Category Archives: LA Living

Who Does A Fool, Fool? Himself, Obviously

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I have come a long way my friends, a long, long way. First time I ever flew into LAX, I got a dodgy bus to my destination. Second time, I got taken on a tour of the city in a taxi. The last time I flew in, I rented a car and got nicely lost. However, this time around, I had a buddy pick me up. Yes, you read that correctly, a buddy. I have friends this time around in L.A. And not the kind of friends here that I’ve met once ever in my life (if at all!) and then tell me – Don’t leave L.A! I’ll miss you too much!!! We must hang out when you’re back!!! Sure we will, sure.

On the way back to my house with my buddy, also now my roommate, but who’s splitting hairs, we decide to come up with ways of getting our roommates for April Fools’. Stuck in traffic, surprising for L.A, we have plenty of time. However, I do not have plenty of ideas. No good ones really. And all of mine seem to revolve around me, I am that involved with myself. How about we pretend I got deported? How about we pretend I was mugged? How about, after living in West Hollywood for so long, I’ll tell them I am actually thinking of going gay? I get the same response over and over… “Eh, no, they’ll just say oh right, and not care too much.” Oh right, I tell him, keep thinking.

In the end we decide he will take the keys of our roommate’s car, move her car, pretend like we know nothing, it must be stolen or towed. What a great, original, inspiring idea! We had nothing else. However, when we get home, there is no sign of her or her car. We sit and wait, still nothing. My other roommate has to go to an appointment, can’t wait around much longer. In the end, he gets an elastic band, ties it around the hose part they have in sinks here, plan J is in motion. Basically, whenever you turn on the tap like normal, the hose part was set to spray you all over, and you would be fooled, a great plan!!! I watched him do all of this, this should be noted.

My roommate has to leave, I’m at home on my own, decide to chill and watch t.v for a while, I’ll make a cup of tea first. So, I go back into the kitchen, look for a cup, find the tea bags, fill up the kettle, and soak myself. Ha ha, I thought to myself, I’m quite the ape for forgetting, lucky no one was here, I’ll say nothing, I’m no fool. Strike one.

After chilling for a while, I decide to clean up the house a bit. I dump the rubbish, clean the tables, round up dirty plates, cups, cutlery and all that. I carefully let enough water out of the tap so the spray doesn’t reach me, and do the washing up. When I finish, I notice I forgot to rinse one plate off. I’ll give it a quick, short rinse and I’ll be done. One quick burst of water later, and I am soaked again. Once again, thankfully, no one was there to witness my stupidity. I tell myself, thats it, I won’t be caught again. Surely.

Three soaks and two changes of clothes later, and I feel like a complete and utter fool. I have to mop the floor after the fifth time, the 5th time, of soaking myself. Once while washing a potato, once while cleaning my hands before cutting chicken, and the final time refilling the kettle to make a coffee, ha. I don’t really count the little squirts I got while filling up a bottle of water, twice, they only got me a bit wet so they don’t count. At this stage, I was determined to stay away from the sink, leave the elastic band on, and catch one of my roommates, any of my roommates, anyone, it had to be done.

Eventually a roommate comes home, and she heads into the kitchen with food. I shout in, asking her to get me a glass of water please, make sure its really cold, run the tap, I was so clever, the set-up was in place. She shouts back straight away “Why is there an elastic band around the spray part?” Balls. Around this time my other roommate comes in, gives me a hug to welcome me back, and asks why my t-shirt and jeans are so wet. Balls. I spill the beans, except in my version I pretend that I didn’t know about the elastic band all along. They give me a knowing nod, sure you didn’t, you idiot, and ruffle my hair. I fooled them well!!!

Later that night, my third roommate, my partner in crime earlier in the day, rings asking where his car is, where was it moved to, ha ha, very funny, good April Fools. I got a text actually saying “Dude, where’s my car?”. The girls straight away think its a wind-up, and ignore the cries of wolf, he just wants us to drive out to him for no reason. I have my doubts, but the manner of the text makes me think perhaps they are right. He is told by one the girls, we’re on the way, sit tight, we’ll be straight there, and we all go back to watching American Idol. About an hour later, and many ignored calls and texts, I call him back. Apparently he was not lying, the car is gone. The girl, whose car he was going to move earlier that day, collects him and brings him home. His car was parked in an unused driveway but still got towed. Ha, April Fools!!!

