Yesterday was a highly confusing day. I was lost as to when to celebrate Paddy’s day. I was looking forward to it, purely to utilize my Irishness once to the max. However, I found out that most of the celebrations were on Saturday, it wasn’t a national holiday here too, there was no day off on Tuesday for the big parade. Or the boozing the night before. So I went to the gym to clear my head, I could decide then when I’d celebrate it.
The gym I’m getting for free is getting better and better, it’s brilliant. The talent is funbelievable, and the women aren’t too bad either, wahey boss. Plus now I’ve a new gym buddy. I was trying to hog two machines yesterday when a guy asked if he could use one along with me. Alright, fine, but don’t hold me back, I’m working here. I recognized him from somewhere, not sure where. He was a big dude, and as I’m almost doing my back in using the same weights he just used on the machine, I see its the rapper/actor Common. So now, instead of purely doing my back in and making whimpering, grunting noises because of the heavy weights, I’m also trying to be cool and pretend like I don’t recognize who he is. I’m sure he’s doing the same. He moves onto the bench press and asks if I’ll spot him. He just made it official, we are gym buddies from then on in. He even wishes me a Happy Saint P day maaan when he finds out I’m Irish. I was going to say “Thanks, who’s your Paddy?!!!”, using my cheesy line I had saved up, but thought he might not fully get it/understand my accent. Plus it’s not a good place to get mistaken asking a guy who’s your Daddy, highly gay gym and all. I let it go.
So after I shared a protein shake with my new gym buddy, had lunch, recorded a new song with him, discussed how he prepared for American Gangster, did the Riverdance for him, I went home (only one part of that was true, surprisingly). My roommates told me to get ready for karaoke, it was time for the Paddys day celebrations!
I felt cheated by karaoke this week though. The crooner was back, singing the same song. The Asian dude and R Kelly were back, singing and rapping the same song. The two random girls dressed up in hockey outfits were back, rapping the same song. It was all a sham, they came every week, I was gutted! There was, however, a new guy who not only sang a Meatloaf song superbly, but also managed to do the robot while singing, highly impressive. Plus I think Justin Timberlake was in the place boozing on, but I wasn’t fully sure so can’t say for certain. He looked the spitting image of him and dressed like him and was in Hollywood so more than likely was him.
I decided my voice was in flying form to sing (I was drunk). I intended on singing Common People by Pulp. It was probably a subconscious shout out to my gym buddy. I flicked through the big, big, big book of songs they gave to choose from, looking for that song’s code to hand up and get my name on the list. However, while flicking through the book, I was getting distracted by 80’s classics. Will I do Bette Davis Eyes?!! 99 Red Balloons??!! Vienna?!!! Take On Me?! Addicted To Love?!!
In the end I’m not sure what song I murdered and pillaged. I think it was She Drives Me Crazy by Fine Young Cannibals. It took them so long to call me up, and with the green beer flowing for free, being Irish and all, I had no clue what song I had picked when it was eventually my turn to go up and sing. So, up I go, thinking I can sing whatever song it was without looking at the words, mumbling along “You and I, 99…You’re going to have to face it I’m…Take oooooooooon me…”. All wrong. I was so bad to start with, my roommate had to come up and sing along with me. Once I had my back singer in place though, transformation time, I blossomed, I was like Tina Turner, or Joe Dolan, someone like that. I was strutting and slurring. I managed to belt out the chorus, hands over the head clapping, broke it down, acoustic version, lighters lit up in the crowd, people crying, encore encore! Oh, what’s that, I can’t stay up and hog the mike, my turn is over? Just one more song, I’m warmed up now. No? Seriously? Just one more, maybe two? Ok, sorry about that.
I was horrendous. In a good Irish way. I even managed to finish off with a “Who’s your Paddy?!!!” to the crowd. A collaboration with Common is in the works, I’ll keep you posted.
Song of the day is the song I think I sang last night, who knows. Either way it is a savage song, and an odd video…She’s Drives Me Crazy by Fine Young Cannibals
Today has been a day of chats, stories and getting information, some meaningless, the rest highly useful.
Here’s a highly useful bit of information I got today, which will definitely benefit me further down the line. Apparently Matt Damon lived in the same place I live now. Very useful to know. At least now if I ever meet him I have a good ice breaker. A great story.
