Los Angeles is an awful place to be a lawyer. On Friday night, I was hanging out with a friend who works in the entertainment industry—a great guy with more natural good looks and people skills than anyone I’ve ever met. Not slimy politician people skills either. I’m talking legit dynamic social skills with a head of hair like Hugh Grant. He can write his own ticket. He will have a very full and rich life.
So, I’m hanging out with him, his girlfriend and a couple of her friends at a nice lounge near downtown when they decide they want to go to a club. One of those places on Sunset Blvd. with all the Lamborghinis out front—AKA the sleaze of the sleaze.
Nightclubs aren’t my scene. Of course they aren’t. I’m a lawyer.
I could tell that none of my buddy’s girlfriend’s friends were that into me, and a change of venue over on the “unce unce unce” side of town wasn’t going to change that. Chances of my pale ass getting lucky after blowing $400 on these thankless bitches and enduring pumping bass for three hours? 0%. So I demurred.
My buddy swore he knew a guy working a door at a club where TMZ hangs outside, and it wouldn’t be a problem getting in. I didn’t give a shit.
It’s always interesting to me that I earn probably three times of what he makes, yet sweet hook-ups and total access to hard-to-get tables, exclusive parties and private rooms fall at his feet. My only power in this city comes at the expense of slipping a hostess or a thick-necked asshole a Ulysses S. Grant. And even then, I still have to wait. Lawyers have to buy their way into everything. The legal industry is perk-less.
Two of the girls gave me the obligatory, “Ahh, come on. You gotta come with us.” It was sickly apparent they wanted free drinks. And probably a ride. But one of them touched my leg close enough to that part of my inner thigh that makes me horny enough to do stupid stuff, so I said, “Sure. Let’s go get judged.”
To me, the club scene is so obvious. The velvet rope, the arbitrariness of it all. There are no standards, no rules—yet so much effort goes into making you believe there are. What in the hell does the phrase “Dress to impress” even fucking mean? The whole thing’s a shit-show. You walk up, you show no fear, you look good, you get in. There’s no magic to it.
I’ve got total confidence except in one area, and it’s that I do not have faith that I’m good looking enough. I don’t belong to this world of pretty people that exists outside my doorstep. That’s why I went to law school—because my looks weren’t tradable. A thriving legal community in a city best known for its vapidity, implants and camera-ready populace is an anomaly. I have no idea why I live here.
My opinion of my physical self may improve with further successes…like making partner…and having enough clout to bang gold-diggers. But we’re not that far down the line yet. That level of guile will have to come with time.
My quip from earlier must have forcibly hung like a stalactite in one of the girl’s cavernous domes because she couldn’t stop repeating my off-hand remark while we pounded 5-Hour Energy shots in a Chevron parking lot before rolling up the Hollywood circus of see-and-be-seen freaks.
“Let’s go get judged!”
It was like a toddler parroting words without any conceptual meaning, but at least she looked good in her short skirt saying it. I, on the other hand, have always seen social interactions such as nightclubs—especially in Los Angeles—as nothing more than a process of being judged. You leave your entire existence up to someone else’s opinion: Who made your car, who made your clothes, who do you think you are? Then, if you’re not the face of a Dolce & Gabbana campaign, not any level of legitimate “Producer” or “Agent,” and/or have no medal grommets or screen-printed crosses on your shirt, you best be planning on bottle service. If you’re judged unpopular or unsatisfying to look at, you best be judged rich enough to afford your presence.
Screw them.
Maybe that’s an insecure way of looking at it, but on what planet does a single male lawyer thrive inside a club that doesn’t include topless dancing and a Champagne Room? Not this one. Not any.
There’s one primary reason why clubs and lawyers don’t mix: You can’t talk. And talking is my strong suit. If you’re dumb yet good looking, then a nightclub is your church. Chicks who speak with their hips and guys who purse their lips worship there.
Think a club plays to your strengths? Well, good for you. Maybe you can fake it in a dark laser show long enough for someone to get concupiscent enough to sleep with you. Maybe they won’t realize how dumb, boring, not funny, or [insert perceived shortcoming here] you think you are. But I’m just the opposite. My approach is to think that if I keep talking long enough, a girl will forget that I need to loose 10 pounds around the midsection.
I alienated most girls who had long-term interest in me in law school. My lifestyle wasn’t conducive to women, and I thought I was BigLaw bound. I could afford to turn down 7s, assuming 9s would be waiting around the corner from my windowless Jones Day office in a few years. Skinny blonds with Brentwood baby-making dreams would be awaiting me on the off hours I was allowed out of the building. But never count your chicks before you’ve hatched your career. Or something like that.
I’m not proud, but I’m also no longer ashamed to admit that this town can get the best of a single, middle-of-the-road lawyer if you let it. The options are limited for a guy who is too abhorrent of nightclubs but not good enough for country clubs to find a woman worthy of second date—or even a second drink.
Lest you think this story doesn’t have a happy ending, I did get the number of a P.Y.T. (pretty young thing) that night. We even made out for a while in the breezeway leading to the side exit. Raven hair, big green eyes, perfect c-cup cleavage…
But I doubt I’ll call. It’s already doomed. I told her I was a producer.
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Los Angeles is an awful place to be a lawyer. On Friday night, I was hanging out with a friend who works in the entertainment industry—a great guy with more natural good looks and people skills than anyone I’ve ever met. Not slimy politician people skills either. I’m talking legit dynamic social skills with a head of hair like Hugh Grant. He can write his own ticket. He will have a very full and rich life.
So, I’m hanging out with him, his girlfriend and a couple of her friends at a nice lounge near downtown when they decide they want to go to a club.
