On Saturday night my friend Wendy was enchanted. At least, that’s my best explanation for what occurred. I didn’t actually see the enchantment taking place, but I was there for the fallout, and it was exhausting.
You know in the fairy tales where an evil witch casts a spell on someone and makes them unable to recognize their heart’s desire? Yeah, well that was Wendy. Pissed off, confused, and questing throughout the entire kingdom in vain.
Even before the night officially started, there were hints that something was amiss. We had planned to go to a party, but en route, my girlfriend Nadia received several frantic calls from Wendy, who was already there. She was ready to leave, pronto, stat, the second we arrived. We wondered what could be so terrible. It was only 11PM–shouldn’t people just be rolling in?
The second we got there, an effusive blond man in a Santa suit hugged us and pointed out where the drinks were. Meanwhile, several perfectly decent-looking people hung about chatting and dancing to old-school hip-hop. It wasn’t very terrible. Nor was the next room–indeed, it proved to be well stocked with liquor and crunchy snacks and attractive, friendly folk. I was curious to see what the patio might hold, but I never made it out there, because Wendy herself came rushing up, wearing a cream-colored sweater dress and a fierce frown.
“We’re getting out of here,” she said. “There are no guys at this party at all.”
Inadvertently I glanced up at the four 6-foot South Bay jock types who had overheard her. They looked away politely.
Then I turned back to find an olive-skinned, buffed-out, tattooed man hanging on Wendy like a puppy dog.
“This is Miko. We work together,” she explained, before disappearing in a poof of unhappy smoke. I decided to finish my drink and chat with the jocks, but didn’t get to because within seconds Nadia began dragging me to the door.
“We’re going to 304,” she told me.
“Ehh?” said I.
304 turned out to be a lame Manhattan Beach dance club with cheesy lighting, crap music and TONS of people squashed in wall-to-wall. There, we embarked on an insane wild goose chase all around the room, bumping into strangers and splashing drinks everywhere. It ended with the same verdict: there were no guys there. Zero. The options were hideous, disgusting, pathetic.
“Wendy just wants to find a cute guy to make out with,” Nadia explained to me.
This confused me because in 304, just like in all Manhattan Beach bars, you could literally throw an ice cube and hit a cute guy. I’m not saying that they were take-home-to-mama material, but they were definitely kissable. And a few were more than down to kiss Wendy. Only she couldn’t see it. Seriously, it was like she had selective blindness.
Soon enough, we were all squashed into a two-door Honda hatchback, en route to the Hermosa Pier at 1:30 AM. (California stops serving alcohol at 2AM). Then came a sorry walkabout to find a bar that would let us in after last call. With help from two random dudes who took pity on us, we managed to actually find one. There, I lost track of Wendy. On purpose. I needed to rest.
Soon, though, we were politely forced back onto the street, where lo and behold, there was our girl, talking to a crew of the skinniest, gawkiest, spottiest-looking boys imaginable. They wore checkered shirts, and looked to be about 19 years old.
She was thrilled. I mean, glowing. Swiftly, a plan formed. We would all go over to their house and play Nintendo Wii. This sounded only slightly better than a root canal to me, so I said I’d get a ride home with the guys who’d gotten us into the bar.
“Nooo!” Nadia howled like a wolf. “You came with us, you’ll leave with us.”
I can respect that kind of stick-together female attitude. It’s enough to make me hang out in a share-rental in Redondo playing video games with strangers. For about 20 minutes.
Yet ironically, when the popular vote overwhelmingly ruled “home, Advil, sleep, NOW,” there was one dissident voice. You know whose it was. And Nadia did NOT stop her. She didn’t even try.
I guess there’s no point in reasoning with someone who’s under an enchantment. To her, cute guys are invisible, teenagers look like princes, and no one in LA County is worth kissing.
I need a counter-spell, and I need it before next Friday night.
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