Jaysus, Some Heat!

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Temperature wise, the extreme heat wave here in L.A seems to be over. However, I will not lie, between you, me, and the garden path, I am going through a bit of a dry spell myself. It has been a few days, ha. Some heat. Which has been made all the worse by the carry on the last few days.

On Wednesday, after contemplating going to My House (US Weekly were having a big event though and my buddy on the door was off for the night, so nay go there), then perhaps Disco Dodgeball (exactly what you think it might be, however in the end my knee ruled me out), I ended up going for a random third option and went to a house club in Hollywood. Which was cool enough, and seemed like a normal club. No celebs in there, girls weren’t asking you who you were, they were more interested in where the accent was from, back to basics!

So I am outside in the smoking room with a guy I play soccer with. We are speaking at the top of our voices, throwing our accents around like a girl with tassive mits might do, seeing what we could reel in. And it worked a treat, “Where are you from, really, I R Land, oh my God, no way, you’re a priest, that’s so cool!” The night was going well, two girls could not get enough of me telling them they were horrific looking, they were far from it being honest, and when I told one she needed to shave her shoulders, it tipped her over the edge. “Oh my Gawd, you’re so funny, you have to come back to our place after this, the three of us have to party together!” Who, just the two of ye, and me? “Yeah, are you not allowed being a priest?!!” Oh sweet Lord, play it cool, was I jumping the gun presuming this, no, surely not, surely, finally, was this going to be the Holy Grail of a threesome, the two girls were offering me to come back to their place, and the night was still young, let me check my watch, not yet one o’clock. 

Balls. I remembered at this point that I was due to do a radio interview for a Cork station at 1.10 my time here, 9.10 back in Cork. I was outside in the smoking room, but it was still loud, music pumping, it was going to be tough to hear the call or for them to hear me. So, I told the girls I would be back in two minutes, I just have to go outside to take a call. Oh, and I can’t wait to come party with both of ye later, sounds savage. Back in two minutes, hang on here, I’ll be right back, down move. I scuttle back into the club, force my way all the way through, tell the bouncer I’ll be just outside for two minutes, and I’ll be back in. All of this was a bit of effort seeing as the club was full to the brim. Anyways, I am outside by 1.10, waiting for the call. Waiting. No call. Wait some more. No call. It is about 1.20, and I am standing outside a club on Hollywood Boulevard with my phone in my hand, no one ringing me, feeling like a complete ape.

I get proactive, and like a fool, I ring them, freaking to myself about my credit. Oh sorry Mark, big news here, Roy Keane has just been appointed manager of Ipswich, I was just about to call you, we’re having Eamonn Dunphy on first, then you, sound good? I was being bumped an hour. The job. I hang up, back to the bouncer, I was just inside, you didn’t give me a stamp, I was, seriously, you just saw me leaving, cool, am I good, finally. Back through the crowd of people on the dance floor, back outside to the smoking room, back out to my buddy and the gir… where did those two girls go? “Where did you go mate, you just f**ked off after they asked you back to their place later, the girls left, not sure where they are gone to now, they thought they scared you off being a priest!” No funking way. No way. Seriously? No way. You’re lying. Seriously? For funk’s sake, I’m some ape. How did the radio thing go? It didn’t!!! Did they just leave… nooo, Keanoooo, nooooo!!!

Back inside to the club, do one (two) quick laps of the club to see if I can find the girls, no joy, straight to the bar, line up the shots, never good when highly annoyed. The night has dipped unexpectedly but they weren’t the only two girls in the club, it can still be saved. If I wasn’t an ape. Trying to do a bit of dancing (good old shots) with an Aussie girl, getting into a rhythm, bodies swaying, legs interlinked, knees twisting, oh sweet Jesus my knee. A combination of her and the crowd off the dance floor hit off my knee, it buckles, she steps back away from me, I fall down on one knee, kneeling in pain for what seems like an age but probably only about a minute on the dance floor, good God what a horrendous night. Few more drinks with the soccer buddy, one final lap of the club for the girls with the lights on to make sure, no joy, obviously, cab home, just as I get out the phone rings, all I can think of while doing it is about the missed opportunities, done and dusted, and I am home, alone, reeking, horrendous night.

