Sign here

It's only eight months or so late, but it turns out this was prophetic. It turns out that the Five Man Electrical Band was right: "Everywhere, there's signs." The trick is in knowing which ones to heed.

And it's only just begun. Goodbyes and butterflies, indeed.

I been everywhere, man

Friends, I've been all over the world and, if I may paraphrase Gerty, a gay bar is a gay bar is a gay bar. Milan or Milwaukee, San Francisco or St. Louis, Toronto or Tallahasse, there's a template from which these establishments are cut and any distinction is really just a variation on the general theme.

In St. Louis, for example, I'm pretty sure there is a zoning regulation stating that all barrooms and nightclubs patronized by homosexual men and women must have walls and ceilings painted black, incorporate corrugated metal and exposed ductwork in their decor and -- this is key -- feature inadequate cooling and ventilation systems.

I was espousing my observation of the fundamental sameness to be found in the gay watering holes of the world to a friend last weekend. He vigorously insisted that the bars of his city were different and suggested that it was the patrons themselves who made them so.

The patrons, I insisted with equal vigor, tend to be even less distinctive place to place than the environs. Once you run through the list of types (they're stereotypes, I guess, but only if two of them are standing side by side at the rail) -- club kid, daddy, tweaker, twirler, mature perv, etc. -- there's nothing new under the dim, diffuse lighting.

All of which is by way of saying that the bars in Los Angeles (by which I mean West Hollywood) are no different than the bars of Louisville. Close your eyes and you could be anywhere.

Until some guy comes up to you and asks, with absolutely no trace of irony or sarcasm, "What's your sign?" Happened to me three times. Keep those lids closed, if only so he won't see your eyes rolling back in your head. You're in California. No doubt about it.

Interior Monologue From a West Hollywood Bookstore

Wow, heads really turn whenever that little bell on the door rings, eh? No pressure. Nope. Good lord, that book was awful. Nice call end-capping it. Mmm...cutie by the stroke books. OK, cool. Things are looking up. Nod. Hey. Nod. Hey. For what it's worth, kid, I agree with you: Freshman is probably more interesting than me, today at least. Eh. They're still printing that? Wasn't he indicted? This much printed porn means the Internet hasn't really reached its potential, I guess. Seen it. Seen it. Seen it. Oh, videos! God, look at my hands. I need some lotion. I hope I didn't say that last bit out loud. Falcon videos are proof that God loves us and wants us to be hap--hey, is that Jeremy Piven over there? He looks like Jeremy Piven. Ah, Jeremy Piven is hot. Wait, when the hell did I start being turned on by Jeremy Piven? Who cares? He's hot! That's not-- Nod. Hey. Nod. Hey. Yeah, not Jeremy Piven. Nice calves though. I wonder if you could consider any bookstore that doesn't have a children's section an adult bookstore. What would that mean zoning wise? Geez, where do I come up with this shi-- Whoa! Hello, little Bel Ami boy. Well, maybe he's the second-string Bel Ami boy. Nice eyes. Nice pack-- Nod. Hey. Nod. Hey. Stare. Really nice eyes. I should prob-- I have no idea what you--what is that, Spanish? Eh, keep staring. Nod. Hey. OK, then. Yeah, sure. Right on. It's a universal language all right. Yeah, heads turn when the bell rings, especially when you walk out with him.

Welcome! Now go.

Without exception, everyone I met in Los Angeles had two questions for me: Why are you here? When are you leaving?

The first question was simple enough to address, once I realized it was not being posed in the metaphysical sense. During the first of my interrogations over five days, my reply was, "Well, why are any of us here, really? I think we're put on earth simply to be good to one another, to grow and to learn."

It turned out folks were interested in a more succinct, essential "business or pleasure"-type response. Well, pleasure, certainly. Yes, please. The more the better. My host was more than capable to provide that aspect, facilitating certain introductions over the course of the long weekend that were, shall we say, tactilely enjoyable, at the very least.

The second question was more troublesome, though. It was asked jocularly enough, but the frequency with which it was repeated was disturbing. It was almost like being clasped by the arm in welcome with one hand and urged toward the door with a pat on the tush with the other.

When I answered that my return flight to St. Louis departed on Tuesday evening, there was an almost measurable sense of relief on the part of the questioner.

After five or six inquiries into the duration of my stay, I finally realized the truth: People in Los Angeles are deeply, deeply afraid of visitors. They are apprehensive of strangers.

They want you to leave before there is any chance that you, evil outsider, will take their job or, worse, their parking space.

Parking is an art in Los Angeles, which is fortunate, since the movie industry has pretty much ceded any pretense of being about art and L.A. needs all the culture it can get. Even if it's simply the subtle craft of wedging between red zones and sorting out five seemingly conflicting regulation signs, it's art and it is practiced nowhere with more alacrity or finesse than in L.A.

When embarking on an evening's entertainment, the primary concern of all parties involved is not how long it will take to get there, how much it will cost, how one should dress or who one might expect to get off with at the end of the night (and how much that will cost). No, the first question to be resolved, upon which all other decisions hinge, is "How's the parking?"

Well, actually that's the first question for natives. For visitors, it's the third. Right after "Why are you here?" and "When are you leaving?"