Sex rules

You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else.

Albert Einstein  

The Champion and I have been talking sex.  This, alas, is not based on the fact that we are both exhausted from hours of rampant shaggage, but due to the fact that neither of use has a fucking clue.  Literally.

Hollywood might have invaded the shores of France with every bad sitcom the French could swallow (a surprisingly large amount FYI), but the rules to American dating? Negative.  

Now you would think a couple of off-shore Parisiens might just about be up to the challenge?  Think again.  Because in order to do so, we’d have to know how to play by the rules, but we don’t, because we never do.  Take, for example, Saturday night’s Drive-In Debacle, from whom I had heard nothing until today, when he texted me.  Now in my world, that’s just rude, but in the universe we lovingly refer to as Hell-A, he has adeptly played by the rules, waiting the minimum three-days before contacting me.  If this rule is not adhered too, the girls don’t call back.  I know this because that’s exactly what happened to The Champion when he deigned to call a girl 24 hours after getting her number.  Apparently calling because he liked her wasn’t enough, he didn’t play by the rules, so he was out.

Talking of out, can we discuss why the Americans refer to varying degrees of fornication as bases, just like in baseball.  It’s not reassuring.  Especially when what base you can go to is determined by what number date you are on.  Fine for accountants; not fine for red-blooded Europeans who may or may not be partial to a spot of nakedness coming before 10 dates have been suffered through.  I say suffered because, here’s the other thing,  in LA, people like talking about themselves ALL the time.  I once mentioned a great art exhibition at a dinner party and asked if the person opposite had seen it; they flicked their hair and turned away.  Clearly, they would have only been to see it if their face was in one of the paintings, which it would not have been, because they had a face for radio.  That’s the other thing about LA-people, delusional.  Who else could come up with one day my prince will come? 

I’m just saying, sometimes you may not be all that interested in their family farm in Iowa, or the amazing improv work they did while volunteering at a children’s hospital (because that’s why the children were there…).  And when people come out with things like: ‘Oh look at that cute t-shirt, I think I might buy it for my dog’, ten dates would require a phenomenally good arse.  On the flip side, if you actually meet someone whose clothes you would like to see decorating the floor of your kitchen, why wait that long?  And then I realised:  effort.  In the town voted most likely to fake an orgasm, why think for yourself when someone else has already told you the rules?  

Montgomery: the saga continues

Not that I'm particularly interested in creating a franchise out of this saga, but as I'm sitting here in the garage having my 7 Eleven coffee (so good you could clean car parts with it), I thought I'd check in.

So far today I've knocked out an hour of hot yoga barre, shazzammed Lil' Wayne, got a hot date with an Armenian tow truck driver should I wish to accept it, and been given the LA clutch use 101 by my new best friend Gary the mechanic (that explains the smell of burning then...). And it's only 10.20. Further fuckery to follow, that much is guaranteed...

Montgomery Blows

The initial title for this post, or at least what I thought was going to be this post until this afternoon, was:  Montgomery v The Jonas Brothers.  And yes, whilst it sounds like the gayest prize fight in the Village (chances of upping readership:  large), it was actually supposed to be about my finally manning up and getting title to a vehicle rather than eternally tooling around in Wanda the Honda (no, she does not charge by the hour...).

In fact, this post will now be about the fact that I managed to get Montgomery the Mazda, 1993 vintage, mere months younger than The Jonas Brothers (ah ha...) a mere four miles up the road to Westwood before the radiator fluid boiled over and someone kindly pointed out that there was smoke coming out of my engine.  Of course, this shit never goes down on Rodeo Drive, where I imagine the man from Gucci would run to my aid monogrammed handkerchief in hand to pour Fiji water into my empty radiator tank, and so I found myself ruining my manicure next to a Seven 11 (how do you write that brand name, no really?) and a Baskin' Robbins. 

And not just any 711 (oh, whatever) / Baskin Robbins combo, but the one that's conveniently located next to the Los Angeles National Veterans Park, which, alas, meant that not only was I man-handling radiator fluid in these:

I was simultaneously tweaking the engine and crowd-controlling able or not so-bodied men away from my vehicle like it was a happy-hour at a Ruby Tuesday's (I would have said Hooters but that would be false advertising).  Which Biblical ass-hole said that these things were meant to try us?  Hold on, I'll check with The Jonas Brothers...

