When I was living in Los Angeles, I used to walk to and from work.  Saved me the monthly bus pass and it was enjoyable and good for me.

(Those were the days I enjoyed walking.  Those days are long gone.)

Being a woman, albeit a fat woman, I would get hit on from time to time.


One day, this guy pulled up next to me in his car.  I kept walking.  He kept pulling forward, asking me if I wanted a ride, and I kept declining.  He wasn’t being scary.  He was being persistent and a little obnoxious.

Finally, because I know what rejection feels like and what the hell, I gave him my phone # and he went on his merry way.

He called.  We made a date.

He picked me up with his van.  He did upholstery work and had some chairs he was going to drop off to a customer in Malibu.

His main topic of conversation was that his other car was a Porsche.

He really thought that was important for me to know.

This is why I will always refer to him as Mr. Porsche.  (Also, I have no idea what his real name is anymore.)

We stopped as his home (to pick up the chairs).

This dude was all about the marijuana.  He had fucking bowls of joints all over his house.

I don’t imbibe, but it doesn’t bother me if others do.

It just seemed a little extreme and a little casual – since these were the days before any use of marijuana was legal.

He got the chairs and off we went.

I waited in the van while he dropped off the chairs.  (Gorgeous Malibu home up in the hills.)

Then we went to a kind of general store/deli to pick up some stuff to eat on the beach.

That’s when things took a decidedly creepy turn.

Dude bought a knife.

A big ass toad-sticking knife.


We were planning on sitting on the beach, eating, and watching the sunset.

Sitting on the quickly emptying beach.

And he now had a big ass knife.

Fuck me.

I spent the time on the beach considering how I was going to keep him from murdering me.

It never happened.

He took me home, and I had to make good on a lot of promises I had made to God (who, at that time I did believe in) over the course of that afternoon.

When the guy called for another date, I declined.  He was really persistent, but I did the whole, “it’s not you, it’s me” thing – because I did not want to get this guy upset, but I definitely did not want to see him again.

Then Mr. Porsche, turned into my own private quasi-stalker.

He was not a persistent stalker.

One night he showed up at John’s Place, the itsy-bitsy comedy sketch place I was performing at – asking to see me.  My fellow cast members went out and told him that I didn’t want to see him and he needed to leave.

Then a while later, he showed up at my front door.  Luckily, I had roommates at the time, and they stood, visible to him, the whole time, while I (without letting him into the apartment) explained to him that I had told him I didn’t want to see him, and asked why he kept showing up.

I think he was so high all the time, he’d just keep forgetting that I was not going to date him, and yet, he was never high enough to forget where I lived or that I performed at John’s Place.

The whole issue went away when I moved and John’s Place closed down.

So, yes, I was young and stupid at one time.

Yes, I made it through my misspent youth alive and unstabbed.

So folks, be careful out there.  I was lucky.



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