The next night, I had another acting class to audit, for free, I think that may have been the last one at that school. I have actually been to this class before, it is the nutter class where everyone cries, a lot (In The Shower. Singing. In French. Crying. Go!) As with all classes, the teacher introduces himself (re-introduces, he half recognizes me but I played dumb, not too hard for me) and tells me to enjoy the class, observe, and if you see something you like or want to try out the exercises, join in with it, its all up to you.

Sounds good, I’ll just observe to start with. Again, everyone is scattered all over the room, doing different warming up techniques and exercises. All of which seem to involve crying and punching your arms out saying “Huuuuhhhhh”. Freaks me out, but not as much as the first time. Until one girl, facing me but a few feet away, suddenly opens her eyes and punches the air with a “Huuuuhhh” while staring at me, then bursts into tears. Oh Jesus, did I do something, no, I forgot, thats just their thing to do, nutters.

There I am, in a room full of people crying, huhhing away, when I hear a familiar cry and wail, it’s the girl who sang the last time. She is wailing for dear life, sobbing like mad, freaking out, it is like she is possessed. She calms down a bit, and starts panting, and moaning, as if she is having an orgasm. Then the crying starts again, the teacher is telling her to calm down, be happy (more tears), be excited (even more tears), be sad (orgasm time). She is not the best looking girl in the class, or even outside the class, but she is sitting behind me, so all I hear is her moaning, and panting, slowly, deeply, and the heat kicks in again, ha! Eventually she tails off into a song, which sounds like a French version of Baa Baa Black Sheep.

I decide to observe other people. Bad idea. An Asian girl is after rolling around the room and ended up on the floor in front of me, doing the “exploration exercise” with “extreme heat” on top. So she starts to feel the imaginary heat beat down on her, rolling around the floor in front of me, and starts to whip off her top. Slowly pulling it over her head, eyes closed the whole time, wriggling on the floor, doing the splits, oh sweet Lord for your own sake stop, off comes the top, she’s now in her bikini top and jeans, wriggling on the floor, slightly tugging at her jeans as if they are too warm for her to wear. I was told to observe, so felt it would’ve been rude not to look.

Next minute I hear the panting from behind me again, Baa Baa Black Sheep must’ve ended. So as I am observing a hot girl wriggle around the floor in front of me, stripping down, doing the splits and all sorts of maneuvers, all I can hear from behind me is a girl panting, moaning, building up a head of steam in French. Oh sweet Jesus, this is to much, teacher, TEACHER, what did you mean by “Join in if I see something I’d like to try”?!!!!

Just as I am taking off my shoes and socks about to join in, the teacher rudely stops the warm up, and tells us it it time for this week’s scenes. Give me just 5 more minutes to warm up! No? My mind has drifted for the rest of the class, but I must admit, this acting malarky is growing on me more and more.

The nights here can get quite chilly, so they can, do the walk home cools me off. At least I got a 10 minute reprieve. Just as I reach my entrance, I notice a lot of commotion at the top of my street. There are four television trucks getting ready outside the club that had been shut since I moved in, I did notice that there were a few hot girls making their way towards the place earlier. Might as well go check it out, I’ll ask a bouncer for the inside scoop. What’s going on here, grand re-opening? There was a big fire, I did not know that. What actually is the name of the place? The Body Shop? What kind of club is it? Pardon? A strip club? Right next to my house? Good work.

Always good to have a place like that next door, purely because the security guys now outside will make this safe neighborhood, even safer, obviously. Actually, before I forget, I think I must go up there right now, for good reason too. I was told it used to be an Irish bar, so must see if that is true or false. And I must ask them if they might perhaps need a DJ, I am willing to work there for free as well. I’ll come straight home once I find those two things out. Straight home.

Two songs, one in honour of the girl in the acting class, could well actually be her “singing” at the end (if you’re too impatient fast forward to the last minute if you don’t know it)… French Kiss by Lil Louis

And one with a great title…My Night With The Prostitute From Marseille by Beirut

You Say Stupid. I Say Almost Clever.


My last day in Mexico was just a series of me failing miserably at trying to be clever. I am blaming my hangover and calling it an off-day. Usually, I am way smarter, I swear. 