I hope this will teach fellow fools out there, do not leave your room next April Fools’ day, it’s just too dangerous out there for us!

Song of the day is this little mash-up, first person to name all the songs used gets one shiny gold Mexican dollar coin I have left from my trip… In Step by Girl Talk.

And here’s another one I stumbled upon earlier, bohemian on!!! Dance, Dance, Dance  by Lykke Li and Bon Iver.

A Fool On Land, In The Air, Anytime, Anywhere.

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Not much really happened today. Well as in there were no movie offers put in front of me, no celebrities hounding me, no producer offering me to make my sitcom, none of that usual stuff. I flew back to L.A, went food shopping, unpacked my bags, had a shower and that was about it. However, in between all that daily stuff, a good few funny incidents occurred. Most of the incidents were down to me being a fool, although I obviously did that on purpose, the day that was in it and all. As I’ve claimed many times before, I’m usually far smarter than it would appear, I swear.

I must say I was sad to leave San Fran in the end. Like any good ex who wanted you back would do, she slowly reminded me of the good times, wore me down and I ended up liking her a bit again in the end. I must thank my cousin and soon to be cousin-in-law for being immense hosts. However, seeing as I was going back to the passionate lover which is L.A, my sadness soon left once I was up in the air and on my way. If only I had fallen asleep for the flight. If only.

For some reason, I was fairly restless on this flight. I was very bored, in fact, and was looking for a distraction. My iPod wasn’t doing it for me, neither was my book. However, the lady in the seat one up and one across from me was, ha, so to speak. From the acute angle I had – mostly back of her head and slightly the side of her face, and body – she looked quite hot, even wearing a dodgy baseball hat. It was then when I noticed something which would annoy me enough to start the ball rolling. The tag of her hat was hanging down out of the hat, by mistake I presume. Not only this, but the tag in her t-shirt was sticking up, poking out of the top and almost touching the tag from the hat. Her hair was parted to each side as well, so it all looked a bit odd and stupid, to me at least. I had too much time and was too restless to bother to think all of this. 

So, I let it go a few minutes. It soon got to me though, it was annoying me too much for some stupid, bizarre reason. Plus it would be a good ice-breaker to kill my boredom, me being so nice and all to tell her. I tap her on the shoulder, she pulls her earphones out of her ears, turns around with a ‘what does this idiot want’ look on her face, and I inform her “Sorry, your tags are out, they’re dangling out, ha, just thought I’d tell you.” I lean back into my chair, wait for her to check the tags, fix them, thank me ever so much, and the conversation was flowing. Instead, I get a look of excuse me?! and her asking me “Excuse me?!” She must not have heard me, or understood my accent, so I just say it louder, not clearer, just louder “Your tags…” pointing to my neck in the front first for some reason, then pointing to the back of my neck, then just pointing at her “… they’re out, looks funny enough, I thought you might want to fix them”. Again, no gratitude, but more dirty looks and questioning comments. I decide to let that horrendous attempt at starting conversation go, her loss and all that, she must be one of those who think I speak Russia when I speak normally.

I throw back on my iPod, put on my sunglasses and try to fall asleep. Half a song in, I get poked in the shoulder. Thinking someone has brushed off me down the aisle, I take no notice. When I get kind of pushed in the shoulder, it dawns someone wants my attention. I take off my sunglasses, and see a guy who looks like a lumber jack standing over me. “What the f**k did you say to my wife a minute ago? What the f**k are you talking to her about her body for? Stand up. Why are you looking at her tattoo?” Oh Jesus. Wife? Is this the husband from Mexico?!!! Oh Jesus.

It’s not, instead he seems to be the husband of the women with the tags dangling out, up and down. I never saw him a minute ago. “Stand up, answer me”. Oh Jesus. Do I stand up so he can knock me back down or what is the protocol here? I splutter out a “Eh, ah, ehhh, ahhh, what, what, what are you on about?” He points to his wife, restates his case, asks me stand up again. I start to stand up, he steps back to give me room, he is slightly smaller than me but he is built like a block of granite. A big block that is. I am trying to tell him “Tags, tags, TAGS!!!” as I stand, pointing to her neck, my neck, his elephant neck “TAAAAGSSS”, not tassive mits, tattoos or whatever else I’m trying to think he might have thought I said.

