True Topanga Canyon story: It was around ’84, maybe ’85. I was platonically chummy with Kathryn, a whipsmart production executive, a woman with a good heart who suffered no fools. She was sharing a sizable home in Topanga Canyon with a couple of others, and every so often would invite friends over on a Saturday or Sunday. I attended a couple of these schmoozers. Filmmakers, publicists, producers, writers, production veterans…late 20s to late 30s.
A day after one of the get-togethers Kathryn called to say that a female friend of hers liked me, and that I should give her a ring. Let’s call her Laura. I wasn’t sure who she was, and Kathryn was reluctant to offer any specifics other than the fact that Laura and I had briefly spoken at some point.
I finally persuaded Kathryn to offer a vague physical description, and it came to light that Laura was a nice but less-than-dynamically attractive 20something who was on the pudgy side. The weight issue was what jarred my memory.
As I respected and trusted Kathryn, I figured I could level with her as our chat would go no further. So I told her Laura wasn’t my type and that I wasn’t exactly into plus-sized women — no offense.
Kathryn felt free to be candid also, and so a split second after I said “plus-sized” she said, “You bastard!” As in “how dare you refuse this intelligent, good-hearted, high-quality woman just because she’s not rail-thin?”
I thought I was being a good guy for two reasons. One, I was being honest with a friend and two, I wasn’t interested in having sex just because it was more or less being offered to me. I wanted intimacy only with women I was genuinely aroused or intrigued by, and preferably both.
That wasn’t how Kathryn saw it. She knew and cared for Laura, and apparently over the previous couple of years the poor woman had experienced some hurtful, frustrating or otherwise unsatisfying relationships, and here I was doing nothing to alleviate her distress or otherwise brighten her day.
I said I was sorry but what did Kathryn want me to do, lie or pretend?
Imagine if the situation had been reversed. Imagine if I’d found Laura attractive and a male friend of mine who knew her had called and said that I’m smitten and would like to go out with her, etc. Imagine if Laura had told my friend “well, I’m very flattered but Jeff isn’t my type…no offense but I’m just not interested, much less aroused.”
How would it have been if my friend had replied, “You bitch! His feelings will really be hurt by this!” Different rules, different standards.
2nd Topanga flashback (originally posted on 6.3.18): Late yesterday afternoon Tatyana and I were hiking the trails and neighborhoods of Topanga Canyon. The sun was going down and the atmosphere was warm and fragrant and altogether perfect except for the flies, but while walking on Encina Road a couple of weird, vaguely negative encounters with older Topanga women occured.
Encounter #1: We were heading back to Entrada Road when a late 50ish hippie-chick type wearing a half-pound of mascara approached with the oldest and fattest Chihuahua I’ve ever seen in my life. It was as if the poor dog, who appeared to be in his mid 80s in canine years, had been eating nothing but cupcakes and french fries his entire life. I shouldn’t have said anything, but for some reason I blurted something about her dog being in his declining years.
Mascara hippie chick stopped and turned and said, “Why did you just say that?” Me: “Sorry…it was the first thing that came into my mind.”
In fact, I lied — the first thing that came into my mind was that this poor dog would most likely be dead from a heart attack within six months or even sooner, and so I translated this observation into a vague remark about dotage.
“Well, I just got him from the pound,” the woman said with a steely, half-hostile smile, “and my first thought was that he’s beautiful.” I said something approving — “Sounds good!” — and we walked away. God, some people. We all understand love and compassion for mistreated animals, but the dog was clearly withered and not even close to healthy. Some things are better left unsaid. My bad.
Encounter #2: Tatyana and I were discussing the architectural stylings of some of the homes on Encina. At one point we wanted to get a better look so we went over to a wooden fence and peered over. Seconds later a 40ish woman drove up in her Prius and said, “Hi…may I help you? Are you looking for something?” Without missing a beat I turned and smiled and said, “No, no…we’re thieves. Just checking out some homes, you know…you have to decide which ones before you make your move.”
The woman understood but persisted. “I just thought you might be lost, just asking,” she said. “We’re good,” I smiled back. “Just checking things out, deciding which homes to hit.”
We all know what it means when a stranger approaches in any kind of neutral territory or situation and says, “May I help you?” It means “you’re doing something I don’t like or approve of or feel 100% comfortable about, and so I’m going to fuck with you and assert my authority in order to steer you in another direction.” Between 98% and 99% of the time, that’s what “may I help you?” means.
