Over the past few days I have realised that there is a bucket load of things I don’t quite understand. And probably wont. Ever. Perhaps better off not. Such as, wearing jeans in the gym. Not to the gym. But actually in the gym. Working out. On a thread mill. Going all out. Hell for leather. Also wearing what can also only be described as a sports bra. Or else a very, very, very small and tight belly top kind of piece of clothing. I didn’t get it. And I never will. Particularly as the person in question was a guy. Bizarre enough to say the least. Not a fan of using a thread mill as it was. This incident ensured that I won’t be trying them out again too soon. Although, being honest, even if it was a girl, a good-looking girl to up the ante even more, I still wouldn’t get the wearing jeans in a gym part.
Something In My Eye?
I don’t get how there aren’t more incidents of people walking into poles in my neighborhood as well. Everyone, and I mean everyone, just walks around eye-funking each other to near death. Guys checking out girls. Girls checking out guys. Guys checking out guys in the main. Melrose is the spot to be if you want to see girls checking out girls. Walking distance. Seriously, the eyes everywhere is ridiculous here. Lucky enough that eye diseases cant be spread from eye-funking alone. Otherwise this place would be riddled with conji.
Fair enough, it’s not purely checking each other out. Probably checking to see if they recognize them somehow. And I did flatter myself the other day thinking that a few girls were eyeing me up. One walk to the gym was as long as the stupidity lasted. Then I quickly copped on that they definitely weren’t. Seeing as they couldn’t guess I was Irish from just looking at me. Or get that I had an accent from just walking past me. On a separate not, I now happen to wear my green Irish hat everywhere I go. And start singing toor-a-loor-a-leh-hee every time I walk past a good looking girl. Which is a lot around here.
Another thing I didn’t get, was a bit of information that would’ve been handy. Well I didn’t get it until yesterday at least. I mentioned I was in a bit of a poetry battle with a girl on Saturday. Obviously, there was more than an interest in poetry from my side. Obviously. If not, I’d be having poetry battles with every homeless dude I ever met. (Went through a phase of having singing battles with homeless guys on trams in San Francisco. Good old Elton John. They couldn’t hack my Moulin Rouge version of ‘Your Song’. This bit in brackets is all obviously made up spoof. Obviously).
Anyways, I had asked my buddy who the girl was, that I was having the battle with. I was told ‘A buddy of the birthday patron. Singleton. Poetry all the way!’ That is what I was told. What I didn’t get until yesterday, was the right info. She was actually there on a date. With another friend. Who I know as well. Sound dude. With me cracking on to his date. Unknowingly. Seeing as I was given the wrong information. So that was a great thing not to get.
Whatever She’s Drinking!
One thing which I definitely don’t get, is what’s in the water that the women drink here. Fountain of youth! They are doing something out of the ordinary to look so young. Surgery, I know all that. Still though, there’s more to it. It is funking ridiculous. As you do, yesterday I was hanging out in the poultry section of Trader Joe’s. Mulling over which piece of chicken to invest in. Started having a complete gibberish conversation with a girl about chicken. She did start it. So I told her that in Ireland, chickens are born without heads. Which is where the phrase came from. I was left with the impression she believed it. Asked me if I’d like to meet up sometime to talk more about headless chickens. Go for a coffee maybe. Sure, why not. You’re my type. My type being that I think you’re hot.
As I was typing out her number, she started saying she shouldn’t really be doing this. I was young enough to be her son. Your son. How old is he? 6 or something?! I don’t get it. Asked me how old I thought she was. I don’t know, mid 20s? Early 20s? ‘Oh stop.’ Stop what? ‘I’m 40. Almost 41.’ I didn’t actually believe her until I asked to see her I.D. She was a week off being 41. What?! Fountain of youth!!!
Although I don’t know about the whole coffee thing. Seeing as I was told that is implied as a proper date. A first date at least. Which is another thing I don’t really get over here yet. The whole dating malarky. People are kind of obsessed with them. Trying to trick you into them. Masking them as something else. Fooling you. Making something informal, into a formal kind of interview process. First dates. Every night of the week. Sounds horrendous if the date is boring. Time consuming. Depends on how long headless chicken banter could last perhaps. Few drinks and it could be a laugh. I think it could be time to embrace the date!
I did get one good thing. Advice from a man in the know. Up playing 5-a-side tonight. Talking to the owner of the abode about writing. You might know him. Sound dude. Good singer. Telling me that he finds it tough to get things done in L.A like knuckling down when writing as well. Key is to centre yourself. Resist temptations. Focus. Don’t go off track. Work. Wise words reiterated to me at an apt time. December has kicked in. Deadline around the corner! It never really cops on that what I do is actually work. In the job sense. Which is a good thing. But at the same time, it can fool you.
Also mentioned to me that he recommends getting out of L.A at times. Away from it all. Go into hiding. Get the work done. Oh right. Kind of like the opposite of what I did. Came out of hiding. Came back to L.A. Throw myself back into all the temptation. Before the work was fully done. Neither of us really got my logic when I tried to make sense of it. Finally, I still do not get, why I would do a Klinsmann style dive, in an attempt to head the ball into the goal, on an astroturf pitch. Seriously don’t get that at all. Don’t think I ever will. Although it was a mighty goal!
Take It In – Hot Chip