My final “tag” effort was unknowingly said in my best American accent, and it seems to sink in with him that, yes indeed, I have been speaking English all this time. His anger dies down a little as he recognizes an accent. “Where are you from?” Ireland. “Really, what part?” Cork. “Do you know Tipperary?” I do, Cork is near there (I don’t bother telling him one side of my family being from Tipperary, might you know them sort of thing, it didn’t seem to be the best time really). “My ex wife is from Tipperary, I couldn’t understand her either”. 

Thank funk for that, this little nugget of unexpected information has cleared the air. I re-tell him about the tags, big misunderstanding, apologies, I’ll leave them dangling next time, oh I see your wife actually has a tattoo on her… that’s a lovely dolphin she has swimming through the two mountains, I couldn’t see that from my angle. Apologies, sorry, apologies, did you see Ireland got a draw against the Italians? No? Soccer? No? Doesn’t matter, up Tipp!!! He sees the funny side of it in the end, she still doesn’t but I was only trying to be nice all along. Nothing to do with her looking hot from the side, obviously.

I’ll have to finish off this post in the morning. I’m too wrecked now and half falling asleep. I’m not used to the early 10 o’clock starts. Song of the day is a song for what almost happened… Lights Out by Santigold.

Did I Do You Yet?

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Out of all the gyms, in all of gay San Francisco, I pick a gym owned by a straight guy, so I now have to pay, like a chump, it’s awful carry on. This gym, however, posed a very important question for me to mull over today – What is gayer: the couple (guy and girl) who both times I have been there have worn identical matching outfits (different matching outfits too, first day mostly made up of blue, I thought it was a strange coincidence, today mostly black and white, confirmed my ape suspicions), who wont stop walking around the gym with their arms around each other’s lower back so they’re waddling in sync, OR; the gay couples in the gym in West Hollywood. Both are pretty, pretty gay. OR, me, seeing as I probably trump them both for noticing and taking the time to write about it. Plus the fact I’ve used OR twice so far and keep saying it out loud as I do. I win.

Moving on, while I am on my week or so away from L.A, I have been given writing assignments to do, to assess and reflect on the time I have been there so far. Different writing and organisation exercises to see if I am serious about writing, can I work in a time frame, how has the acting side of things gone for me, or I am just in L.A to party. I have worked hard all day, procrastinating, thinking about which one I should do first. As of yet, I am still undecided, so I’ll hold off until tomorrow to start. I think I will plough ahead with the one I must write about what I have done so far while in L.A to achieve my goals, and what then is it that I need to do when I go back.

First thing I did to perfection in L.A, was to finely hone the art of procrastination whilst on Craigslist, thinking I was being productive. Craigslist is one of the most helpful, frustrating, useful, annoying, time saving and time consuming websites there is out there. It is a complete paradox. I have had many hits, and double the misses from the website. The good: I found a place to live with cool roommates; the website indirectly got me playing soccer in Robbie Williams’ house. The bad: got me excited about a job that never seemed to really exist (hired at about 3 in the afternoon, company disappeared off the radar about 11 that night); had me walk around the city of L.A to open interview jobs where hundreds of others would also show up before me (might have been handy if I brought a C.V along with me to those interviews, although making out a C.V for myself might be a good starting point too); the whole Bucket fiasco (go read the plentiful posts on that if you need a reminder, I miss her still). I’m sure there have been many more misses, they are just the main ones off the top of my head. I won’t even mention what happens if you try to get free Sigur Ros tickets from someone off the website, lets just say nothing is free in this day and age!

Anyways, for the first few weeks in L.A, I was convincing myself that looking for a job and car on Craigslist, or posting ads offering soccer coaching, website design, accent coaching, translation, pornogr…photography lessons etc, was a way of me being productive. Nay, nay, nay. Complete waste of time, although at least it got me out of the house!

On the acting side, I have probably not done enough, but I have made some sort of progress. I am still agent-less, and my phone has yet to start hopping with calls about auditions. No SAG card or head shots either come to think of it. However, at least now, when an acting teacher asks me “Have you studied Method, or Meisner, or theatre, or E-Business, or whatever before?”, I no longer reply sheepishly “Eh, yeah?”, but instead confidently reply, with a wink, “All of the above really”. Progress has been made! 

