C’mon Hatton, Put Up Them Fists!!!

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To be true, I had built this weekend up way too much, in my head at least. I thought it was going to be massive, great things planned. Cue brutal boxing analogy of me setting it up for it to be knocked down. I made the executive decision that I would not work the whole weekend for the money which I vitally need to sustain the L.A adventure, but to instead take the riskier option of going to two potentially good meetings/shindigs. Potentially. They could also potentially both turn out to be flops. Re de de. Hindsight is a great thing! Should’ve taken those viagras, so to speak, floppy mac.

Saturday morning I was asked along to a networking brunch/lunch/supper thing. Surprisingly, it went well, managed to spread out my 3 minutes of being likable well enough to make a few new contacts, get names, emails etc. Happy days. In fact, I was so happy walking home, that I walked right into a sign/pole and almost knocked myself out. But, I was happy, so didn’t really mind. Plus, that was only the minor shindig I had been asked along to that day, that night was the big one!

My buddy, who lives up in Bob Williams’ house, had asked me up there to play soccer and then stick around to watch the Ricky Hatton fight afterwards. Sounded good, but I was particularly lured in by being told it was a special game, keep it on the qt, a load were over from England for it, should be a class party for the fight, who never know you will show up, I would not want to miss out. Seeing as this is Hollywood, my mind started to imagine who it was that could possibly be coming along, particularly for the fight, I would be surrounded by actors, singers, models, greatest party ever, I could meet a few cool people, booze on up in the Hollywood Hills, could this be the greatest night of my life. Or of my weekend at least.

My knee has gradually being getting better, so I decided it was worth risking ruining it for life for the sake of a game of ball and the party. I get picked up by a sound Irish guy and head up to the game. (Weirdly, I have only met 3 Irish people since being in L.A, and met them all in the last 3 days) Bit apprehensive of who to expect at the 5-a-side pitch, every name under the sun of who could potentially be playing soccer flies through my head. Get to the pitch, introduced to a few sounds guys, don’t know of any them, we’re still waiting on more though. Few more come, game is good to start, still no sign of the big guns though. The final player for our team shows up, with his girlfriend in tow. I’m not one to name drop, ha, so I’ll call her Kelly’s Blue Book, and he is her rugby playing boyfriend. I only knew this when he happened to mention it, seeing as unfortunately there’s no rugby news over here in L.A. Unfortunately. I really miss rugby.

We play the game, he’s actually a good player for a rugby player, rip them apart with our slick one two’s, she’s our cheerleader, tells me she remembers meeting me about 4 years ago? Overall, a good game, but I was expecting more glitz. Finish up, time for the fight, down to the house. It has been my first time in the house, and it is savage. Class views of L.A from the terraces, class views inside the house of the original Andy Warhols around the place, it is ridiculous. When I asked if Bob was playing or around at all, I was told doubtful, so didn’t really pry anymore. There is only so many times one can ask that question without starting to look stupid. Kelly’s Blue Book made everyone pizza, offered me some, I asked if she had any healthy food like a banana, this got her a bit annoyed, tried to force feed pizza into me, then called me very rude for not trying it at least. Seeing as she had a boyfriend already, there was no reason for me to impress, so I stuck with the banana.

After I shower, and get to admire a savage signed Beatles picture in the bathroom, I am hearing a lot of different names of who could be coming up to the house to watch the fight. They’ll probably come after the start of it, doesn’t X only live next door anyways, and Y lives in the mansion next door, they’ll be along soon. We’d probably be here boozing all night, too late to go anywhere after the fight, the party should be good. Thankfully I brought a big bag of cans so I was well stocked up for the rocking party. The fight kicks off, I hear different names I recognize of who is on there way up in a while. Was that Slash I did hear you say? Good stuff, more like it. Ricky then gets me worried by taking a battering in the first round. The mood has dipped quite dramatically. This 12 round fight is looking dodge. C’mon Ricky, put up your fists man, where’s your defense, this party has to keep going!!!

