LA Story

I hung out yesterday afternoon with L and her houseguest, a curious breed of creature, indeed: the Los Angeles male. He's 28, and starting his residency in emergency child psychiatry in the fall. Though heterosexual, he carries a man-purse -- and not a messenger bag man-purse but a small leather bag -- and is familiar with Frederic Fekkai. He's very attractive and touchy-feely and excitable and kind and has an Adrian-Grenier-in-Entourage look about him. He and L and I sat for a couple of hours yesterday at Whole Foods eating fruit and sushi while he splayed his legs, draped his arm over the back of my chair, and smiled at L, on whom he has had a crush for some time.

What I realized after our hangout session is that, A, I am old, and, B, 28-year-old men are like puppies, sweet and adorable and playful and noisy. This fellow was in town to hang out with his two best friends; I met them at a brunch place as they were finishing their meal, after which they piled into the back of L's car for a drive to Beacon Hill. I haven't been around that kind of energy in a while. It was, well, curious. I didn't know quite what to do with myself.