My ramblings are being put on paper, so to speak, so at least the writing is flowing. I have Craigslist to thank for a good bit of that, so that is another hit really. And now that I have been given assignments, and even asked to do an article, big time Charlie, hopefully more structure will come to it. Sitcom on!!!

All my galavanting on nights out has led me to make a few contacts, which is a plus. They might not remember me too well, or my many names, but I’m sure they will be delighted to learn that I have put them on my speed dial. Lucky them. Plus I now know who to call if ever I want to get scammed into buying a broken down truck, always handy. It’s all about who you know really, ha.

So, from the gibberish above, I see that I have done a few things ok, to an extent, and the rest, eh…yeah. I haven’t even made out this list or post well, the random ramblings are kicking in. Ok, focus, what’s the first thing on my to do list when I get back to L.A… what to do… to do… to duu… I thought of something! Here’s hoping my hot neighbour wants to do it too!

Here’s a great song to pound the streets of L.A to while on the job hunt, although it has yet to bring me luck in finding a job…Punkrocker by the Teddybears ft Iggy Pop.

…With Colin Farrell Playing The Lead!

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For technical reasons, which I shall not get into, I have to leave L.A for a week or so and head to Mexico. Conveniently enough, spring break is on at the same time, actually a total coincidence in timing for me, but, wuu duu. I also have to fly there from San Francisco, I shall not bore you with the details as to why. I was wondering if I would continue on with this wonderful blog while I am gone, but as long as stupid stuff keep happening to me, I say blog on!

Firstly, I would not recommend wearing baggy shorts, which require a belt to keep them from falling off, while going through security check at the airport. The whole point of the trip was to keep it innocuous, up, down to San Fran, in & out of Meeheeko, back to L.A, happy days. Low profile, say nothing. Good plan.

It’s my turn to go through the metal detector when the first beep pops off and ruins my great plan. “Please check your pockets sir and try again.” I pad the outside of each of the 6 pockets in my shorts, nothing in them, go through again…beep, beep. “Please check your pockets sir and try again.” I actually check my pockets this time, metal pen in one, notepad with metal coil in the other, two batteries in one of the back pockets, I should’ve checked first time really. So, through the detector again…beep, beep. The security guy repeats himself again, adds in to take off my belt if I’m wearing one. Ah, the belt. Off with the belt, shorts almost fall down. So, I try again, getting annoyed with the annoying security guy doing his job (instead of with myself for being dumb)…beep beep beep. “Security check on row 5”. 

So another guy comes over with his big beeping wand, takes me to the side for a quick pat down. He asks me to hold my arms out, shorts close to falling off as I do, bend the knees quickly to keep them up. He’s wanding me up and down, asks me to stand up straight, I tell him I cant really, what happened to this being innocuous and low-key?!!! So after seeing his glare and dirty look, I stand up straight, arms held out to the side, shorts slide down, leaving me standing there in my nice orange pair of American Eagle boxers. Like a fool. Turns out the chewing gum pack in my back pocket was the problem. It was an empty pack too, well worth all that.

So on the flight up to San Fran, I met my first random Irish guy since I have been in L.A, so close to getting away with it. He’s sitting next to me on the aisle. While he makes small talk about seeing the incident, I notice that he has an Irish accent masked underneath an annoying American one. When he realizes I too am Irish, out comes the Irish accent in full bloom, one of those gimps. “Alright man, you’re Irish, I didn’t think you were…” and so on, as his American accent fades into an over the top Irish accent.

When he asks what do I do, I tell him I’m here trying to act and write. Trying being the key word. He tells me he lives in L.A, traveling to San Fran to meet his wife’s parents, his wife is sitting next to him, American, hi, how’s it going, all that. So where in Ireland are you from by the way, I ask him. “Dublin man, yeah, I’m an actor”. The job, I think, he might be able to give me some tips… so, are you getting much work? “Yeah, my agent has lined up a good few auditions for me next week, can’t wait, it’s going really well.” Which agency are you with, if you don’t mind me asking, I need an agent myself! “Well, it’s a friend of mine, he’s not an agent as in with an agency, he’s my agent, he’s my buddy.” Oh right, what stuff have you been in so far? “Nothing yet man, good few stuff lined up though” Are you going to acting classes? “No man, you don’t need any of that really though, my buddy was telling me, he knows people.” Your buddy sounds like an ape. And you sound like a gimp. A complete spoof.