Between people saying Ricky is looking shaky, he got pummeled, what was he doing, more and more names are been mentioned of who is going to come up to the party, names I know of, well known people. I am getting a good vibe, Ricky will last a good few more rounds at least, the party will keep going another while. Round 2, Pacquaio lands his unbelievable punch, Ricky gets knocked down, and knocked out. Little does Pacquaio know, but this punch has landed a blow in L.A too. The party is done, and dusted, sucker punched. Everyone is a bit shell shocked of how quickly Hatton got beaten, I am shell shocked at how the party was over before it began. Balls. People are making new plans. Lets meet her downtown instead. Lets go to where this person is playing a gig instead. Eh, can I come? No, no one is listening to me? Cool, I’ll meet ye there? What’s the name of the place again? Pardon? I’ll try your pizza now if you tell me!

Just like that, the fun times are over. I didn’t even get to whip out my disposable camera and take a photo with anyone (my camera is still bust since Mexico, thought it would be good to get a few photos of the views at least though so went old school with the disposable, good waste of money). I snap a few pics of the views, foggy enough and on a disposable so God only knows how they came up. I’ll throw them up, if I can get them from the disposable to my laptop that is, not sure if that can be done? Anyways, I get back home, with my 3/4’s full bag of cans, and it is barely even 10 o’clock. This was not going to plan. At all.

Booze on, got a call from a buddy and it ended up being a good night, went to a cool new club called Jane’s House where my buddy was DJ’ing. KBB and my one-two partner ended up being in there too, shots on, your round folks! Cab home, dropped at the top of my street, force of habit, I’ll have to be dropped to the door from now on. Big Jim waves me over to the strip club, ha, I needed much encouragement, I only went in to show my buddy what it was like, I swear.

Being honest, strip clubs annoy me a bit, I’ve gotten over the fact that the girls usually don’t actually have any interest in you, just your money for a dance. So, I tell the girls that come up to me that I can’t get a private dance from them. The reason? Priests aren’t allowed to do that sort of thing. Line goes down well, I predicted it might do, better than the truth, I had no money. One girl then wants to give me her number, she’s Irish too (owns an Irish wolfhound I think was her connection), we should really hang out. Thinking I’ve learnt my lesson from the last time, I decide might as well get her number, she is offering after all, rude not to take it. As she types her number in, I tell her I really shouldn’t be taking it, me being a priest and all, but if you insist, I will. She then hands me back the phone, number saved, and tells me she really shouldn’t have given me the number either. Oh yeah, why’s that? Oh you’re married and have two kids. Oh right. Our reasons are kind of on par really. Ehh… nice girl really.

Don’t worry, I only texted her today to tell her that I couldn’t text her anymore or meet up with her. That was it, I felt I should just text her to be courteous at least. She looked very very courteous herself last night. However, the text just proves my other point all along. About girls giving me their numbers, for absolutely no reason. Seeing as I am still waiting on that reply. Any minute now. Any minute. 

Song of the day is this wonderful piece of work… Moth’s Wings by Passion Pit

Jigsaw Time

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On the surface, today was not the most productive of days. I prefer to look deeper though, get to know the person first. Started off with a few conversations with my roommates about the night before, fishing for clues of what happened, trying to act as if I remembered having the same conversations with them the night before, I just wanted to double check, thats all. 

One bit of good news to kick the day off at least. I had got a job, for the whole weekend. Wuu duu. It was about 4 hours away though, so I would be leaving Friday night, and be back Sunday night. These days I probably have more gold to my name than money, so I jumped at the chance to finely tune my Shammy selling skills some more. Plus, can’t beat an old road trip and overnighter in a hotel, with the added bonus of never meeting my co-worker before. Money on! 

Needing to get rid of the rave going on in my head, I decided after breakfast I would hit the gym. This was about 6 in the evening, productivity on! Although saying that, in my world, and so I can feel justified, writing emails and reading a book are ways of being productive too. It all depends what scale you use to define your productivity. Now that I think of it, one might even consider waking up and eating food as being productive. I was off to a flyer. 