This nugget of information was followed by a mighty chat today with one of my neighbors. Mighty altogether, I was smoothness personified. One of my neighbors is ridiculously hot, an Australian actress. I found out today she was in Neighbors. I could try to make up a horrific joke about my neighbor being in Neighbors but I’m too tired, and thats all I could think of anyways. She’s the reason David Spade has been hanging around my place now and again, they’re working together. She’s not that famous or anything, but she promised she wouldn’t mention me in her blog if I did the same, you know how it goes. The bad news was that one of my roommates told me she lives here with her husband. Great. I was well in there too before I found this out. I felt the spark the one time I said hi to her, although I’m not sure if she even said hi back.
So while I’m watching t.v, I see her outside my window, messing around with her dog or something. The sun was shining, she was dazzling in it, looking savage. As I said to my other roommate, knowing she wouldn’t get it, she is a weapon. Strangely at that exact time, more or less, I thought to myself, now is a good time to dump the bins, and while I’m outside, I might as well say hello. So I throw an empty can into an empty bin-bag, the rubbish was overflowing, really important I dumped it at that time, and go outside. I should mention at this point that my roommate’s dog was sick today, so puking out of both ends. This will help my smoothness later on.
I head out, make some small talk with her about it being a great day, dazzling, weapons, all that jazz. I then tell her how I have to empty the bins again, so much rubbish, where does it keep coming from, you know how it is, throw my eyes to heaven, tut to myself, all that jazz. She doesn’t care, and I realize I shouldn’t literally talk rubbish to her, my regular small talk is bad enough. So I go dump the can into the trash shute, come back, ask her what type of dog does she have. It’s a bulldog but I ask anyways. I’m good at small talk. I then think to myself, I should really tell her how my roommate’s dog is sick out both ends, and how I’ve stepped in it a few times already today, tut, throw my eyes to heaven. So I’ve now moved on to the subject of s**t with her. Rubbish and s**t, same old small talk as usual so.
Our spark is interrupted by her husband popping his head out their window and asking her would she get his drying from downstairs. Hang on buddy, we’re sharing a moment over dog s**t. So I go back inside, tell my roommate its a pity she’s married, I think she likes me. I know these vibes well. My roommate, who has lived here longer than my other roommate, then tells me she’s not married, that’s a gay guy who lives in the same house. The other roommate had got it wrong! No wonder so David Spade was over there all the time, trying to move in on my woman. I’m thinking of inviting her over to check out the dog’s puke stains, always a banker to seal the deal.
So they were two highly useful, informative stories I heard and had earlier in the day. I also heard how Brad Pitt got the agent, who got him his big break, to represent him in the first place. My roommate had all the good stories for me today! Apparently, he went to her office with his resume, photos, reel etc. She said no thanks. So he kept showing up every day at her office, with cakes, flowers, mixed tapes, homemade stuff, being nice and pleasant, and eventually, she said yes. Talent, good looks and the ability to bake tasty cakes and deserts seems to be the way to get your foot in the door. I’m letting the custard on my trifle set as we speak.
On my way to a meeting I had today, I stopped by the good old Coffee Bean for a coffee, surprisingly enough. Its a sit wherever, share tables, kind of place when its busy. So I’m busy scribbling stuff down in my notebook about something, a shopping list I think, when a girl asks if she can sit at my table. Work away, pull up a chair. I thought she was Irish first, had all the tell tale signs, pinky skin complexion, colour of bacon, iPod on, green top and a white skirt. The minute she asked me what do you do and who are you, however, I knew she wasn’t. Here we go again. Luckily, I pulled a George Kastanza moment out of the bag, that will be used in future when needed…”I’m unemployed and kind of homeless, things are looking bad.” A great way to nip something in the bud early in LA it seems. Plus I called over Amadeus and introduced him to her, she probably believed the homeless comment more after seeing he was my buddy.
I then met a literary agent, who had read some of my writing. That turned out to be the most useful out of all my chats, as he gave me unreal helpful information about LA, getting into the business, and taking things to the next level. Basically you need a plan. Then you need ten more plans. Then you have to be open to ten more possible plans. So the more you put yourself out there, try different routes, network, and work hard while making it look effortless, the bigger chance you have of getting a foot or hook in somewhere. I know that can be applied for a lot of things, and might seem obvious, but when you’re being told by someone in the business you want to be in, by someone who knows what they’re talking about, and thinks you have a good chance if the necessary hard work is done, its good stuff to hear and have laid out in front of you. Its a bit much to take in all in one go too, so by the end I was processing it through my head and was a bit lost for words as to what responses I should give “Eh, thanks?”. Stand-up comedy could be another option now too, boo on!!! At least now though, more direction has been given to me, it no longer feels completely alien being here, and I have set things to start doing. Either that or I’m banking on my homemade trifle!
