My friend Paul and his partner John were in town from San Francisco for a visit and to check out the new exhibit “Skin + Bones” at MOCA. I’d spent the entire holiday season in bed, hacking and coughing, so I was looking forward to getting out. I also thought it would be a great chance to show them that LA wasn’t the Botox and silicone waste-land that San Franciscans are required to believe. As all Angelenos know, hating Los Angeles has become as cliché up there as tie-dye on baby boomers, and goatees on lesbians.
I pulled up to the arrivals area at LAX and there they were, Paul in jeans and a Gap sweatshirt and John in leather hot pants, combat boots and a red tank top emblazoned with a picture of a cowboy eating a hotdog. John wasted no time setting the mood for the entire evening: “This airport is ridiculous. Hello! 1985 called, it wants its design back!” I tried to ignore him, concentrating only on getting us out of the “white zone” before his outfit attracted Homeland Security. We were off to the Standard downtown, where they were staying.
The drive over was quiet, so I kept trying to start a conversation. “So, how is work, Paul?”
“It’s fine.”
“You still at the health food store, John?”
“Yes.”
Obviously, there had been a fight during the trip and it was still simmering. I stopped asking questions and kept driving until we got to the hotel. We were running late for the show at MOCA, so we agreed we should get ready and leave soon. Paul asked John if he was going to change.
“No, why?” he said.
“Because, you’re wearing hot pants and combat boots — we’re going to a museum downtown, not a beer bust south of Market!”
“I’m wearing this! Can’t we grab a drink upstairs first?” John asked me. “Yes, absolutely!” I shouted — I needed a drink.
We pushed our way through all the suits and went straight for the rooftop bar. While sipping our drinks, I gave them the lowdown on the whole “downtown revitalization” thing currently going on in LA, but it wasn’t long before they started fighting again. I struck up a conversation with a nice couple seated next to us. They were local architects and they told me they had just seen the “Skin + Bones” show. I begged them to tell me about it since it looked like I wasn’t going to be seeing it that night. The husband hated it and his wife said the only thing she really liked was a video installation near the entrance. It showed a guy taking a shirt and folding and ironing it over and over again until it was a tiny square. She said the rest of the show was an “architectural beat off — buildings that will never be built and clothes that can never be worn.” They ordered some quesadillas and invited me to join them since my friends had decided to take a dip in the pool. I looked over and, sure enough, Paul and John were in the pool. The fight that had started somewhere around 30 thousand feet, was now a wet, drunk, episode of Queer as Folk. I grabbed a quesadilla, thanked them for their company and ran off to get my visitors.
Before I made it poolside, the security guards had already yanked them out. They were still yelling at each other as the guards escorted them to the elevator. I shrugged my shoulders and went back to hang out with the couple at the bar. “What’s the problem with your friends?” The husband asked. “Hot pants and combat boots.” I said. “Oh my” said the wife. “You’d expect something like that up in, say, San Francisco, but not here.” I agreed and bought them both another round.
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