Born In The USA – Bruce Springsteen
Back in LA-wahey wuu huu! Mighty quick trip back to Ireland. Nice if it was longer but what can you duu? I came. I kissed. I conquered. Castles. Stones. Mead. The whole shebang. Weddings. Whistles. Wallops. Some hoot. Even had the odd owl. Speeches. Stand-up. Sheep. Good bit to catch up on in the old blogaruu. Need a day or two to let it percolate in my brain. Until then, how about an article I wrote for a Sunday newspaper this week. Life of a Chancer. Read. On.
Life Of A Chancer (Part II)
A few years ago I finished up my E-Business Masters Degree in U.C.C and somehow ended up as a German gun translator for the Irish Navy. One day I wondered: What am I doing with my life? So. I decided to try out what I wanted to actually do. Wrote a sitcom spec script. Sent it to RTE. And. They replied. (Oh Jesus!) Alas, merely to enquire: ‘Who are you? Ha.’ Tut. Well. I’ll show you fecks, I thought. Time to go become someone. L.A, here I come. Adventure. On!
When I originally made my now fabled journey (by boat and dolphin) from Cork to Hollywood in search of success and beautiful women, one of the first odd things I noticed here was that people are not really too concerned with the greeting ‘How are you?’. Instead, they lead with the same as RTE had done… ‘Who are you?’ followed quickly by ‘And what do you do?’
Bit impolite. Particularly when they walk off while I’m in the middle of hilariously telling them ‘I’m me. I do… Me?’ Although nowadays people don’t even bother to ask. They just hand me their change and pat my head (my hair has grown since I’ve arrived).
Whenever I return home, I notice Irish greetings are slowly evolving too. Before it was all ‘Who’ve you seen?’ as opposed to ‘How’ve you been?’ Now, as I first saw while doing the book tour for my first beauty RanDumb: The Adventures of an Irish Guy in LA, people no longer look at me queerly for a few seconds and then ask ‘How do you do?’ but instead look at me queerly and enquire suspiciously ‘How do you do it?’
Like all good chancers, I do my best to laugh it off. ‘Ha ha, not too sure what you mean. Back to the book…’ Although I can take a wild guess at what it is they mean. Take the past two weeks. Random. Dumb. Buckets of fun.
Started off on a private jet. Flying from L.A to the Caribbean. Chilling on a beach in Antigua for a few days. On to a villa in Barbuda to top up the tan. I then boarded a helicopter and flew to a tiny little spit of land made up of pink sand beaches and an exclusive five-star resort where the previous occupant of my room was a certain Prince of Monaco. When the hotel staff enquired as to who I was, I of course told them: The Prince of Ireland. Obviously.
After relaxing there for a week, I uncomfortably boarded a little fixed-wing flight (also known as a flying coffin) and flew to Vegas for a night. Danced with the devil there, while also enjoying my brother’s stag. And then I went home. Back to L.A to prepare for the launch of my second book, RanDumber.
(By the way, it’s true what they say: Private jets are the only way to travel.)
The weird thing is, this is now how life is for me. Not all the time. But some of the time. Other of the time, I might be on a super yacht with some of the world’s biggest pop stars. Sailing around the tropical seas. Offering my input while they create musical gems in front of me. Dance. On.
Oddly, there are also times when I might get a phone call asking me to DJ for Perez Hilton, Natalie Imbruglia, MGMT, Jermaine Jackson or Nicole Richie. You know, the usual crew, as you do.
(I say oddly seeing as before I moved to L.A, I never actually DJ’ed. Ever. I just don’t tell them that. Say nothing. Made my debut in a gay gym. Fun times.)
Although, it’s not all fun and games. No no – Sometimes it can be quite dodge. Like that time I was doing stand-up comedy with Craig Robinson and Jeff Ross. And I bombed. Badly. Big crowd. Puzzled looks. Stone. Cold. Silence. I think a mixture of my Irish accent and previously mentioned wild hair threw off the mostly African-American audience. ‘What’s he saying? Is that Russian? What’s on his head, a bird’s nest?’
Once I started to hear coughs and the sound of someone in the audience’s phone vibrate in their pocket, I knew I had lost them fully. So I did what we all do in desperate measures: I sang a Christy Moore song. Obviously. Delirium Tremens. Oh goodbye to the port and brandy. Five minutes of that. Eventually ran out of made-up verses. Oh goodbye to me. I think Craig was the only person to clap along when I invited everyone in the audience to do so, so cheers to Craig for that.
(Strangely enough, I was asked back again to perform. As I’ve said for years, my lyrical tones are highly underestimated.)
So. Yeah. Not all fun and games. I would like to tell you about the homeless guy who tried to mug me with a fake gun. Or when six police cars and two police helicopters swarmed in on me. Although walking past Woody Harrelson chilling on a couch in the middle of Manchester reading my book was pretty mighty. All evens out. Unfortunately. I’m getting the light. Time is up.
Still not too sure of the right answer to this new ‘How do you do it?’ question. I’ve a feeling it could be hidden somewhere in RanDumber. Read on.
Or. Maybe the answer is what I’ve been saying all along: I do me. And I do it well!
Go Your Own Way – Fleetwood Mac
Read more of RanDumber -> SNAP HER UP!
For the Kindle -> SNAP ON!
For those in the UK -> GIDDY UP!
Buy RanDumb! -> WEE HUU!
Read the first five chapters of RanDumber -> CLICK!