High atop the endangered species list is “the nice Jewish boy,” and though urban legend speaks of its existence, I’m beginning to doubt the myth. Every time I venture into the wide world of dating, I attract the one boy lacking in the aforementioned qualities. Either he’s from Montana, Georgia, Virginia or even Canada or he hails from Hell. Without the accompaniment of a little six-pointed silver star. In the same manner that Weho has perfected the homo-gaydar, my Jewdar needs some work. The handy little device is helpful in differentiating marked male models from acceptable dating material and the lack there of with its ability to shout out which among the group of boisterous Hollyweird boys is among the chosen. Said handy dandy device is instrumental in targeting the relationship worthy among a sea of spiritually-spawned scenesters and their less inconspicuous counter parts. In the future, I hope to upgrade my male magnet from the meek male attraction to a highly specialized grade “A” targeting system in which one can count on the ability to leave a location after having met a boy in possession of the right religious requirement. Until said software is available – I’ll be hiding under a rock – hibernating through the taunting temptation bros from different area codes have to offer.
I have this thing about dating dudes from California. Sexperience has proven that L.A. dudes are too busy scamming on their next target, or too career focused in their twenties to play late on a school night. Occupational hazard? Sure, we’ll go with that. Luckily for me, most gents from Los Scandalous move here to make it in the big bad world of the industry! It’s like the universe understands my needs and wants and is flooding my city with a myriad of male options (and since, unlike NYC, we can’t order any type of cuisine at all hours of the night, I will settle for picking designer dudes). So far, I’ve dated dudes hailing from (in no geographical order,) Colorado, Montana, South Dakota, Georgia, New York, Pennsylvania and Virginia (and lets include Canada just for fun).
Now, math was never my best subject, but I’m pretty sure seven states down means I have forty-three to go – and then plus the additional provinces (not to mention three territories offered by Canada for my shopping needs) I should plan on finding a great guy by 2037. Really, it’s like I’m pacing myself. After all, this is a marathon – not a sprint, girls! I’m a teeny bit nervous about dudes from Texas, but I’m thinking SXSW Music Festival would be a great first date. I now venture out with the girls over the hill and through the canyon and expect to meet bros from various area codes, but sometimes you find the occasional L.A. born and raised boy, and when you meet one in Hollyweird it’s pretty much confirmation that hell hath frozen over. Dates from different states serve simply as a process of elimination and a kick-ass lesson in cross country etiquette!
We may love the Seth Cohen a la The OC type, but you can’t beat Southern hospitality, or small town charm, or Canadian manners. Really, I’m just waiting until the Internet catches onto the phenomenon and picking out designer dudes is as popular a practice as ordering custom kids, or cuisine at all hours of the night (and in the comfort of your home at that!). So listen to Phantom Planet and follow in step potential boytoys hoping to star on the silver screen, “California Here We Come” can be the new male mantra! You may not score a part as the star in the next cinematic masterpiece, but you could wind up as somebody’s leading man.