#1040 in Maxim’s Hot 100


The past 36 hours have been eventful enough, at times, so I’ll write in blocks of events, perhaps even split the posts up, who knows, we’ll see how it goes! 

I’ll start with Wednesday night, the big Maxim party I was invited along to, ish. My buddy seems to have a meddle of jobs, including doing talent work for Maxim, along with promoting and DJ’ing in cool clubs here in L.A. Also off to Cannes for a week for some reason. I know. Lucky b*****d. Anyways, he asked me along to the party, starting off in Santa Monica, then on to the club My House for the after party. I am not a fan of Santa Monica, so decided I would only go to the after party. (Ahem, that is a lie, I love Santa Monica, I just cant afford a $100 round trip cab out there).

To be honest, I think some people actually believed me when I said I was number 1040 on Maxim’s hot 100. Ignoring the fact that the list consists of just girls, who are good looking, and not apes (well, maybe a few are). That criteria rules me out for starters. Seeing as there were well over 100 hot women at the party, I thought the best way to get to the top, was to simply ask them what number they were. I was number 1040. I hope I win. When is the raffle on? I thought there were only 100 of us though. Fingers crossed. A good line for the party, I thought anyways.

The talent at the club was funbelievable, even if they didn’t make the top 100, I would not have held it against any of them. Myself and my buddy stayed in the outside area for most of the night, not a fan of sober dancing, or screaming at people trying to talk to them inside, with music and my accent making conversations non-existent. Slow to start with, but once a group of girls mistook me for Russell Brand for about 5 minutes, I was back in the swing of things. On a side note, I am sure he is sick of people mistaking him for me too. I must ask him next time I see him. 

There were a few actresses in there that I recognized, but no clue of names. Also a tremendously hot Australian girl who we were having a bit of banter with, but it turned out she was a lesbian. For once, however, I managed to make a joke because of someone else’s accent, even if it was horrendous(ly good). When asked how long she’s in L.A, she replied “I’m here for one wake, then New York for a wake, then back to L.A for two more wakes.” I told her how sorry I was to hear so many people she knew had passed away, hope she was doing okay. Ha, if only she had not been a lesbian! (Although now that I think about it, I do tell girls, whom I don’t have interest in, that I am gay, but obviously she wasn’t lying. Obviously. And not sure if whom was used correctly in that sentence but I tried).

One other funny incident was with a girl that I am fairly convinced was Mandy Moore. It’s hard to tell really, changing looks, hairstyles, dark clubs, and all that, but it is Hollywood. Lindsay Lohan was also floating around in there (again, I think/presume it was her, I’ll start asking for an i.d from now on), but no small talk with her. And I do think that she might have left with the Aussie girl, so her story might be true! Back to Ms. Moore. Next to her at the bar, looking quite hot, I enquired if she was Irish, not sure why but a good ice breaker. I think she told me that she was 1/7th Irish, her surname was Moore (looked like her, same surname, thats why I think it was her) Oh yeah, in Ireland we actually pronounce that Moo-er. Say it with me. Moo-er. It comes from the Irish word whu-er. Eh, I mean hoover. The bar man gave me a free shot at least out of it. And she laughed. And told me to have a good night, nice meeting an Irish guy. And walked away. Wuu.

All in all it was a good night. Hopefully the few photos I took with my disposable camera worked, although there were issues with the flash. You think a $10 camera would be fool proof! I’ll have to wait until however it is I get those photos out of it for me to find out. Strangely got a few emails from girls, numbers are a thing of the past! And finally finished up with me getting kicked out of another club for not buying more apple juice. Even though I had 4 apple juices in front of me. But that is another story completely, one which is not fit for the blog.

Song of that great day was… Song 2 by Blur

In Case You Didn’t Know…

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I can be quite dumb at times. Firstly, apologies for the lack of blogaruu yesterday but I was busy being stupid, then getting drunk, and finally stupidly drunk, so the blogaruu was neglected. Whereas on Tuesday I figured out I have a 3 minute limit for being funny in one day, yesterday I figured out my smart limit is about the same length of time.