After I got wrestled out of my room far too early in the morning, I had the whole day to kill, with my suitcase and man-bag. I decided I’d ask the bell boys to look after the bags, while I swanned around by the pool curing my hangover. After all, we had become such good friends, they always called me amigo, offered me tequila, laughed at my jokes that weren’t meant to be jokes at all, I was great buddies with Miguel, Raul, and the other Miguel. Stupidly, I let them know why my suitcase was with me, I had just checked out, could they look after my bags, cheers amigos! The words “checked out” transformed them. I must have said a secret code as they immediately lost grasp of their usually good English. Now all I was getting was “Que” and “No”. Come on Raul, we are amigos, you said it yourself everyday! “No”. Miguel, my old buddy, Miguel… he just walked away from me. Miguel 2, the Miguel who always offers me tequila, hook me up. He offered me tequila again, sure Senor, but now its 50 pesos a shot, what the funk?!

I ended up not being allowed back into the hotel or the grounds, seeing as I no longer had the special wristband. Great, about 7 hours to kill waiting for my shuttle to the airport. I had a brain wave and headed to Subway, I’d get a few rolls for the wait, free food and all after my bathroom incident. It wasn’t until I got to the till to pay for the 3 rolls – 7 hours is a long and hungry wait – that I noticed none of the people who were working the night I got locked into the bathroom were on. Balls. So, I tried to explain to the guy serving me about my free food set-up, the manager gave the all clear. The word “free” drained him of his English and all I got now was “Que?”, whereas two seconds earlier he could reel off in English the 39 different dressings I wouldn’t want on my rolls. Its fine, Ill just pay for the 3 rolls, oh thats right, no money in my wallet, I have the fear over my credit card, Ill go down the road to the ATM, with my suitcase, get some money and be right back. My clever plans were all working to a tee so far.

Shuttle never arrives for the airport, ended up getting a taxi, a good waste of money, Orbitz would be getting a call about that. So I eventually get to the airport that evening, and I have come prepared this time. I am not wearing shorts which require a belt, I am too clever for that. Instead I am wearing my blue Nike Jordan basketball shorts, which I always wear to the gym. They are loose, hang down like curtains, shapeless, comfortable, only two pockets but perfect for the flight home. I get on the flight, delighted to see I got the emergency row again, no sign of an old Mexican dude who looks like he will release his bowels next to me this time, sandwiched in between two women. I throw my man-bag into the overhead, making sure first to get all the essentials I need for the flight. My pockets are over-laden – iPod, earphones, tic-tacs, mints, chewing gum, watch, notepad, pen, phone, bottle of water – all the essentials so I wouldn’t have to be getting up every two seconds to get stuff.

The flight starts off with the woman on my right commenting on how my hair looks like its had a good spring break at least. And starts to rub it, more pet it really. She then also notices the different bracelets and bands on my arm, plus my lack of tan (in her opinion, I thought I was bronze! ha), and starts to rub my arm. Well, more pet my arm really. So she’s petting my hair and arm like I’m her cat, the job, good start to the flight. I should say as well that she wasn’t really my cup of tea. I’m not sure she would be most people’s cup of tea, but if you like the female looking version of Rosie O’ Donnell perhaps, then maybe she might be. I’m more of a fan of Ellen myself.

She’s having small talk, mostly to herself, she’s going to San Fran for a few days or so now too, but she lives in Tahoe, was I single, what was I doing for the next few days in San Fran, we should all go out!!! Oh right. I stop her petting by reaching for the air conditioning overhead, sneakily rob hers too. I needed it though, between her and the hangover, the sweats were coming. She whips out her phone, asks me my name, cant understand what I tell her (surprising to say the least), so tells me she’ll just call me “Hot Stuff”. Oh Jesus. She gives me her phone, put in your number hot stuff, we’ll all go out for drinks, it’ll be so much fun! This is where I put on my clever hat. I can’t work her Blackberry, so I hand it back but tell her, sure you can have my number, here you go, and rattle a spoof number off to her, an American equivalent of my Irish 088 number. What’s that, I didn’t give you enough digits, tack another, eh, lets say a 1, throw another 1 on at the end.