I start to change the subject, however, every time I do, and the more he speaks, the bigger kind of spoofing ape he becomes… What part of L.A do you live in? “Well it’s more Santa Barbara than really in L.A man” SB? That’s about 2 hours north of L.A, you spoofing gimp! I ask if he’s in L.A much at all so or what? “Well I will be now, if my buddy can set up the auditions. I’ve gone out there a few times with herself.”

I go off the subjects of acting and L.A, and ask him about his visa situation, how did he sort it out? “I got married, she hooked me up”  – nods to his wife. I know people who do that, good work, at least you’re good to stay here now. But this is when he truely blossoms as a gimp. His wife, technically she is anyways, goes to the bathroom. When she leaves, he swoops in with the comment of how she is usually hotter looking, you should’ve seen her when he first met her, she’s put on a bit of weight since, but she looks so hot when she slims down. What the funk?!!! Why would you say that to me??? Well done, I believe you, good work. When she loses the (good) few pounds, and is looking great, ask her to call me. Until then, she’s all yours.

So I change the subject completely, ask a straight forward question about what part of Dublin he’s from, buddies living up there, and so on… he tells me Kildare!!! What a funking gimp, Kil-funking-dare?!!! Why bother to tell me Dublin so at all first time around??? My laughing at him at this stage throws him off a bit, he tries to change the subject this time by telling me he’s writing a screenplay, it’s going to be great. He then describes his movie which is the exact same as You, Me & Dupree, except in his version, he’d cast Colin Farrell as Dupree. I ask him has he seen You, Me & Dupree, no? Go rent it. He tells me he has more, describes another movie he’s going to write, which is the exact same as School of Rock, except in his version, he’d cast… guess who? I mention School of Rock to him, his bubble bursts, tells me he has more, pity we’re close to landing, we should talk more. I tell him I’ve no American phone yet, so I give him my Irish 088 number, an oldie but a goodie, call me, man. I was looking forward to hearing more about his new screenplay as well. The one about some big ship that crashes into an iceberg, the premise sounded good, and original. Hopefully he’ll call.

So anyways, I’m in San Fran now. I had forgotten how many homeless people there are in San Fran, while I was in my gay neighborhood bubble in West Hollywood. They are everywhere! Although, can’t knock them, they just looking for happiness like the rest of us. In the pursuit of it, you could say. Maybe there’s a good idea for a movie. I can think of a good story line already. Now, if only I could find a black Colin Farrell to play the lead role!

Song of the day is this savage chilling song, Blood Bank by Bon Iver

Ehhh, It Depends, Who’s Asking?

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Paddy’s day got off to a tremendous start. As a result of being hungover, trying to remember the words of my karaoke song from the night before, but mostly, pure dumbness, I somehow turned on the blender without the top on. Which ruined my t-shirt. Which was green. Which I wore to remind the hot girl at the front desk in the gym that it was Paddy’s day, in case she forgot. There went my ice breaker and smoothness. 

I still wasn’t sure when or if they really celebrated Paddy’s day in LA as much as other parts of Emerica. I’ve yet to go to an Irish bar at night, only during the day once when the Mexican dude couldn’t understand my accent. As a result I wasn’t able to go to my local and suss it out. So I was underprepared to finding out the extent they celebrate it, especially in a gym, in a very, very gay area.

I walk in to a complete sea of green – green balloons, green streamers, green banners, green flags, green hot pants, green sweat bands, green shamrocks face painted, green grass, green everything. They wasted some amount of money on turning the gym into the Emerald Isle. I think I was the only person in there not wearing at least one item of clothing with green in it as well. And I was the only Irish person in there. I get to find this out later. 

There’s no sign of the hot girl at the desk who usually greets me with a nice, enthusiastic, fake “Hey Eric, have a great one!”. My icebreaker would have been wasted either way. I’ll have to give her a toor-a-loor-a tomorrow instead. However, I’m still greeted, just now by a hyper “Yippee, its Merrick, the Irish man, on Ireland’s day, high five!!!” I had forgotten, in my dumb state, that seeing as it was so early in the morning, about half 12, my buddy who hooks me up with the free gym would be working. And he is delighted that I’m here on this great day for Ireland. And he’s wearing an Irish jersey of some sort from the 90’s, but for what team or sport I have no clue. He keeps telling me its from Ireland, actually bought in Ireland. Good work buddy, I believe you, it’s horrendous looking, looks Irish alright. So we chew the fat for a while, ha, small talk about the calories in green beer, how my leprechaun farm is coping without me at home, how big my herd of lepri are (I tell him thats what we call leprechauns if there’s more than 100). This is making his day. So excited, hands clapping, high fives, wait until he tells the guys, have a great workout Merrick, cheers.

