About a year or so ago – I wrote about how I had enough friends. To narcissistically quote myself: “The “Jonathan Naymark Friend Cafe and Diner”, which used to be open twenty-four hours, is now closed for business. Please do not tap on the door.  Please do not call or email. We are no longer accepting reservations of any sort.” 

Oh May, 2013.  How innocent you seemed.

Then I moved to New York (have we talked about that?) and let me tell you, only when you move to a new place do you realize how many friends you had in the city you no longer live in (Toronto) and how many friends you don’t have in the city you now live in.

This is not to say that I have zero acquaintances in my adopted home of New York. Quite the opposite is true; I even know people who respond, occasionally to my texts, remember my existence and invite me out to things, “You should totally come!”  What I don’t have, however, is what one would call a group of friends, an organic, “Lets get shittered on Friday night and try and get laid” posse.

Because of this rather solitary existence, most of my social plans in New York consist of weekday evening “post work drinks.” I don’t know if people have dinner in New York (it appears as if they don’t), but what I do know is that everyone in New York is either at the gym, at work, or drinking. And it is because of this sorry state of affairs, that I found myself slobbering over a pair of meaty balls under the watchful eyes of Susan Sarandon. And for the record, while I am a fan of a good double entendre as much as the next gay, just this once I am talking about actual Meat Balls.

Let’s rewind: I had met my friend Jay for after-work drinks at the Standard Hotel Beer Garden, ironic because what type of New York gay actually drinks beer? The answer: none; we had vodka sodas. By 9:15, Jay announced that he had to meet his boyfriend, which left me three-vodka sodas in on an empty stomach. As I started stumbling home, thinking what I could cobble together out of my meager possessions on hand in my pantry (almond butter surprise?), I had a food related epiphany: the Meatball Shop.

Solo mission enabled, I sauntered in to the Meatball Shop announcing that I needed a table for one.  The Meatball Shop is generally a bit of a cluster-f-ck when you’re part of a large group – but running uno meant that I was shown a primo seat overlooking the patio immediately.

The scene outside the meatball shop was typical West Village Thursday night, which meant that there were hoards of people, people with friends!, idling about waiting for their meatballs or bar hopping.  I was secretly jealous of all of the people congregating at the Meatball Shop with their friends, as if they were rubbing their social plans in my faces, laughing like they had no cares (and all the friends) in the world.  Damn you to hell!!

It was in this frame of mind that I dug my ass into the seat, ordered myself a tall boy, and glanced out the window in front of me and realized that I was staring directly into Susan Sarandon’s cleavage. There was only a foot of hazy New York summer air between my virgin eyes and Susan Sarandon’s breasts.

Stay cool Naymark, I thought to myself, as I decided it would be hilarious to take a photo of SS as she ate her meatball salad. It was this same drunken logic, which once had me try and sneak into a Toronto International Film Festival party by launching myself over a hedge at Lobby Bar (RIP) so I could meet Seth Cohen (I know… it was 2006 times were different), “no one will notice Naymark. You’re so smooth.  You’re so drunk. You’re an idiot.” That event ended with a 300lbs bouncer throwing me down Bloor Street.

Luckily my game has improved and no one appeared to be the wiser (also I turned my phone to silent) as I got some snaps of Louise motherfucking Sawyer.  In fact all was going well until my food arrived and I quickly tore into those delectable meaty balls. Taking a quick breather I looked out the window and realized that I had caught the awkward gaze of Sarandon who looked mildly dismayed at my table manners. Shame quickly washed over me and I decided to rethink my next plan of action: ordering one of the Meatball Shop’s make your own ice cream sandwiches (mini food review: Meatballs at the Meatball Shop are kinda meh – but their ice cream sandwiches are beyond).  Embarrassed, alone and concerned about judgment both from Susan Sarandon and everyone else, I clandestinely ordered an ice cream sandwich to go and shamefully ran home, Meatball Shop bag in my hand, eagerly awaiting the moment I could drunkenly tear into my snicker doodle and coffee sandwich with the conclusion that: Susan Sarandon was probably not going to be my friend.

Meatball Shop incident aside I’ve quickly acclimatized to eating alone, which is how I found myself in Los Angeles a day after the above incident trying to banter with my waitress, a dead ringer for Zooey Deschanel, at a downtown restaurant called Baco Mercat.

“Our main dishes are great for sharing,” she breezed in a singsong like voice before looking at the empty seat across from mine:  “But if you’re only one… I would recommend maybe a sandwich. Sandwiches aren’t really for sharing.” Oh snap Zooey.

“Well what are your favorite dishes?” I wasn’t going to let her ZD Lite off so easily

“Well they’re all amazing.”

“But you must have a favorite?”

“The caramelized cauliflower is amazing.” Of course it is; she pronounced caramel with cloying sweetness. I texted my friend Pearl (in Toronto): I’m in DTLA and eating alone – my waitress looks like a poor mans Zooey Deschanel.

“How adorkable.” My friend Pearl responded.

 

“I feel like I’m having 500 days of dinner.”

