, where the average male rocks a mustache, loafers with white socks, and an Erewhon tote. And lusts after skinny chicks hopped up on matcha lattes. Chicks usually twenty years younger.

Not some unshowered, unshaven, menopausal missus who’s a good fifty pounds past her prime. But he did. Was it the yellow butt-grazing shorts I had slept in? My German accent promising… sadistic pleasures? The Mark Mothersbaugh story? I’ll never know.

Like I said, I don’t date. And that’s fine. I’m happier off solo, here in my apartment, watching the cats curl up in a sunspot, listening to Devo, and letting the wild of Los Feliz continue without me. Some days, just being seen is enough.