A great song to finish the day is Road To Joy by Bright Eyes
Friday and Saturday have been pretty chilled compared to the last few weekends. Strangely enough, on Friday I was surprised to find out I was better off ditching the Mongolians in the end the night before. And here is why.
I finally made the wise decision to look for someone to take over my rent for the end of March, and I’ll look for somewhere cheaper. The pennies are being pinched big time. So, I put an ad up on Craigslist to sublet my room. That is how I met the Swedish girl. We go back years. She had arrived in LA last week, we’d chatted on Facebook, she was coming over on Friday to check the place out. I spent the morning dusting my room with a pair of boxers(couldn’t find a cloth) and hoovering my bedroom with my foot(couldn’t work the hoover).
So about 2 o’clock she calls over with her two friends. She is sound out, hot enough too, and seems cool. Her friends, on the other hand, are complete apes. Sweet lord, they were apes. The first one swans in the door snapping her fingers, fake lips, fake boobs, fake hair, tiny dress and massive heels. Sounds lovely I know but the receding hairline she was trying to hide wasn’t really my thing. Her first question, her first words out of her mouth to me were “What do you do? Why are you not at work now? Are you rich?”. I’m waiting for the hi, how’s it going, nice hairline, small talk but she skips all that. Ape. She doesn’t seem impressed when I tell her I work online (all I could think of). I ask her what she does…”I make men fall in love with me and buy me what I want”, snapping her fingers at me and waiting for me to laugh along with her. Oh right, you’re a whure, no need for the long explanation next time. The other friend asks then if I have a green card, am I a U.S citizen. I disappoint her with a no, why so? “Oh I’m looking for a husband, but he has to be American, you wont do”. I tell her I’m looking for a wife too but she has to be half Swedish, half Mongolian. She doesn’t get it. It’s hilarious in my head though, so I start to explain but just stop myself in time. Not another explanation joke.
So my roommate and I sit through a good hour of hearing how her friend’s place is much nicer, more expensive, another man fell in love with her last night, she might move to a nicer place, … please stop talking. Thank god I didn’t head to their party the night before. They would have maxed out the last €24 on my student credit card in no time. I dodged a bullet. Finally they leave, we’ll call you, last resort my roommate says. It was nice of the girl to leave a few strands of her fake hair behind as well though as a kind remainder. Ill use them to dust the next time around.
Unfortunately at this stage I think I’ll have to give up mocking myself about my solo clubbing episodes. Friday night the texts were flying in, five offers, from five separate people, I was a popular man. In the end, I opted for a place called Teddys with my roommate. I had texted the Bucket asking her to go see a movie but I think she’s changed her number. I’ll ring from a private number tomorrow to check for definite. Anyways, Teddys was a great call. Cool as funk. Its in the Roosevelt hotel on the Hollywood strip, so right in the middle of everything. Supposedly a great spot if you want to mingle with the celebs. Or mingle with me now. Whichever you prefer.
So we get in, my roommate and her friends go say their hellos, I head off on a little wander of my own. Order a drink, doesn’t max out the student card, not too expensive so (about $10). Its a small enough place, decorated vintage style, seems to be a VIP section of the hotel bar. So, I’m strolling around, trying to look cool and fit in, keeping an eye out for Ricky Bobby or Shwayze, no sign, when these two girls come up to me. I’m surprised they didn’t pass out from the posing and the cheek sucking they were doing while trying to talk. Their shoulders keep popping into me as well while they pose and ask me “Who are you?”. Again, I was waiting for the hi, how are you, you just posed your shoulder into my eye, small talk, but they skip that too. So I tell them, very slowly and loudly, MARK, M A A A R R R K, MARK. They look at me like I’m a bit slow, they understood the first one fine. “Mark what?” At this stage they seem to have gathered I have an accent of some sort, which makes them think I might be rich and maybe famous. Little do they know.
So, they ask again, “Mark, what?”. I give them my surname, and see one of them type something into their iPhone. I think nothing of it while I have small talk with the other girl…I’m from Ireland – Oh my god I’m Irish too – Sure you are – I am, I’m half Irish – Oh yeah, which half, top or bottom – Emmm, my Mum is Russian and I’m told I look like her so, bottom half? – Yeah, thats what I thought too. The other girl turns back to me, “I cant find you on Google, what did you say your name was again? What do you do? Are you an artist?” I look at her iPhone and she has typed in “Markus” into Google search. Ape. I tell them I am an artist, I do love to paint, I’ll paint them if they like. I don’t want to disappoint her by telling her my surname again so she can see there’ll be no Imdb.com result for it. I wouldn’t want to ruin her night this early or anything. So, I whip out the back in two minutes dodge line. Be right back, wait here for me. They see they’re losing me and finally ask what they really wanted..Do you have drink for us? I point to a bottle of vodka on the table next to me (obviously not mine), tell them work away. Do you have some…sniffs at me. I hand her a tissue.