I was not going to let ZD Lite ruin my night in newly cool #DTLA so I decided to head over to the Ace Hotel. My friend Mark (he also lives in Toronto) had mentioned that it was ground zero for DTLA nightlife so off we (I mean I) went only to be dismayed at the mammoth line that had formed outside the hotel bars entrance. Here’s the thing – I don’t mind eating alone, going to see a movie alone, but I HATE standing in line alone (who’s that loser?).  So I was either going to finagle my way in sans line – or I was going to abort mission.

“Hey I’m here to meet some friends upstairs.” I said to the bouncer manning the front of the queue.

“Are they on the guest list?”

“I don’t think so,” I responded honestly.

“Well let me look – what name would the group be under?”

“Melanie.  Melanie Davidson.”  So here’s the thing: I do not know a Melanie Davidson.  I actually don’t think I even know a person named Melanie. I do not know how I came up with that name or even if Melanie Davidson is a real person (I assume there is a Melanie Davidson out there) but what I do know is that the bouncer glanced quickly at his sheet, looked back at me and said: “sure man.”  The velvet rope opened.

Soon enough I had entered the Ace Hotel’s rooftop bar, which is about as typical as an LA rooftop bar should be (small pool, art deco lighting, Moroccan chez lounges, pastiche of everything rolled into one Nuevo Hispanic non descript pastiche wrapped with the SoCal aesthete of you’re on a rooftop so just f’ing enjoy it).

At this point – as anyone who has even been to a bar alone knows – you have a couple of options: you can grab a drink and leave (savouring the fact you are there alone, but ready to admit long-term defeat), you make friends with the bartender (and eventually sleep with him), or you find a group of friends and introduce yourself.  I had worked too hard to make my way into the bar so I didn’t feel like quitting (also quitting is for losers) and it was too busy to make friends with the bartender (he also looked like Mr. Clean) so I was on to Option 3: make friends.

My recommendation for anyone who ever finds themselves alone at a bar: don’t approach the first group of potential friends you find.  Wait around, get the lay of land, see who’s friends with who, before making an approach.  Also never try and become friends with just a gay couple – they will quickly buy you a drink and ask you back to their hotel room.

After much room surveying I found a gaggle of gays and with a bit of liquid courage (two vodka sodas) I sauntered up to them and said: “you guys look like you need a new friend.”

One of them responded: “Do we need a new friend, or do you?” I thought that that was cute.  I liked these boyz to men – in fact I soon felt like had I lived in LA these guys could be my actual friends, like real friends.  I was quickly imaging Sunday brunches, trips to Santa Monica and mass texts riddled with inside jokes.

Quickly introductions were made and pleasantries were exchanged.

By 1 most of the group was ready to head back home to their houses in Los Feliz leaving me on my own again (queue violins).   And what happened next was not one of my proudest moments so feel free to judge.  The group I had befriended consisted of two couples and a single friend; which means, we all know where this should have gone. As the group got ready to head the couples quickly pulled a fast one abandoning their single friend (see they were really nice people, trying to get their friend laid) with little old Naymark.  He offered to grab another drink with me as we headed in the general direction of my hotel, through Downtown LA, which has the pleasant intonation of a third world city mixed with Williamsburg circa 2007.

About halfway through the walk I realized that a) we weren’t stopping at another bar and b) the single friend wasn’t getting into a cab to go home.  Home, in his mind, was my hotel room.  And sadly (for both of us) I just wasn’t into it (I was exhausted and wanted to crawl into bed and finish reading the Hunger Games) and midway through walk, as he planted a kiss on my lips at the bottom of Angels Flight, I realized that awkward Jonathan had no clue how to stop the situation from reaching an even more awkward denouement.  The best I could muster was a warning as we entered my hotel lobby:  “Look if you come up to my room – I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.” The result was a 15 minute tour of the architectural abnormalities of a deluxe king room at the Omni Hotel Downtown LA, “This is the closet, which is awkwardly positioned vis-a-vis the rest of the room.  Here is my desk! Here is the hotel chair that I put all my bags on.”

I suck at life.

When I woke up the next morning and I had the opportunity to think about my life choices I realized that if this situation had happened to one of my straight friends (who all live in Toronto, thanks for asking) we would spend most of the next day talking smack about what happened.

“You nail that girl we met at the Ace Hotel?”

“So that bitch totally took me up to her room,” one of them would say, “And we didn’t do anything.”

“She didn’t even suck your dick?”

“No man. We just talked. She didn’t even take her shirt off.”

“What a fucking cock tease.”

“Total bullshit.”

Then they’d ask me for my opinion and I’d probably make a joke how gay guys are so different (sex all the time, yo) and we’d continue to make fun of our buddy for not being able to seal the deal while ripping apart the girl for being a frigid bitch.

There was nothing to be proud about – I was the gay version of that girl.

In fact I can imagine my friend K explicitly saying, “Naymark, you idiot. The guy just wanted to get his dick wet. Stop being a cock block.” (That’s an actual email I once received).

And that more then anything reminded me the true value of friendship.  True friends don’t let friends be cock blocks, and ya know what… Susan Sarandon wouldn’t have let a friend cock a block either.