Back to dumb mode. You might think I was dumb yesterday for leaving my wallet at home when I headed off to be productive. However, just as I was about to walk the 25 minutes back to my house and get it, I copped on there was no money in it anyways, so I was better off not having the bulky thing weighing me down. Smart choice. Surely. 

After I falsely presumed that I knew where I was going, without ever having been there before, and could not find my destination, I decided to make the smart choice and ask for directions. Outside a coffee shop, I had two choices. Homeless bum dude, or a hot girl. I would’ve went homeless dude but the last one I interacted with swung a punch at me, so hot girl it was, tut.

Hubbula hubbula, do you know where this place is that I cannot find? “Oh my gaaaawd, where are you from? Russia?” Ha, no, that was English, I am from Ireland. “Maryland?” I R Land. “Oh my gawd, I R Land, that is so cool.” The usual spiel I get. So, she didn’t know where the building was, sorry. But she did invite me in for a coffee and maybe they would know inside. Sure thing, sounds good, my round… actually, I can’t. I remembered now that I had forgotten my wallet and had no money on me. Instead of telling her this when she asked why I couldn’t come in and have a coffee with her, I just blurted out – I have no money. I meant on me, not in life terms, although not too far off. She informs me that they’ll accept credit cards, I respond by telling her I don’t have one. Again, I meant on me. Not in the global sense.

Telling her this, and then trying to explain what I meant, while standing next to a homeless guy, just led to a nice bit of awkward silence. Awkward enough for her to remember she had to be somewhere else anyways. I did not mind too much, I was out to be productive, I had to find the place. Eventually, and with a bit of help from the homeless dude, ha, sound guy, I found the building I was looking for, the BAFTA building!

You might think I am quite dumb for not going to this place before. It has been on my list of 19 things to do, but I had emailed them, so kind of thought that was enough. Why did I not call down earlier?! In I go, get a load of information, possibility of help with a visa, contacts, names, numbers, the works. I am also advised to go to the Irish Film Board Office as well, which I then find out it is literally around the corner from where I live, as in a 2 minute walk from my house, why have I not been already?! I come out a bit pumped, but still wondering why I had not been there before, dumb old me. 

All the help I was given was from an Irish girl who worked there, the first Irish person I have met in L.A. No need to tune out my words with her, she’s actually Irish like myself. Worryingly, when she asked me my name again as I walked out, she thought I said Eric, then Mack. Not a good sign from an Irish person. As I walked home, with my iPod on, I decided to practice honing out my accent, beginning with my name. So, I began saying Mark, Mork, Moaark, Maaark, Mooork, More Ark, Mork, Mark, all the way home to the tune of the song I was listening to. When the song finished up, I could hear some foot-steps behind me. Turn around, a girl is about 2 yards behind me. Didn’t I see her just as I turned the corner onto this long straight street? Indeed I did, she has been behind me all along. Listening to me saying my name over and over.

We both stop at the light to wait and cross the road. I look at her, wondering if she heard me talking to myself the whole time. She looks back, I give her a how’s it going nod, and I see she did hear me the whole time. Seeing as she asks “Who’s Mork? You must really like him, or his name.” Yeah, Mork is actually me, I love myself. This gets a laugh from her, bit of small talk, walking along, chatter chatter chatter, and we come to another junction, where I am swinging a right. I have already told her that I am going out boozing later, heading to My House, and been told she is going there too. So, when she asks me to text her later, take her number, I don’t for two reasons. Well, I don’t put it in my phone, instead I pretend to memorize it. 

