3/31/03: 12:45 AM: Let me tell you a story ...

The girl in the picture to the right is Ylana Dela Rosa (according to my caller ID). She's 26, in college and working towards being a graphic designer. She can cut together a DVD. She can whip up a web page. She's smart, witty, talented. She's a hell of a karaoke singer, belting out Journey's "Faithfully" and Avril Lavigne's "Sk8er Boi" with equal vigor. Admittedly, she has nothing going on in the trunk area, but I don't feel that should be considered a negative mark against somebody, even if it means I'm not attracted to them.

Ylana has been dating a guy for the last six months ... Corey, Josh, something. He's an anonymous looking white guy, so pardon me for not retaining every detail about him. Anyhoo, he plays bass in a band called Desirable Sun, drinks a lot, and spends a great deal of personal energy downplaying his intelligence.

This is all going somewhere, I assure you.

Ylana works as a waitress at Boardwalk 11, a groovy little karaoke bar in Culver City that I really like. Truth be told, she's not the best waitress in the world, but she's a very sweet girl who's very likeable and the customers love her. Some love her a little more than they should.

Last Monday, a birthday party full of drunken yahoos was in the joint. One of the people in the group was pretty grabby, and put his hands all over Ylana in a manner that could only be deemed inappropriate. She goes over to her boyfriend, who was nearby, drinking, and tells him this. Boyfriend's response? "Is he tipping?" while finishing his beer.

Not "avert your eyes, this is gonna be messy." Not "I can't believe this fool had the nerve to touch my woman." Not even "let's complain to the management and get these losers kicked out." No, he finished his drink and let it continue.

Five minutes after she's rebuffed by the man she's sleeping with, a man she feeds and supports, a man who she's committed to, she comes over and sits with my cohort McGowan and me. She regales us with the entire story. She expresses her disgust, her frustration. She then forbids either of us from acting on our desires, as I'd already picked up a chair and McGowan was cracking his knuckles. She went back to work, and yes, they guy kept pawing her, in full view of the aforementioned boyfriend.

Later that night, Ylana joined McGowan and me at Norm's restaurant on Pico. She told us how she'd only been dating him six months, and she wasn't so attached she couldn't walk away. She told us how she felt that his band was being dragged down by his presence, since she doesn't think he's that good and he can't read music. She talked about his excessive drinking and how unattractive she found it. Suffice it to say she confided a great deal with us, and we both had the same advice: "dump the chump, you deserve better." She shrugged, and made no moves.

Saturday night, McGowan and I were club hopping. We stopped by Boardwalk, nodded to some people, and made a move to get some food. Ylana and ... whatshisname showed up after she closed out. I launched into him.

The first question you may think is "why?" Ylana's a grown ass woman, and if she lacks the self-respect to either stop people from disrespecting her and to stay in a relationship that even she claims is beneath her, who am I to say otherwise?

The answer is, largely, for my own amusement. I told whatshisname that his new name, as far as I was concerned, was "b*tch," and that in my mind anyone who'd let that sort of thing happen to his own woman without some response deserves no other moniker. I did not say anything about his drinking. No comment on her dis of his playing ability. I even let alone Ylana's allegations that he was a loser. I made a personal attack based on personal opinions, a hyped up version of "the dozens" when people use real facts instead of hyperbole. Ylana changed her tack, standing by her man and trying to defend him. She said that, just that evening, a man spilled whiskey on her and held her fast while he licked it off her arm, and she admitted, "I let him" (this in particular shut up McGowan). I argued that, while commendable, her defending him as he stared, slack jawed, made him all the more b*tch in my eyes.

In response, he got up and stormed out, Ylana following close after.

Okay, you can stand around and enjoy your drink while people lick and grope your woman, but when a guy cracks some jokes on your and disses you in front of a crowd of people, you're outta there. Okay.

After he left, I was called "wrong," I was told "that was outta line." Now, these are some of the same people that, a week ago, were saying the exact same things I was saying, just behind old boy's back. I smiled. It felt good to attack him that way. It felt right. I was loaded for bear and sincerely hoping somebody else would get in the way. Nobody did, but oh well. A day later, it still brings a smile to my face.

Now, admittedly, I like Ylana, but if she gets so mad that she never forgives me ... I'll be okay with that. If most of the people involved decide to shun me ... that's all right as well (I'm rather happy having Elliot and McGowan as friends, in part because they're brilliant and useful, but in part just because they're fun to be around). I'm actually very comfortable doing horrible, despicable things to people I barely know. The consequences are negligible enough that I figger I can handle it. It all felt very ... natural.

There's not really a moral to this story. There's not even a proper ending -- tomorrow is my normal night at Boardwalk, where all the "regulars" will show and there's the possibility of more hilarity. Personally, I expect nothing to happen -- in my experience, people avoid confrontation, especially against people who seek it. Maybe we're better at it, and that intimidates. Had I been in his shoes (which is, of course, an impossibility), I'd have responded with a litany of insults that'd make Andrew Dice Clay blush (I actually thought one up: "Who the hell do you think you are, calling me b*tch, you hat-wearing wannabe player, with your broken down Shaft coat and nerd stickers on your car!" That's how I'd have attacked me -- woulda worked well with that crowd). My best case scenario involves him taking a swing at me, giving me the opportunity to beat somebody severely with proper provocation that it'd be excusable. But I expect nothing more than simmering resentment, angry glances and me spending a little less energy not snarling at people.

Just another day for you and me in hell.