I am sure that I’m not alone, but after a night out I regularly wake up wondering what actually happened, and then which parts did I dream happened. And I don’t dream parts like me being able to fly or pulling the hottest girl, I dream what I like to call “reality dreams”. These freak me out. I wake up wondering did I actually do that to that person, or dream it. Did I tell that person what I actually thought of them, or dream it. Did I actually do her, or dream it. All very confusing, and at times, alarming.

As I was still piecing together parts of last night, from 12 on, went to bed at 5 I think, if I got 10 minutes from every hour it would give me piece of mind. On my way to the gym I saw the strip club was open. Needing a bit of information to push my memory down the right path, I decided to go up the bouncer again and gauge his reaction when he sees me. Then I shall be able to determine how drunk/annoying I was last night. Great plan really. How’s it going boss, eh, I was here, last night, not sure if you remember, Irish ape, drunk, oh you do remember, ha, high five, you actually remember my name too, good work, em, I forget yours, apologies. 

Big Jim as I like to call him, (I think thats his name anyways, I’ve forgotten again already, I am horrific with names) – not to be mistaken for Big Gay Jim in the gym – filled me in with some good details. He set me on the straight and narrow with a few blurry areas. He had let me in for free for the following reasons: a) I was Irish; b) I told him I forgot my wallet, but mostly; c) I told him I needed to use the bathroom and would only be 2 minutes max. Max Jim, 2 minutes, I swear, the memories started flooding back. Two minutes turned into about 50 minutes, according to Jim.

Jim also reminded me that I had indeed made him laugh with my number joke, but I had also not ended up giving mine or getting the hot stripperauu’s number and probably won’t ever now either. Where’s the faith Jim, it’s a process, give me time!!! The reason too why she wanted my number so much and thought I was funny (I must’ve saved my 3 minutes for in there) was mainly due to the fact that I insisted to her that in Ireland, when you go to a strip club, it is the guy who dances for the stripper, not the usual way they have in Emerica. Us Irish huh, we’re a bit backward, huh. I am a fan of the huh’s today, what do you think, huh? Anyways, I then proceeded to dance for her, which went down well, no clothes came off at least for me too, maybe a runner and a sock, tease her a bit. I must have started to get the spins from dancing, and it was around then when I bolted to go home realizing I was goosed.

Big Jim capped it all off by asking me why I hadn’t called up earlier today to ask about the DJ’ing job, like he had told me last night. Not a notion, but apparently when I offered my DJ’ing services, Jim spoke to a manager, who told me to call up today about the possibility. Balls. But, big sound Jim said tomorrow would be fine too to call up during the day to speak with the manager, anytime between 12 and 6, go on the Jimster! Looks like I’ll be having an early 4 o’clock breakfast to make sure I make it this time around.

Anyways, home from the gym, get an email inviting me to a lunch shindig on Saturday, my networking has paid off! Told it would be a good place to meet writers, directors, producers perhaps, meant to be members of the organization only but a girl has hooked me up to slip me in the back door, say nothing. Wuu huu. I could make a cheap crude joke here about me repaying her the favour, but I wont, I’m not that kind of stand-up comedian, ha. Anyways, she also mentioned that there might be a sponsor or two there who could potentially help me out with a visa. Sweet Lord, what a productive day.

Then, then, I remembered I have committed to working this weekend. Balls. Not only do I desperately need the money, but I would also be letting down my buddy who has organized it all, only really setting up the gigs because I agreed to do it. Some balls. Visa chance and networking, or the commodity as rare as gold dust, money. If I don’t make that money, the dream could be taking a nose dive. If I don’t network and try to get hooked up with the visa possibility, then I have a limited time that way too. What to funking do? Any advice, feel free to horse it on!

Finally, I get a text, asking me if I wanted to watch the big Ricky Hatton fight on Saturday night, booze on, mingle on, party on, should be savage, probably won’t get that chance again really, could only be offered it here in L.A. Told keep it on the q.t though, so I can say no more, some ape for one ape! 

I must sleep on the dilemma, money, or hit and miss possibilities. What to do? I should go up and ask Big Jim really, he seems like a wise old owl.

Song of the day… Aint No Easy Way Out by The Black Rebel Motorcycle Club