I have realized that it means absolutely nothing, when a girl gives you her number in L.A. As in nothing. She would’ve given it to the homeless dude if he had an accent. Whereas in Ireland, if a girl gives you her number, it probably means she wants to take advantage of you, ha. Here, however, it just means now instead of asking you to your face “Who are you and what do you?”, they can do it by text. And then be confused and disappointed with the reply “I am homeless and unemployed, call over if you like” text. So I have given up taking numbers unless I think it actually might be worth it. Hot girls can be seen at every corner and walking the streets of L.A everyday, there is not a shortage here. Pity they’re whures though. Still hot.

Second reason that I pretended to remember the number, was that she had already told me that she was going to the same club that night, without me prompting her. If she was there, happy days, if not, the club is fully equipped with an abundance of good looking girls. So before I headed there, went to the karaoke bar, beer bong on, free shots because I am Irish on, pitcher on. Headed to the club, and, lo and behold, I bumped into the girl. Who then introduced me to her boyfriend! See, funking stupid, delighted I didn’t take her number now, I knew I was being smart! Being honest, I can’t remember much after that, they bought me a round of whiskey shots for being Irish and off I went.

However, and this was the whole point of the post, to highlight the dumbness, I do remember this. Got a cab home, with Andy and Colin Todd, and dropped off at the top of my street. Usually this is fine, 30 second walk and I am home. Things have changed though. Here is why…

Strip Club

The strip club at the top of my street re-opening would do that, especially seeing as it is opened until the wee hours of the morning. So the cab drops me off, I see the flashing lights of the club, mosey on over. It is $20 to get in, bob hope I have that left on me at this stage of the night. Banter with the bouncer, for a change I convince him that he is actually Irish, and get let in for free.

Being a tad drunk, all I remember is walking into the club, around the club once for a lap, then leaving, not sure why to be honest, I think I realized I was twisted and should head home. I am getting a few flashbacks writing this alone, so maybe I did sit down somewhere for a while in there. I also just got a flashback of having banter with the guy who used to be in ‘N Sync. Not Justin Timberlake, or the fat guy, or the gay guy, the other main guy? I can’t really remember.

I do know that as I was walking back out the door, having banter with the bouncer, asking if they need a DJ, sorry, slurring if they needed a DJ, a girl working had followed me out, and tried to drag me back in for a dance. Not a slow dance on the dance floor though, or a dance where I could show off my “Timmy the Rabbit” dance. I was presuming she wanted me to give her money to “dance” for me. I told her no, had to go home, I live just over there, I am sure I’ll be back again (I was lying, I swear). Again “Oh my gawd, where are you from, that accent is so cool.” The bouncer answered enthusiastically on my behalf “Irish, this f**ker is I R ish!!!”… “Oh my gawd, you must come back again, we should hang out, thats so cool” I was feeling tremendously twisted at this stage, so told her I had to go home, now, ciao ciao. “Ok, but you better come back, what’s your number, I want to hang out.” So, seeing as I had wasted my 3 minutes of being smart on blagging my way in for free, I dumbly, yet funnily in my book, replied with the answer “4, sometimes it’s 7 though depends what jersey I get.”

Ha, that line is priceless, but it left the girl confused. At least the bouncer laughed. Then, once the girl went back inside, he asked me why I didn’t give her my number, she had just broken up with her boyfriend, plus did I not see what she looked like?!!! I could make out the outline of her in my twisted state, but the real reason I did not give her my real number, the real reason… I can be quite dumb at times.

Here’s the song I think I was listening to in the strip club, not fully sure though so it might have just being playing over in my head… I Want You So Hard by Eagles Of Death Metal

Funk Off Tom, This Is My House!!!


I am gutted to be writing this post at this hour of the night. Once again, it would be brilliant, if only it had happened to a friend. It is a recurring theme at this stage. Today was a great day, funny as funk, very unfruitful, didn’t achieve much, but had to laugh at it. I’ll write about that tomorrow. Tonight was the main story. I was done. But, I understand why at least.

