Round And Round – Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti
Yesterday. Day of confusion. Fun times. Yet again, one of life’s great mysteries reared its peculiar head:
Why is it so hard for me to order a coffee?
More importantly, what is it with my name? Or me, to be more precise. My accent. Maybe I was just tired. All work and no write makes me a tried ape. At least rent is being taken care of. DJig has been on and on. Tiring enough though, all this work malarky. Full on. Days and nights. Is this what real world jobs are like? Tiring work. Get home. Unable to do stuff you want to. Like write. Go on random dumb adventures. Bob Hope. Tut. Instead. At most. Watch TV. Perhaps booze. Sleep. Repeat the next day. (On the up: Work = Green honey… Money!!!)
Eh Mark Yeah! Eh Mark Yeah!
Back to the Coffee Bean. In I go. Queue up. Order. Large black coffee, please. Simultaneously asked my name – Eh, Mark – and if the coffee was to go – Yeah. Pay up. Move on to the waiting area. Wonder why I seem to momentarily forget my name whenever I am asked, as if I am being quizzed on the capital of a country – Eh, Zagreb? Anyway, stand and wait in the crowded coffee shop. Ears perk up when I hear a large coffee to go is ready. Not mine though, different name. Repeated. That’s a weird name. Coffee guy is now shouting the order at me. Not me buddy. Shouts some more at me. Now everyone is looking at me…
Coffee for… America? Coffee for America!
Looks at me again… America?
Pardon? Ehh no… Ireland.
You are America?
No. I’m from Ireland. I did order a large coffee though… Oh. Now I get it. Dumb as funk. But yes. That is I. Eh Mark yeah. I am America. That is my coffee. Thank you. Good duckaduu.
So That's Why Orange Doesn't Suit Me...
Lesson of this tale… My lessons with the voice coach are working out well! Holy funk. You get what you pay for. Although I do seem to be digressing. One of the DJigs was at a fashion event. Lady in charge asked me if I would like to wear some of their clothing. Offered me a jacket. Asked me if I liked the colour orange. Took a look at it and said… I’d prefer it in black. She took a look back at me and said… That is so true. Orange does only suit black people. I think so too. Ehh. What what? Pardon me? Sometimes I just stop talking. Not speechless. Just speak less. Pretend to mix a song. Twiddle the ‘look busy’ button on my controller. Avoid more confusion. Thought full times when you live the life of a misunderstood!
Bright Lights, Big City
Fun day all round. Money on. Needed a booze last night. Unfortunately, it is currently bucketing down non-stop in L.A. Some balls. The place falls apart. West Hollywood is the ultimate drama queen. One gust of rainy wind knocked out my internet and TV on Friday. Anyway, the buckets of rain made the thought of galavanting a no-go. Instead, decided to booze in the abode, down to Barneys down the road from me afterwards. Mighty plan. Boozed on. Waiting for my buddy to call around. Waiting. Boozing. Waiting. Find out… Fallen asleep. Wrecked. Delightful. Now slightly boozed up, fully raring to go out. What to do? Solo Joe? Get a text from a different buddy… Heading to Barneys in ten, meet me there? Dancing, to Barneys I shall go. Get in before last call at least.
Head down. Nice few buckets of rain thrown over me on the way. Arrive in. See my buddy, who is actually here with a girl. Is this a date? Delightful. Spot a pitcher on the table, three glasses. Funk it, who cares what it is, booze on! Get introduced. Not really a date. Kind of is a date. No clue what it is. My buddy starts to pour the pints. As he is, the girl gets a phone call. As I sit down, she stands up. Tells my friend she has to leave, her friends are driving home, they’re her ride home. She’s Persian and apparently she doesn’t want them to know she is here as that will make a big scene amongst her friends. I have no clue what is going on. I just know she needs to chill. She just knows she needs to go. My buddy needs to go outside with her to wait for her friends to pick her up. Fair enough, I’ll be here. As they leave, the lights go on for last call. Now, I’m sitting at a table, on my todd, with a pitcher and three glasses, surrounded by brightness. Solo boozing. Fun times. Half a pint later, buddy phones me: Her friends don’t know where here is, he must get her drive her down to them. Back in 10-15 minutes. Barneys closes in 10-15 minutes at this stage. Mighty work. Lights seem to get slightly brighter with this news.
House Party On?
I am a big fan of LA. However, I am not blind. This whole last call at half one and being punted out the door before two is a bit of a joke. Ridiculously early if you ask me (Night doesn’t get started until 2!?!) I could see this was going to be an early night. Not even a house party?! I hear you say. Well. The closest I got to a house party… While I am sitting there drinking one glass at a time, a guy comes over pointing at me. Drunk. Pointing. Gibbering something. Recognise him back. Main dude from the movie House Party! (Guy with really big hair. Worked that in wonderfully!). Met him in Barneys and at a stand-up gig before. He was also there when I sang an Irish song to a silent crowd at Craig Robinson’s birthday party. Gibbering back and forth. Offer him a glass. Gibber is flowing out of him. No clue what he is asking/telling me. While he rambles on, I go back to mulling over why the closing time is so early. And then the bouncer comes over. Tells us it is time to go home. 1.47 on my clock. Go on the big city living! Fantastic night!
Randumb day. This is America? No great rhyme or reason. Quite like this blogaruu, you might mumble. And as I’m mumbling on, let’s end with a poem… !