As it turns out, it was lucky I brought my Kleenex handy pack as I was asked for tissues a lot in that club for some reason. As in everyone I spoke to more or less finished by asking me or offering me. If you are ever in LA though, I would highly recommend going there. Its a cool place, so cool in fact, that they don’t care about the no smoking rule in there and everyone puffs away. Now that’s cool. Plus the Irish accent is golden, best place yet. Just bring tissues.
Today has been chilled enough but good trickles of progress have occurred. I checked the blog stats after the big interview on the radio show, the daily individual blog hits have quadrupled, almost up to 500, wuu duu!!! I also have a meeting lined up with my roommate’s commercial agent for this Monday. Meant to be easy money if you can get it, and they need all sorts, so worth a punt(if it goes through this time). Plus, there is some interest in my writing from other sources now (not just people I’ve plagued to read it) after the blog got more exposure. It’s going nude next week.
This made me realize something today, which now I see is fairly obvious but a bit oblivious to me up until now. And that is that I must start small. Any little break at all. Better than nothing. I can’t just land my own sitcom, or get a role in a movie (starring role that is) that I’d love to star in and like to watch myself kind of crap. Small things lead to the bigger things. Aaron Speiser was actually saying this a lot the last time I went but must not have sunk in properly until now. I was too busy wondering what the Wayans had said to him next when he worked with them. Later down the road you can pick and choose more to an extent. The more I write it down the more blatantly obvious it is. I was only joking, I had figured that out all along. Sure. Until then though I have to take what I can get, to an extent. I’m still not going to say yes to the porn offers that have come in.
I must do some research now instead of rambling on. Must check out Google and see if that girl who gave me her number last night was on that t.v show I think she was on. As if I’d be interested in her if she wasn’t. As if. Tut. Song of the day is a song always on when I blogaruu…Inní mér syngur vitleysingur by Sigur Ros, funreal.
So yesterday was a highly productive day. Highly. I got a call in the afternoon asking me if I wanted to audit another one of Aaron Speiser’s classes. I said I would, it was free, I’m not starting the other class full on until the start of April, might as well get the free ones in until then. So, having that lined up for 7.30, I killed the day getting some ridiculously good music remixes from obscure parts of the web. I had planned going back to DJ AM next week and wowing him with my mixes, or at least the ones I had found. Might see if he’s up for starting a collaboration, AM/PM perhaps, he could do with the exposure. I had a lot of free time on my hands yesterday to think of all this.
Anyways, while I’m getting stuck into the music, I remember I must text the writer I met last night who had a movie or two made already. He had given me his number so I could text him the name of the documentary I rambled on about. I had asked and taken it hoping he’d end up writing a new role for me in any upcoming projects. Surely he would, we both liked soccer after all! We were on different wavelengths to be true, so I didn’t have a clue what it was I was hoping he’d do but must text him at least to suss it out. So, I send him a text about the documentary (Black Star, about Michael Essien). I leave a question at the end of the text, he can’t just get away with a “Cheers bud” now if he texts back. I also recommend another documentary I’ve seen recently (Waltz with Bashir) if he ever got free time he should go see it, unreal, great movie etc etc. It wasn’t until after I press send and re-read the text that I realize it has the air of me almost asking him out to go see it again. Almost has the air of me asking him on a date. The job. Exactly what I was trying to convey. I do not recommend sending important texts when hungover.
Lo and behold, I get a positive reply. He cant find the doc on Blockbusters though, do I have a copy he could borrow? I’m thinking, I give him a copy of the movie, he gives me a movie role, fair swap. But I have no copy of it. And it’s not on Youtube. I checked. Or Amazon. I checked. Perhaps I could get onto my friend at home and see if he could get me a copy of it. Has he ever seen the documentary “The Bridge” as well by the way. He really should. It’s class. That is on Youtube. So, while he’s probably expecting a simple “Yes, I have a copy”, or, “No, I don’t”, I take option C. The long rambling text which is more or less the length of this paragraph explaining the above. About 4 texts sent as one. One of those great texts I send now and again, then after think a phone call might’ve been better.
Surprisingly, I get no reply. Come to think of it, I’m still not used to my new phone. I’m still in the stage where I can’t yet walk and text at the same time with it. Or I’m still texting with both hands, not used to the buttons. Did the text actually send? I got no delivery report. I better send it again. Sent. Oh yeah, I don’t get reports on this phone. Great work by me, bombard him with rambling texts. Good duck to that lead anyways I’d say. I have to say though, thats another hurdle I must figure out how to get over. Texting or ringing someone who could give me a break – Do I just say…Hook me up, or do I end up recommending a morbid documentary about suicides (The Bridge) in a rambling text? I’ll try hook me up next time, trial and error!