I decided to lift my no boozing ban at the 11th hour. Seeing as I got a call from a few guys I play soccer with to head out, along with the fact I had to celebrate my first paid article being published today (wuu huu! I am now officially a struggling writer, ha), I decided it would be rude not to.

As it was Wednesday, My House was the port of call, the scene where I made such good buddies with Ricky Bobby and Shwayze. I can have no qualms with the DJ dude about the website not materializing, seeing as he managed to skip me past a queue of about a hundred to get in. Once again, if only the girls in the queue knew how unimportant I actually was as I skipped on by. It would later work to my advantage.

So, I get in, the place is rocking, it actually is a savage venue, good music too, clientele are posing to the max everywhere you look but seeing as I wore a scarf there, who was I to complain. I stroll around, in my scarf, looking for the soccer heads. Find them, small talk, rar diddy rar, I notice a hot enough girl sitting on the edge of the couch next to me on her own. Me being so nice and all, go over to her to engage in a bit of conversation. She immediately loves the accent. Well, not really, I think she loves the fact that I am apparently speaking English but all it sounds like to her is “Hubbula hubbula, hubbula?”  All I said was “Howdy”. To and fro we go, me talking, her not understanding a word, oh my God, you are too funny. I had not attempted one joke at that stage so I presume she is laughing at me. At least she hadn’t Googled my name and left yet.

My hubbula’s have her in bits, she has to introduce me to her friend and the guy she’s talking to. How’s it going, hubbula, yeah, I am speaking English too, hubbula, I know that dude from somewhere. So I make some horrific joke about the other girl’s name, which none of them laugh at. However, they do laugh when I say “Oh Jesus” that they haven’t laughed. It is going well. Except the fact that there is a familiar smell lingering from the girls, sniff sniff, they smell Irish, sniff sniff, thats the one, fake tan. Anyways, the dude is the guy from the Fabulous 4 (I am later informed its the Fantastic 4). He suggests that we get the girls some drinks, sure bud, your round. Up to the bar we go, some small talk which he obviously cant understand. It is then that I notice that the smell of fake tan is worse now that Im standing next to him at the bar helping him with the drinks. Sniff sniff. The smell is off him. Oh Jesus.

We go back to the girls with the drinks, more banter, the girl gives me her number (means nothing here by the way, same as me giving a girl my 088 number) and we finish the drinks. The guy gives me a knowing nod, “Get the same round in again, this is going well”, one of those nods. I give him a nod back, same again girls, be right back. As I walk to the bar I cop on that the last round of 4 vodka Red Bulls he bought us cost about $50, including tip. Hmmm, $50, on my budget. I have $30 in my pocket. Hmmm. That girl has already given me her number and was starting to look bored at not understanding a word I said. Hmmm. What to do… Excuse me, just the one bottle of Bud Light please. I forgot to go back to them, ha.

Instead I go for a stroll around the club, noticing that the staff working there are ridiculously hot, they seem just to be wearing long shirts as their uniform. I stop one girl and ask her why she’s wearing no pants, and we’re off on the hubbula road again. The girl comments on how she saw me skip the queue, what do I do? One of those I know, but she was hot so I left her off. I told her the truth, I was out celebrating my first article being printed in the Echo, had she ever heard of it, it was a pretty big deal, ha. She laughed, either because she didn’t understand, or else, even worse, she did understand, which made her laugh even harder, at me. Either way she was sucked in, nice shirt, where are your pants, I’ll swap you mine if you like, hardy har. Any parties after the club, I’m finished work at two? Oh sweet Jesus, I do, up on Mulholland, my buddy’s buddy’s house, he has a few pools, we should do a bit of midnight swimming. 

It was at this point when the lights came on, the club was over. She said she had to go finish up, let me know the address, she’ll follow in 5 minutes. I ask for her number, she starts to slowly (why not fast!), s-l-o-w-l-y give me her digits. She is 5 numbers in when this guy dressed as a hobo next to us interrupts, taps her on the shoulder. She turns, we both look at him, the hobo is Tom Green. Balls. He says don’t bother with that party, he is having one at his friend’s place, it’ll be far better. Ok Tom, I was planning something else but I suppose a party with you will be okay still. Oh, it’s just her that’s invited. Oh. You pr**k. 

