
Of all the many reasons to avoid automotive press events — interminable middle-seat flights, lost income, some nagging sense of ethical obligation at the back of my mind which has yet to be fully extinguished by the sweet nectar of free alcohol — the biggest one is what I think of as the “Surf City in Hell Factor”. The alert reader will recall that, in the mythical Surf City, there are two girls for every boy. Well, at the average North American press event, there are twenty boys for every girl.
This past week’s soiree was no different. Twenty-five names on the roster. One was mine. Twenty-two others were male. That left two girls for this one boy to consider. I should note that, after some time and effort, I’ve separated all working female autojournos into three categories: Ain’t Gonna, Don’t Wanna, and Already Did. This time, the distaff entries before me were both Don’t Wannas, disqualified on the basis that they were entering middle age when I was entering kindergarten.
What to do? Was I really going to spend all evening crossing swords with the polyester-button-down crowd? Pas du tout. I picked up my battered Droid and made a call. An hour later, the maitre’d at LA’s famous “Tower Bar” was mispronouncing my name in a distracted fashion as he stared at the woman on my arm. From a distance, Miss Melisa Mae could be mistaken for Anna Nicole Smith; after years in the modeling business, she still has the height, the body, and the vicious charm to fool the casual observer. Look past the dangerous curves and the leopard-skin print outfit, however, and you will find a jaded, satirical mind. Her blog, which has made a big splash in the past year among the Twitterati and dater/hater crowd, chronicles a lifetime spent in the sexual jungle. Read it, and you’ll see that her unvarnished approach to sleeping with, and post-coitally evaluating, a nearly endless stream of contenders has earned her a healthy dose of both fans and foes. Sounds kind of familiar, right? I figured we’d be kindred souls, or at least similarly soulless.
Having tricked her into meeting me, my intentions were simple: interview her about cars and dating for a bit, drink her under the table, drag her across the street to my hotel, and show her that I was more than a match in the sack for the gym rats, firefighters, policemen, and African nationals that populate her recollections. It wasn’t the best-laid of plans, but it was a plan for the best, er, oh, just click the jump before I have to finish the joke, okay?
(Read More…)
Recent Comments