After a mixed bag of a day, delighted with the new music, annoyed by my inability to text a lead, Aaron Speiser’s office call me again to confirm the class. Yeah, I’ll be there, can’t wait to work with Aaron again, can’t wait to hear who he’s worked with lately too. Pardon? It’ll be $50 this time. Oh right, usually people don’t get so many free audits. Oh right. Yeah, yeah, I’ll still be there, you have a really great day too…Sure I’ll be there.
So I Google map his studio again. Its a good hour’s walk from my place. Or a $40 dollar round trip cab. Plus the $50 for the class on top, is $90 really worth it? Eh, nope. While on Google maps, I stick in acting classes near my house. There’s actually one close-by that I haven’t tried yet, Lee Strasberg. I manage to get myself in to audit a class that night, the day has not been fully lost. I’ll write a separate post on that class as it was highly, highly, highly weird and entertaining so might ramble on a bit.
I get out of that class about 10 o’clock. I had been asked to go onto the Neil Prendeville show at 2.15 my time at night, but never got a confirmation email about it so presumed it wasn’t going ahead. What to do. I’ve loaded up on coffee and red bull to get me through the long acting class so I’m pumped to do something. I go meet a few randomers I met somewhere, someplace before and have a few drinks. Good buddies of mine, cant remember their names though. I head home about half 11 and have a few more drinks with my roommates. About 1 I get a text from a random Swedish girl with an appealing offer…”At a villa in the hills, lots of booze, my 3 other Swedish friends are here, you should come! We have a hot-tub!” As my friend pointed out to me, why did I have to mention the Swedish part. No offence, but, for example, if I was to say I got invited to a hot-tub party with 4 Mongolian girls, it wouldn’t have the same ring to it. Plus, they’re actually Swedish so it was just the facts. Anyways, they give me the address so I can Google map it and suss it out. It’s while I’m on my laptop checking this out, that I see I have an email from the 96FM show. They’ll be calling in about half an hour after all. I thought I’d get a bit more notice. Was hoping to get my antidotes and stories in order. Have a bit of cohesion to my ramblings. Put on some nice clothes and comb my hair for it. No time for any of that. I sip on my can and mull over what to do. Swedes or Neil Prendeville. Swedes or Neil. I think I’m living in this area too long. I turn down the Swedes, or Mongolian girls, whichever you prefer, for Neil. There’s always the next night. Duu.
I think I’ll liven up my day by texting the writer, Kami, Tami, and the Bucket all the same rambling text to see if I can get any reply, so both of my hands are needed for it. I’ll write about the acting class I was at last night later on or tomorrow. Here’s two of those cool remixes I found…
Breaking It Up (Pocketknife’s Loosefoot Remix) by Lykke Li (She has some savage songs and she’s from Mongolia!).
And Knocked Up (Lykke Li vs Rodeo Remix) by Kings of Leon.
Great news… I’ve committed to an acting class. Verbally at least, I forgot to bring my credit card to actually pay. Starting April 2nd I’ll be going to Brian Reise for a month to six weeks at least, no more auditing, payment on. I just have to make sure the visa run works and I get a job to pay for it. Should be fine, the job offers are being thrown at me so far.
Last night I went to a place called My House, where DJ AM was playing. I had gotten mixed reviews of the club, ranging from “It’s class” to “Check it out, maybe you’ll like it”. A guy who played soccer was promoting so couldn’t say no to the invite. Seeing as it was free. So, when I got in, I thought, this part of the club is pretty cool, I’m looking forward to seeing the rest. But that was more or less it. Smaller than I thought, still big enough though. I went with “the lads”. A few more showed up this time though. Kelly Brook was meant to be joining us as well but no show in the end. There were enough other minor celebs in there to keep me entertained though.
I was introduced to some random English guy, and had a good chat about soccer with him, Champions League and all that. I was telling him about a documentary I saw about Michael Essien and the African Cup of Nations, but couldn’t remember the name of it. So, I told him, give me your number, I’ll text you the name of it (he supported Chelsea), you have to see it, Essien is a God in Africa etc etc. Afterwards, I find out he wrote the movie Goal, could be handy having his number, what with me thinking I could be an actor and thinking I can play soccer. Goal 4 here I come!