I’m not too worried though, I have faith in the girl still, she’s 5 digits in, too late to pull out now, obviously. She turns back around, and the face says it all. Eh, sorry, but that is Tom Green, it could be good for my career. Noooo, I was going to put you in my sitcom, noooo!!! Sorry, great meeting you though, you’re so funny. Noooo, I’m not funny, I can dress like a hobo too if you like, nooooo!!!! Did I tell you who owned the house?!! He won’t be there or anything, but still… Tom, you pr**k!!!!!

The night ends on a sour note. My buddy says he’ll drop me home if I like, cheers man, at least I don’t have to pay for a cab. As we walk to his car, we stroll past another car with the paparazzi swarming it. Look in, its good old Tom posing for a few pictures. No sign of the girl. Must have been following him in 5 minutes. 

At least this is a savage song to pick up anyone’s spirits and give you back some soul, pump it up, some song to drive through L.A to… Everyday People by Sly and The Family Stone

Hey Ricky Bobby!!! I Love You Shwayze!!!


Great news… I’ve committed to an acting class. Verbally at least, I forgot to bring my credit card to actually pay. Starting April 2nd I’ll be going to Brian Reise for a month to six weeks at least, no more auditing, payment on. I just have to make sure the visa run works and I get a job to pay for it. Should be fine, the job offers are being thrown at me so far.

Last night I went to a place called My House, where DJ AM was playing. I had gotten mixed reviews of the club, ranging from “It’s class” to “Check it out, maybe you’ll like it”. A guy who played soccer was promoting so couldn’t say no to the invite. Seeing as it was free. So, when I got in, I thought, this part of the club is pretty cool, I’m looking forward to seeing the rest. But that was more or less it. Smaller than I thought, still big enough though. I went with “the lads”. A few more showed up this time though. Kelly Brook was meant to be joining us as well but no show in the end. There were enough other minor celebs in there to keep me entertained though.

I was introduced to some random English guy, and had a good chat about soccer with him, Champions League and all that. I was telling him about a documentary I saw about Michael Essien and the African Cup of Nations, but couldn’t remember the name of it. So, I told him, give me your number, I’ll text you the name of it (he supported Chelsea), you have to see it, Essien is a God in Africa etc etc. Afterwards, I find out he wrote the movie Goal, could be handy having his number, what with me thinking I could be an actor and thinking I can play soccer. Goal 4 here I come!

So I’m on rounds with a new buddy I’ve just met. I’m drinking at a normal pace, he’s sipping. I go two rounds up on him, he’ll get the next two, $30 a round, I let myself get done, not happy. Plus he keeps doing a horrific Irish accent and I can tell by his responses he can barely understand a word I’m saying. I’m looking for an out. I keep trying to make small talk with this ugly, very intelligent looking girl next to me, who won’t stop fixing her make-up (she was savage and had a constant vacant look). So, I’m plugging away, my new buddy thinks I’m well in, cheers, drink up, you owe me two boozes boss. She takes out her camera, oh my gawd, I love your accent, you’re a priest from Ireland, thats so cool, will you take a photo? I surely will. So, I’m getting ready, combing my hair, shining my shoes, straightening myself, and she hands me the camera. Thanks, take one of me and my boyfriend. Oh right, I knew thats what you meant, ha.

