After my bad breakup with bad reception, I found myself single again in LA. Normally the idea of being single fills me with euphoria, but not when it comes to dating in West Hollywood. I find that I’m not very good at it. As a matter of fact, if it were an SAT analogy, it might be Bill is to LA dater as Scott Peterson is to Marriage Counselor.

Last week, I met up with a woman on a first date. The minute she entered the restaurant, before we even sat down for the appetizer, she launched into a tirade about the drama that is her life:

“What is the universe trying to tell me? First my cat died, then my friend gets a divorce, it’s snowing heavily, AND I ripped my pants getting into a taxi tonight! What does it mean?”

I looked at her and tried my best to contain the obvious answer.

“Um, that you’re actually a size eight?”

I couldn’t resist, people! Needless to say, the dated ended before the calamari got cold.

Although many women apparently need to see the “deeper meaning” in all things pointless and poppycock, it seems that this condition is exacerbated in Hollywood because of the cornucopia of a certain type of woman; and that is, the ’spiritual actress.’

If you don’t know WHAT a spiritual actress is, let me explain it as succinctly as possible: A ’spiritual actress’ is an actress who doesn’t work as an actress.

Because this ‘actress’ doesn’t work, she has hundreds upon thousands of hours to think about ways to ‘improve’ her life. This means she will read ‘The Secret,’ Eckhart Tolle, and every other self-help/new age/personal development book in the clearance bin at Borders in between sips of her sugar-free half-caf vanilla soy chai latte while waiting for her 6pm free yoga class in Runyon Canyon.

Then she will re-read them.

While I think self-improvement is a valid and worthwhile goal, I find it odd that NONE of the spiritual actresses I’ve dated have ever found the hilarious irony in the fact that they continually justify their needy, selfish, actress insecurities with the eternal, selfless, gentle platitudes of generosity and worth.

‘Spiritual actresses’ have become one of those Hollywood clichés where the truth is always stranger than fiction. The image of two actresses in a casting office trying to out-’Secret’ each other for a role before either has even auditioned would be funny if it weren’t 100 percent accurate and observable on a daily basis.

If they’re not reading the latest self-proclaimed bestselling guru, they are praying to God or Buddha or the universe: “Dear Lord, please help me fulfill the life that I live… and help me book that recurring role on ‘ONE LIFE TO LIVE’… over that other bitch… I mean, she’s totally not that cute anyway! And now, let me chant the universal actress mantra… I-M-D-B, I-M-D-B, I-M-D-B…”

Although this sounds absurd, I was actually on a date with a woman who loved to chant and mediate using her third eye — the imaginary fixed spot between the eyeballs in the middle of the forehead — but was literally worried that it might be hindered because of her recent BOTOX injection (although you couldn’t tell she was worried because her face had no expression).

“How can I be spiritual when my third eye is full of BOTOX!” she cried.

“How can I still be listening to you when I have full use of my legs!” I responded (okay, not really, but I wish I had).

And the botox-cyclops wasn’t the worst of the lot of women I’ve met in my LA singledom.

Just a few days ago, I went on a date with an actress who wanted to show off her new tattoo. She stated, proudly, that it was a tat which signified her incredible spiritual growth over the past year. Then she showed it to me. It was on the small of her lower back. Since I live on the planet Earth, I laughed out loud.

“Why the hell are you laughing?” she snapped.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But don’t you think that’s a pretty slutty place to chart your metaphysical journey?”

“This tattoo is Chinese for ‘Enlightenment’!” she yelled.

“Maybe so, but it’s also American for ‘Daddy Issues.’”

Again, I couldn’t resist and, again, the date didn’t last til dessert.

Last night I was about to hang out with a girl until, over the phone, she asked me what my sign was. Click. This time, I wasn’t even going to make it to the restaurant.

I hate that zodiac crap! And yes, it’s possible that I’m just bitter because I’m a goddamned Capricorn, which is basically a goat. Some people astrologically get to be Leo the Lion, the mighty king of the jungle, while I’m stuck being a smelly creature at a petting zoo. Lions rule over the entire African food chain. I eat cans and pull things. The ‘universe’ is telling me it hates me by making me a smelly, shit-matted, sheep-wannabe!
Regardless, I am single again in LA… which means a lot more nights naked watching Sports Center with myriad Doritos crumbs stuck to my skin like a bad arts and crafts project. And, of course, a lot more nights looking at my phone trying not to call the girl I blew it with…

This entry was posted on Monday, August 10th, 2009 at 3:00 pm and is filed under All blog entries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.