So I’m on rounds with a new buddy I’ve just met. I’m drinking at a normal pace, he’s sipping. I go two rounds up on him, he’ll get the next two, $30 a round, I let myself get done, not happy. Plus he keeps doing a horrific Irish accent and I can tell by his responses he can barely understand a word I’m saying. I’m looking for an out. I keep trying to make small talk with this ugly, very intelligent looking girl next to me, who won’t stop fixing her make-up (she was savage and had a constant vacant look). So, I’m plugging away, my new buddy thinks I’m well in, cheers, drink up, you owe me two boozes boss. She takes out her camera, oh my gawd, I love your accent, you’re a priest from Ireland, thats so cool, will you take a photo? I surely will. So, I’m getting ready, combing my hair, shining my shoes, straightening myself, and she hands me the camera. Thanks, take one of me and my boyfriend. Oh right, I knew thats what you meant, ha.
Turns out to be a great photo of them from the necks down. I hand the camera back, see my buddy from OK is still sipping too slow for me and go off for a stroll on my own. I end up chatting with some girls at a table where the vodka is flowing (no spoof, their names are Kamie and Tamie, I checked their I.D’s). So I keep getting their names wrong, unintentionally, and call them Mamie, they love it, want to introduce me to more of their friends. So, some dude in a cool hat, some other girls, few other guys, few other girls, and a guy in a hoodie. I know the guy with the hat and the the other guy with the hood on. Or at least I recognize them from somewhere. Somewhere along the way of me tucking into their bottle of vodka it registers that the guy with the cool hat is the dude from Shwayze. Or the guy who sings with him at least. So I start calling him Shwayze, everyone finds it funny, probably because of my accent, I get told something like this by him, “I’m not Shwayze man, I sing, Shwayze raps, my name is Cisco”. This doesn’t register with me at all, keep calling him Shwayze. The funny side is wearing off for him, I presume its the same as how I feel when I get called Omar, Merrick and Eric by strangers all the time, ha.
So the dude in the cool hat wanders away from me, I’m back with Kamie and Tamie, and they’re chatting with the guy in the hoodie. Merrick/Omar/Eric, have you met Bobby? Hey man, my name is actually Mork, nice to meet you Bobby… it’s then I remember who he is, the dude from the Hills. So I tell him he’s huge in Ireland, for nothing, blah blah blah, he should go, they’d love you there, you are Ricky Bobby, I am Ricky Bobby, lets have some more vodka Ricky Bobby. In my vodka state I forgot his name or alias is Justin Bobby, not Ricky Bobby from Talladega nights. But I keep calling him Ricky Bobby this, Ricky Bobby that, Ricky, Richie, Rich, Dick, Richard, Little John at one stage, don’t know why. So between calling both of them the wrong names, and downing their vodka, I’m getting an uncomfortable vibe. Well, looking back at it now, sober, I realize the vibes shifted. At the time I thought we were all best buddies. C’mon we stay for after hours lads. Ah shur, here comes DJ AM to join us. And there’s another dude who used to be on the Hills as well. We’re all great buddies over here. Whats that, no after hours for me. Ok, thats cool. Next time maybe. I’ve to be up early in the morning anyways. Just let me get Kamie or Tamie’s number and I’ll be on my way. I love you Ricky Bobby, hey Shwayze… “So someone take my picture”, see ye next week lads!
Good night all round really, but not sure if I’ll be invited back over to their table anytime soon. I can see why the wrong name would annoy them though so I can empathize. Earlier that day when ordering a coffee – plain coffee, large, that was it, not hard to get wrong – the guy serving me got it wrong 4 times. My roommate was with me and finally saw how stupid, random things occur to me at will here. I’m asked my name, he thinks its Omar, I let it go, get given an iced coffee, medium. Wrong. An iced coffee, large. Wrong. Some mocha coffee, large, with cream and banana syrup (turns out to be a different Omar’s). A normal coffee, medium. I was going to let it go but its actually meant to be a large, finally get what I asked for. Plus he says I can keep all the wrong ones I wont drink. So, I end up with a tray of 4 coffees, giving them away to people in the queue.
The guy serving me, unsurprisingly for where I live, is very, very, very, very gay. As in flaming, snapping the fingers, lip pursing, you don’t even know sister, OH MY GAAAAAAWD he didn’t, he DID! umm hummm, gay (he’s actually saying these things while getting my order wrong time and time again). Its funny enough to watch. I get the thought, while he keeps calling me Omar, that he is the gay equivalent of a male, chauvinist pig. He must be over-compensating for something, but he at least he’s sound. That’s the good thing about living in such a gay area, everyone is sound!!! Everyone is just out walking their poodles, smiling at each other, friendly, getting along. And getting it on. But at least they’re sound!
