Running Up That Hill (Louis La Roche Remix) – Kate Bush
Some things in L.A appear will never change. Not unless I do, anyway. Such as, people calling me by the wrong name over and over. Ever growing list at this stage. The usuals still apply. Merrick. Eric. Omar. Moved on a lot to Merk. Murk. Maaaaarrrk. Sometimes when I say my full name I get mistaken for a Mexican guy named Marquez. And then at one point someone working at Coffee Bean thought my name was America. Combination of being asked a question by two people at the same time: ‘Your name… Merrick?’ ‘So a large coffee?’ Eh, Mark – Yeah… ‘Coffee for America!’ Although another time I asked for coffee recently I got the reply: ‘Cathy? I’m not too sure. Let me check – Hey guys, does a Cathy work here? Sorry man, no Cathy.’
So that was fun.
Considering all of the name confusion that has already occurred due to my accent and mumbles (along with everyone in L.A having lazy ears, tut), I was still a bit surprised about my name morphing earlier on today:
‘What’s your name?’
‘Hello Bernard, nice to meet you.’
No, it’s… Bernie’s fine.
Fun fifteen minutes being a Bernie. Works in investments – Bernie the banker. Lives on the east coast – Bernie from Boston. Can’t handle the heat – Bernie the burner. Oh what a hoot! Kind of the opposite of Bernie’s weekends recently actually…
Smoothly done. Recently Bernie has been all work. Minimum play. Write on during the week. DJig on all weekend. Productive weeks. He thinks. Spec scripts here. Show bible there. Progress being made. Work getting done. Weekend arrives. Time to make the green honey. Vital. Obviously. But not really a laugh. Bernie likes DJigging and all. Free booze. Fashion shows. Models. Prancing. Dancing. Chancing. All good. Just. That. They are also work at the same time. Not so much the playing of the music or the free booze. More the dealing with the people. Bernie would probably call the majority of the people who come up to him whilst DJing as ‘the biggest clowns to walk the planet’ but that might be a bit harsh on clowns.
Like that one girl who accused Bernie of being racist for not playing that absolute classic song Call Me Maybe. Bernie never did find out how that was viewed as racism, but Bernie’s a bit slow so he presumes the delightful girl knew what she was on about.
Speaking of pure delight, Bernie was DJigging another night when a very intelligent chap wearing a very cool looking beanie on his head asked for that same song, Call Me Stupid. Unfortunately, once again, Bernie did not have that song available to be played. Cue threats from Beanie Guy (now known as Beanie Muppet) that the group of girls he brought in that night would leave if Bernie did not play that song immediately. Bernie nodded. Smiled. Died a bit inside. And repeated he did not have the song. Cue abuse from Beanie Muppet. Again Bernie nodded. Smiled. And then informed Beanie Muppet that even if he did have that song, he would never play it, due to Beanie Muppet’s muppet-ness. Needless to say, Bernie was sad to see Beanie Muppet and his two friends then leave out the door.
Bernie really gets to meet great people while DJing. That lovely girl who attempted to destroy his equipment for not playing a song that she did not know the name of or any lyrics to. She thought Bernie should be able to guess from her drunken humming (which was basically repeating MM MM MM MM over and over).
Speaking of great people, one night Bernie had the pleasure of being introduced to a true great. Well, so he was told. One night as the dance floor was peaking to its euphoric fullness, a girl approached Bernie with a simple request: ‘Can my boyfriend do a guest DJ set here tonight? He’s a big deal and we’ve spent a lot of money here tonight. He wants to DJ in Hollywood.’ Oh yeah, Bernie replied, who is he? ‘He’s the biggest DJ in southern Israel.’ Unfortunately, Bernie informed her, I only know of the biggest DJ in northern Israel, so no can do.
That was a shame. Otherwise Bernie would definitely have let this randumb clown get up and DJ the rest of the night away. Obviously.
Anyway, what Bernie is trying to say amongst all that therapeutic gibber (he has been considering greeting people who repeatedly request with a blast of a taser) is that his weekends are maybe not the same right now as before. You know, up in the Hills. Down in the Valley. Running dumb. Dancing along. Not right now anyway. More work. Write. Jig. Work. Needs be. Long term goal. Every man needs a plan. Bernie needs to rise up. Just the other day he saw the American Dream right in front of his face. (Bernie was in a mall being stared down by a fat kid with a Pepsi in one hand and candy floss in the other. The real American Dream.) Bernie wants his own version of that. So he needs to step it up a gear. Plough. On!
And by the by, don’t get Bernie wrong when he gibbers on for too long about clowns in L.A. Still a big fan. I mean, where else would he have a conversation with a randumb guy in the chicken aisle of a supermarket that goes a bit like this…
‘You guys even got chicken over there in Ireland?’
No, first time I tasted it was here in L.A, reminds me of pork.
‘Maan! That s#*t’s so crazy!’
Fun times. Speaking of which, people of Ireland, I do believe there shall be a three page spread about Bernie in this Saturday’s Irish Examiner. Snap her up. Hopefully it’ll be as planned. And on that note, enough about Bernie. I think I lost myself about one paragraph in. Here’s a video sent to me recently. Nice old shout out for Bernie on stage. Poa tree on!
Fat Bottomed Girls – Queen
Final gibber, here’s an hour well spent…