I'm drinking at a bar called the Dirty Horse on Hollywood Boulevard. Well, that's not the real name, but I never got a look at the sign and that name seemed right.
Let's go live to my blind date at a West Hollywood Restaurant. The merlot is great, the gnocchi is inspired and the waiter taught me to say fork in Italian. The guy? Not for me. Marc is a rare blond Jew, but there was no click between us, no fireworks, no cell phone call from the bathroom stall to tell my girls I'd met my husband. Not that I've ever made that call or am looking for a husband. I don't even know how to spell husband. Or say it in Italian.
The haggadah speaks of the Four Sons: the wise, the wicked, the simple and the one who doesn't know how to ask. And on a good night in Hollywood, you can pick up all four. The first Saturday in March is a girls' night out (with the understanding we intend to pull men). Elizabeth, Sasha, Sarah and I throw on low-cut tops, low-rise pants and do the L.A. barhop thing.
Frankly, I'm all for it.
But what about sports? Girls? Humvees and washboard abs? This column's supposed to parse the experience of a Jewish Guy in the world. But some guys have called, confused. What's all this about singing baby boys to sleep? About tender talks and the salve of toddler hugs? It's all very sweet, but, guy, hey guy, they ask, where's the testosterone?
Funny. My wife's been bugging me about the samething.