Just got a text from Kamie. I think its her anyways, I’m hoping its Tamie but I think its Kamie. Not that I can remember which is which. Might be Mamie. I might text the Bucket and mention them. How I’ve moved on. I wonder what its up to. Still hasn’t texted me back since the other day. B*****d.
Here’s the song I was shouting at Ricky Bobby and Shwayze the whole night…Polaroid.
I was going to try and change the style of the posts today and do an informative one about the weird world of Craigslist. However, I’m too hungover and tired to be informative. Plus, its been an emotional day. Break-ups and goodbyes are hard to do.
I get woken up this morning, early, by my phone buzzing next to my ear. Hungover to funk, I answer without looking at it. “Hey, my friend, I’m calling about the horse, si”. The horse? What did I do last night?!! But I know that voice from somewhere…Silvestre? “Yes, I am Silvestre, do you still have the horse my friend?” No, but I have the truck, what happened to yesterday? You never showed! “Que? The truck?…The truck! Sorry sir, I’ll call back” So realizing he rang me by mistake, he hangs up. I try to call back straight away,but he turns his phone off, another weird time wasting scenario. Hungover and reminded about the bloody Bucket again so early (I was just moving on with my life too) I put an ad up on Craigslist (again), basically offering it to anyone who shows, with any amount of cash, or a tow-truck. Take it away. So I get the usual call from some guy, I’m on my way, will you take $300, whats the street, I’ll be there in 15. Sure you will.
Get the call – I’m outside, come on out. The Champions League just kicks off so I say I’ll be right out and don’t bother. Not in the mood to go back out waving at no one again. Except he rings again, asks me can he get into the truck and have a look, bring out the keys. There actually is someone outside, a hyper Californian dude, almost getting turned on by the bad shape of the truck, how its so old, how crap it is, and yet how much of a beast it is. Turns out he’s a mechanic, loves fixing old cars, he’ll take it. Without even driving it or turning the engine on. Im hungover and dumb, nowhere near with it, offer to take him around the block for a test drive. Why, I don’t know. Sure thing, I’ll go for a drive around the block maaan if you want, so we get in, it starts after 5 goes, his enthusiasm wears off a bit. Im thinking, balls, why didn’t I just give him the keys, take the money and run.
So we take off down the street, and the Bucket runs out of gas, breaks down mid stream. Im goosed, very hungover, getting annoyed and just start randomly putting it into neutral, park, drive, reverse, while freewheeling down my street, killing the transmission (I’ve learned a bit more about trucks now, ha). He makes me stop. Laughing at me, he asks if I had too much Bud. I tell him yes, too goosed to drive, plus its out of petrol but does he want a go anyways. He gives me a knowing look – “I knew you were a stoner man, we have the best bud in Cali! I have to buy this thing now! Helping each other out maaan”. I thought he meant booze but this misunderstanding pleases him and the deal is back on! He someone manages to get us to the petrol station in first gear, the Bucket making noises like a cat being raped. I still don’t get why but at this stage he has fallen in love with the Bucket, almost giddy with excitement over this battered truck with no petrol, he offers me $326 for the Bucket. Snap his hand off, even put $6 petrol in it for him to get him home, done deal. I tell him I’ll walk home, only around the corner, don’t want to get into it again now its off my hands. Its on the walk home when its all kicks in though…I’ll never see the Bucket again, the good times we had, the high, the lows, all that jazz. That was it though, the affair was over, time to move on, plenty more Buckets on Craigslist for me to waste my money on.
For a change last night, I was spoilt for choice. Instead of my fairly regular plan of hitting a club with people I barely know, usually meeting them for the first time that night, if not just going on my own, and using the line “Oh, my friend is in the bathroom” if someone asks who I’m here with, I had two offers. My roommates were going to karaoke in a bar close enough to where we live. And the lads from soccer in Robbie’s house were going to Les Deux, or Les Duu, cant remember which, did I want to come along? So, spoilt for choice, I punted for Les Duu, and could always go to karaoke if it wasn’t good.
The guy who texted me about Les Duu says he’ll collect me on his way there. Picks me up, I’m pumped, after a few boozes, come on the lads!!! “Sorry I’m late mate, had to look after Rob’s dog for a while – No problem, are the others already in there? – Yeah mate, I’m meant to be meeting the lads in there now. Should be good”. Meant being the most important word. So we pull up outside the door, and just as we’re going in he tells me “I faawking hate this place, mate, bunch of w**kers”. I’m like, ok, looks good to me though. Its a rock night in there, the crowd is funky, rock and roll style, mohawks, top hats, cool, with a load of hot funky women. Its like the Brog but instead of one gem, there are buckets full of gems here. It looks class. And the music is good, with a band playing in the another room as well. I’m really pumped at this stage.