I am happy enough with myself at this stage. At least I was smart enough to give her a spoof number, I can fall asleep in peace now. Sleep on. However, it is when I wake up, that I realize I have made a grave mistake about something else. I should not have worn those shorts. In fact, I might as well be wearing nothing, or else blue body paint at the most. Between my pockets being weighed down, so they are pulling the shorts down on the sides, a lot, plus all the streams of cold air I have aimed at me, and my lap, more or less the shape of everything is there to see. Every nook, hole and cranny. Plus it was cold, with the a/c and all, so it wasn’t looking its May West, ha.

I was woken up by the air hostess asking me to straighten my seat for the landing, so she had a good look, if she wanted that is. I’m sure most people walking by saw what was on offer, through my magnificent shorts that have now, more or less, morphed into blue bicycle shorts. Less I would say. I looked to my right, to see my new buddy just looking at my lap. I motion to my eyes – I’m up here love!!! I’m still hungover, just woke up and starving, so a bit numb and dumb, rearrange myself and pretend not to notice. Nothing here to see, move on folks. Start off a bit of small talk with Rosie next to me to take her mind off it, what do you do? She informs me she owns (or runs, I couldn’t understand her for once) two ski resorts in Tahoe. I should come up! Bring friends. Free skiing and free accommodation. Not too shabby, I think, this flight has come good after all.

The plane lands, hop, skip and a jump style. We’re waiting around for it to park, Rosie tells me she’s just texted her daughter, who is my age, and who lives in San Fran. She told her about “Hot Stuff” and she is interested in going for drinks as well, I was wondering why she kept saying we can all go out! She then shows me a photo of her daughter on her phone as the screensaver, I’m not expecting too much. However, my first thought is that there is no way that they are related! The daughter has to be adopted, she looks hot enough! I casually ask to see some more photos of the daughter, any closer ones, any face ones perhaps, ha. She shows me a few more on her phone, my first impression was right, her daughter is tasty!

Who cares about my shorts, the hangover, or any of that, this has been a good flight, free skiing, free hotel, and her daughter is hot, wuu! As I get up from my seat to leave the plane, I turn on my own phone. This is when I remember that I have given Rosie a complete and utter spoof phone number. I doubt there is even one digit the same as my real American number. Balls. How the funk will I get out of this. I walk off the plane, trying as hard as I could to muster any bit of cleverness left in my hungover brain. There is nada left, nothing, zilch. The numbers are completely alien to each other. I gave her a number where the first 2 digits were 31. The first 2 digits of my real number are 80. I can feel the free skiing with her hot daughter slipping away.

Worse still, when we’re queuing up for immigration, we’re in different lines, she’s in U.S citizens, I’m in the Johnny Foreigners line. I decide I’ll cut her off after the line, hopefully, tell her I want to make sure I gave her the right number, take her phone and change numbers quickly, what a plan. I get through immigration, wuu huu, and manage to catch her before she leaves. Sorry Rosie, I just want to make sure I gave you the right number – “Ok” – Ha, you better give me the phone, I’ll double check myself. However, instead of giving me the phone, she shows me the number quickly, then calls it out. It is a great spoof number, but nowhere near like mine. Eh, I think the end is wrong, give me your phone a second and I’ll fix it. At this stage it feels like I’m trying to rob the phone. “I’ll do it, you couldn’t use my phone, remember earlier” – Balls – “just call out the right one to me now”. I give up at this stage, tell her it was a 2 at the end, not a 1. Out the airport exit she goes, gone, good duck to free skiing and hot daughter. I just realized after writing all this I should have simply asked Rosie for her or her daughter’s number. I am quite the idiot.

I’m back to being annoyed and feeling like an ape at this stage. While waiting for my lift from the airport, I decide to vent my anger at Orbitz, I’ll ring them and complain about the shuttle never showing up. I get their freephone number, and call them. For some reason, ringing a freephone number on my phone costs me double what it costs to make a normal call. This same phone let me make calls and texts in Mexico for free. It is the stupidest phone ever. Suits me down to the ground!

Song of the long, annoying, hungover, clever, stupid day is Scenic World by Beirut…