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March 16, 2001

You donít go to every party thinking tonightís the night.  Okay, maybe I used to think that way, but since I hadnít met the One in four years of going to parties, I stopped thinking that a long time ago.   Okay, maybe just last month.  Now Iím just going hoping there will be some nice guys to look at (they will ignore me as usual), hoping there will be much younger, hopelessly drunk girls that will make idiots out of themselves and make me feel superior, and maybe hear a witty line or two that will remind me there are still some people in L.A. with a sense of humor. 

It's a beach house in Venice, and believe it or not, it is on the beach.  They've got a bonfire on the beach.  And the oddest storm has blown up.  No rain, oppressively hot, and the skies lighting up every two minutes with faraway forks of lightning.  The wind picks up, blows my hair around in a way I hope is alluring.  I love watching storms.  Especially in L.A.

  You could see a herd of elephants going down Wilshire easier than a thunderstorm.  Everytime the lightning hits everybody looks up, oohing as electric white light lights their faces.  Like itís a special effect.  Ashleyís busy chatting up an amiable Aussie and Iím busy watching the storm, smiling at their conversation like Iím interested.  There goes another fork, everyone goes Ooooooh all at once, and I see him. 

No, it just canít happen like this.  I canít catch my first glimpse of someone like this.  Itís too cliche.  The thunder rumbles as he approaches the bonfire.  He is so good looking he makes the earth tremble.  Yeah right.  But he definitely is a babe, and so I figure I have about three seconds worth of good gawking time before he notices me, and turns away, horrified that a pitiful nobody like me is staring at him.

Dark hair, dark eyes.  Small smile, rumpled jeans, black shirt.  Oh my God, he is heaven.