Turns out to be a great photo of them from the necks down. I hand the camera back, see my buddy from OK is still sipping too slow for me and go off for a stroll on my own. I end up chatting with some girls at a table where the vodka is flowing (no spoof, their names are Kamie and Tamie, I checked their I.D’s). So I keep getting their names wrong, unintentionally, and call them Mamie, they love it, want to introduce me to more of their friends. So, some dude in a cool hat, some other girls, few other guys, few other girls, and a guy in a hoodie. I know the guy with the hat and the the other guy with the hood on. Or at least I recognize them from somewhere. Somewhere along the way of me tucking into their bottle of vodka it registers that the guy with the cool hat is the dude from Shwayze. Or the guy who sings with him at least. So I start calling him Shwayze, everyone finds it funny, probably because of my accent, I get told something like this by him, “I’m not Shwayze man, I sing, Shwayze raps, my name is Cisco”. This doesn’t register with me at all, keep calling him Shwayze. The funny side is wearing off for him, I presume its the same as how I feel when I get called Omar, Merrick and Eric by strangers all the time, ha. 

So the dude in the cool hat wanders away from me, I’m back with Kamie and Tamie, and they’re chatting with the guy in the hoodie. Merrick/Omar/Eric, have you met Bobby? Hey man, my name is actually Mork, nice to meet you Bobby… it’s then I remember who he is, the dude from the Hills. So I tell him he’s huge in Ireland, for nothing, blah blah blah, he should go, they’d love you there, you are Ricky Bobby, I am Ricky Bobby, lets have some more vodka Ricky Bobby. In my vodka state I forgot his name or alias is Justin Bobby, not Ricky Bobby from Talladega nights. But I keep calling him Ricky Bobby this, Ricky Bobby that, Ricky, Richie, Rich, Dick, Richard, Little John at one stage, don’t know why. So between calling both of them the wrong names, and downing their vodka, I’m getting an uncomfortable vibe. Well, looking back at it now, sober, I realize the vibes shifted. At the time I thought we were all best buddies. C’mon we stay for after hours lads. Ah shur, here comes DJ AM to join us. And there’s another dude who used to be on the Hills as well. We’re all great buddies over here. Whats that, no after hours for me. Ok, thats cool. Next time maybe. I’ve to be up early in the morning anyways. Just let me get Kamie or Tamie’s number and I’ll be on my way. I love you Ricky Bobby, hey Shwayze… “So someone take my picture”, see ye next week lads!

Good night all round really, but not sure if I’ll be invited back over to their table anytime soon. I can see why the wrong name would annoy them though so I can empathize. Earlier that day when ordering a coffee – plain coffee, large, that was it, not hard to get wrong – the guy serving me got it wrong 4 times. My roommate was with me and finally saw how stupid, random things occur to me at will here. I’m asked my name, he thinks its Omar, I let it go, get given an iced coffee, medium. Wrong. An iced coffee, large. Wrong. Some mocha coffee, large, with cream and banana syrup (turns out to be a different Omar’s). A normal coffee, medium. I was going to let it go but its actually meant to be a large, finally get what I asked for. Plus he says I can keep all the wrong ones I wont drink. So, I end up with a tray of 4 coffees, giving them away to people in the queue.

The guy serving me, unsurprisingly for where I live, is very, very, very, very gay. As in flaming, snapping the fingers, lip pursing, you don’t even know sister, OH MY GAAAAAAWD he didn’t, he DID!  umm hummm, gay (he’s actually saying these things while getting my order wrong time and time again). Its funny enough to watch. I get the thought, while he keeps calling me Omar, that he is the gay equivalent of a male, chauvinist pig. He must be over-compensating for something, but he at least he’s sound. That’s the good thing about living in such a gay area, everyone is sound!!! Everyone is just out walking their poodles, smiling at each other, friendly, getting along. And getting it on. But at least they’re sound!

Just got a text from Kamie. I think its her anyways, I’m hoping its Tamie but I think its Kamie. Not that I can remember which is which. Might be Mamie. I might text the Bucket and mention them. How I’ve moved on. I wonder what its up to. Still hasn’t texted me back since the other day. B*****d.

Here’s the song I was shouting at Ricky Bobby and Shwayze the whole night…Polaroid.