MEAT AND GREET

The too-blonde woman with the brand new face was gushing as she saw the object on the table. “Dahhhhlng. It’s gorgeous.”

She could have been looking at anything – jewelry, a pocket pup, an 8-ball of coke in a shiny platinum vial. You just never know when you’re sardined into the bar at the Cabana Club in Hollywood. Yet the object of desire was a book. A fucking book. Granted, its physical gorgeousness may go a long way in determining its success, but, well, you don’t see books lovingly caressed like that every day. Who needs to bother to read it when you can just rock it in your arms forever? Right?

Book parties are certainly crowded like this – it’s the rare writer who turns down lure of free booze and food – but it’s not quite this blonde, not with so much cleavage. Then again, the book’s called Hooking Up: You’ll Never Make Love In This Town Again Again, the sequel to the scandalous book of a decade ago which will forever be indelible in my mind for a scene in which it alleged that George Harrison just isn’t an English gentleman. He gets serviced by a random bird and can’t even be bothered to utter a small thank you after his happy ending. Say it ain’t so, George! We all knew you were the Quiet One. I thought it was McCartney who was the Asshole One. Hookers are people too.

But I digress. I went to this book party to give props to my comrade Carly Milne, a woman I met when we both worked for the “Bible” of the adult industry. She was one of the four contributors to Hooking Up and played hostess at the party. But my trip was also a sort of anthropological field trip. In years past, I made the bulk of my living by spending evenings in bars and nightclubs; now, I rarely get out, and that’s totally cool. I’ve put in my time. It was fun, and I’m glad I did it, but I’m also glad I only do it once in a great while. Nothing’s changed, really. Maybe the clothes ad the hair, but the bottom lnie is always the same at places like this. Everyone there wants to hook up in some way, shape or form. When you’re on the outside and not feeling that pressure, the mating rituals seem really obvious. Good luck kids, and wear a condom.

As for Carly, she felt the need to shrug and yell out to me “I hope I transcend this.” And my first thought was, “why?” If I had written a book like this, I might think of it as my greatest accomplishment. I guess she felt like she had to say that to me, but she didn’t have to. She’s published, she hustles, does good work and she understands P.R. That puts her ahead of about 90 percent of the other writers in L.A. Mazel tov to her for going after it.

Now I’ve got that gorgeous book on my coffee table. Maybe when the kids are asleep I’ll give it a read. Or maybe I’ll just stare at it longingly.