That chat should’ve got me another few months of free gym anyways. Happy enough with it, I go see if Common needs me to spot him again. So I lethargically go upstairs, wander around by a few machines, mull over which one I would do if I had the energy, and get stopped by another guy who works in the gym. “Hi, are you Irish? You are!!! Thats awesome, I met an Irish guy on Patrick’s day. Great. Thanks”. And that was it. My buddy, free Jim downstairs, must’ve told the guys. Word was around. 3 more of the guys came up asking the same. “Are you Irish” Yes. “Thats so cool, good for you”. Thanks? It’s my new one talent. From now on if any girl asks the immortal question of who are you and what do you do, they will no longer hear “Homeless and unemployed”, but instead “I’m Irish”. Unless she’s not my type. Then I’ll just ask her for some spare change.

So the gym wasn’t working out, decided I’d head home, must make a quick pit stop first. So I get into the bathroom, all the cubicles and stalls are taken. Have to wait I suppose. So I lean against the sink, my mind wandering off contemplating important issues, such as do I have another green t-shirt to wear that night, I do I think, is it clean, I hope it is, it is alright, might need to be ironed though. Thinking deep thoughts. I’m still feeling shook from the night before, tired, not at my sharpest. I’m being friendly at least though, hi, how’s it going, what up, just waiting for the stall. Plus there’s a savage song on my iPod that Im bopping along to. So, at this stage, I’m more or less hanging around the guys bathroom, saluting randomers, chilling, almost loitering, practicing dance moves in my head, at the busiest time, and probably as a result, with more than the usual ratio of gay guys there. This clicks, I give the guys highs fives and scuttle home. No more early morning gym sessions for me if that was anything to go by.

So I’m looking forward to round two of celebrations that night, if the gym was that crazy about the Irish thing, any bar or club I go to will be sham-rocking (ha, horrendously good). My accent and Irish authenticity will be golden, “I’m Irish” is all I’ll have to say, in like flynn, out like a trout, I’m pumped. Plus, even better, the green t-shirt is clean. Tonight is going to be brilliant!

I am invited to a Korean restaurant (as you do on Paddy’s day), where my roommate’s friends were having a party. Everyone is decked out in green, accents are being put on and thrown around everywhere, actually good Irish ones for a change, actors and all, green beer is flowing, no-one’s on the dance floor yet, too sober, everyone’s at the bar or outside in the smoking room, its just like being home in Ireland! So, Im introduced to some girls by a buddy, tells them how I’m actually Irish, he’s trying to use me to get in, use on! They don’t believe me, stop putting on that accent, where are you really from? No, seriously, I am Irish, look, I’m wearing a green t-shirt, just like everyone else, and listen to my accent. They still don’t believe me. Where are you really from? I stoop to the low of whipping out my passport. Thats not you – it is, my hair was shorter in the photo – no, its not, where are you really from? At this stage I’m almost pleading with them to believe me that I am Irish. One girl has even lived in Cork for a year and still won’t buy it that I’m Irish. What the funk?!!! This wasn’t part of the plan. I am Irish, please believe me, ring my Irish phone number, I am Irish, look, here’s my Irish credit card, go, use up the last €24 on it, just believe me that I’m Irish!!! 

This put me on the defensive for the night. There was no sham-rocking. When one girl replied with an innocent, yet questionable, “No, really?” after she asked where I was from, I just reverted back to being homeless and unemployed, not sure where I’m from really, any spare change? The dream was over. The only person to get excited about me being Irish was Hyde from That 70’s Show, sound dude. He too was Irish, part anyways. Part Hungarian, Bulgarian, Welsh, Scottish and American too I think. 

So if you’re Irish and happen to be in Hollywood next Paddy’s day, be prepared that you’ll impress the guys, and drive the girls away. Happy days.

Song of the day is the song that had me jiving around the bathroom in the gym… You Made Me Like It by the 1990s.

Who’s Your Paddy?!!

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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