What are we drinking boss? “Naw mate, I don’t drink much…I faawking hate this place, uuuggghhh, look at the state of her, don’t fancy yours much love” Oh right. Weird. Eh, want to go find the lads so or what. “Yeah, not sure who’s here really, one guy who used to play might be in here, I think he djs.” Oh right. Are the lads even out? ” Not sure mate…don’t fancy yours much either luv, bunch of W**KERS!!!” I’m completely lost at this stage, “the lads” don’t seem to be out, he hates this place that he’s brought me to (which is class), he’s engaged so its not another gay scenario thankfully, I need a drink. I’ll be back in a minute boss, must get a booze. I get two, could be another long weird night, and head back out to my buddy. As I walk back up to him, he tells me, loudly, surrounded by people, “I’m not a racist, but I f***ing hate those…” Then lists off people he doesn’t like. Includes this place. He doesn’t seem to fancy hers much at all. Who wears those w**ker V-neck t-shirts (I was wearing one the exact same that day, ha). This music is s**t (it’s rocking), put on something good MATE!!! Sweet Jesus, this is going well. It’s like a scene from This Is England or something.
I pull the old just got a text trick, I must make a call, back in a minute boss. So I go for a little stroll on my own, listen to the band, then have to head back to the my buddy. Its a lost cause, he’s complaining about a guy who asked him for a light “What the f**k do I look like mate” so I agree with him this place is crap, this is greeted by the first smile all night, is he up for karaoke instead. At least I know what its like now. I’ll be back next week with my buddy who’s in the bathroom, just not with my mate.
Karaoke in Hollywood compared to karaoke in Ireland is like comparing a team in the NFL and an American football team in Ireland. I didn’t have a clue it would be so good, its unreal!!! My past experiences with karaoke in Ireland was the singer mumbling into the mic, eyes trained on the screen, guessing a few words, then hoping everyone else will sing the chorus with them and save them looking terrible. Here, its some old Chinese dude rapping with an R Kelly style guy, and they are savage, its hilarious how good they are. Apparently, people take it really seriously here, hoping for the tiny chance there is someone in the bar who will hear them and give them their big break. You obviously have the few idiots who think they’re better than they are and are cheesy boy-band style apes (two guys ripped open their shirts, being serious, while singing Boys II Men, End of the Road, one guy had nice man boobs in fairness to him). The girl doing the MC was like Christina Aguilera, kept singing between people coming up (hot as well, had a boyfriend though – so do I, we should double-date…it didn’t work). There was a Frank Sinatra style crooner, about 60, slick, groomed, smarmy, who was way too good for there. Serenading the crowd, walking all around the bar singing, reaching the highest of high notes effortlessly, and even getting in a little jig with me while singing, he was brilliant. Two girls rapped some 90’s rap song, and were brilliant. All this on a random Monday night for karaoke. They’d be chart toppers in Ireland. I’m pretty sure the majority were sober too, which made it even stranger, no inhibitions whatsoever.
After a few shots, and before I realized how good everyone else was (I hadn’t been paying attention and by then only saw man boobs strut his stuff), I put my name down to sing. After a few more horrific shots I forgot that I had put my name down as Omar (for the laugh, I’m too funny at times, I tried to explain my joke later to my roommates but they didn’t get it, always a good sign when you are explaining why your jokes are funny too) and didn’t realize I was being called to sing Tiny Dancer. Ha, I missed my chance to shine as Elton John. No wonder my roommate asked if I was gay. Good song but not sure if my mate fancied it much. He kept telling me he didnt fancy the girl behind the bar much, luv, she had charms for faaaaawk’s sake, sort it out luv (chubby arms – he had to explain that to me but at least his was funny).
Turned out to be a great night in the end. Tough day though. After all the bud I had. And the emotional aspect. End of an era. I managed to convince myself I had been productive by selling the truck, and getting money coming in for a change, so I did bob all else but battle my hangover. I texted the Bucket a few times to see what it was up to as well, no reply though. Hard to think of it with someone else, after all the time I wasted trying to make things work too. Best 11 days holiday romance I’ve ever had. I’m better off single and walking though.
Song of the day was going to be Tiny Dancer but too cheesy. This is far better and I can dedicate it to the Bucket…Bruises by Chairlift.
Here’s one last great song that just came on my iTunes…Run To Your Grave by the Mae Shi
Enough Talk, More Writing! 