USA: Toothless Dystopia?

There are occasions when I question what I am doing here, and moreover, what everyone else is doing here. As Colin Quinn has pointed out, why don't all the Mexicans go to Canada?  They have free healthcare there, and education that doesn't require you to put a price on your head.  But still, they come.

My anger with this allegedly great nation came to its peak yesterday when talking to The Future Director.  A 29-year old woman who was seriously contemplating having her own tooth pulled out because she couldn't afford the cost of having a crown put in.  This is surely not a normal state of affairs?  And if she is thinking that way, how many other low-income families in America are suffering with the same dilemma?  They say the British hold the NHS up like a religion but really, why not?  From where I'm sitting, it's a God-send.

Welcome to America, go big or get the fuck out (the West Hollywood Remix)

Let's hug it out, bitch

Today The Champion and I decided to indulge in a little light stalking and tripped and fell onto the set of Entourage on location at The Roosevelt.

This of course provided extensive comedy value not so much watching the filming itself, but watching every trust-fund-Z-Lister who had nothing better to do on a Wednesday afternoon (aka the extras) as they lolled around the pool hoping someone would notice them and make them famous.  Someone was watching them, but it just happened to be us, and we were grading people out of ten on shaggability rather than talent.  Maybe I should go into casting?

Lechery aside, here are some of our most poignant revelations:

1.  No men in Los Angeles have any hair on their chest.  Not one.  Where did all the real men go?
2.  Everybody has a tattoo.  (But could somebody please explain to me why you would get a map of NANTUCKET in orange, green and yellow tattooed onto your back?!?!? - here's a throwaway WTF to you sir)
3.  Still on tattoos, either the Tramp Stamp's making a comeback, the girls have GREAT plastic surgeons and they got them when they were in fashion circa the early 90's, or they are just dumb.  No, we wouldn't hit it.
4.  A well-defined six pack is like great gift-wrapping on a shit present, tell me the last time you read a book made out of paper and then we can talk. 
5.  You could tell I'm not from LA because, apart from the fact that my tits don't require scaffolding and are all my own, I was the only one that dived head first into the pool.  I know, your hair's the money shot...

Anyway, there is a grave risk that we might be coming to a television near you soon, so watch out.  To assist, you need to look for a delectable hairy chest next to an inverted blonde bucking the trend and lying the wrong way up the sun longer with her legs draped in the air.  You can tell it's me because I am the only person reading a book, in an Agent Provocateur one-piece, of course.

Welcome to America, go big or get the fuck out Part III (Part II, The Sequel)

Unlike the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise (please, no more), this is the gift that just keeps on giving...

Pro Bono Gigolo

Oh, what LA fuckery befalls me now? 

Really, today is just the last hoorah in a weekend of many shades of wrong with a strong dash of what the fuck (situation:  normal).

It all began with the arrival of Ireland's Finest from New York.  Given our past history of collectively tormenting Parisians, uneventful wasn't going to be this weekend's strong suit.  Luckily for the rest of Los Angeles the desert contained us for most of Saturday, so it wasn't really until we struck out Downtown on Sunday that things started to head south. 

Sunday evening was Supper Club, at which we had the pleasure of dining opposite:  Rabbit and Ping-Ping.  No.  Really.  These are their actual names.  I know this because after I had been asked to open the champagne (oh for a man that has skills...), I felt I had sufficient moral highground (here's how I was instructed to do it in Paris; yes, ten-points for pretentious twattery but I'm not named after the key ingredient for a stew) to just come out with it and ask if these were their actual names.  Apparently they are...

And lest we forget 'Anything with a Heartbeat' Wales, who, no relation to the Prince Of, had hands that were extremely dextrous given how fat the fingers that dangled off of them.  He added a whole new dimension to the expression 'backs to the wall'. 

And so, we arrive at today.  Things were just on the regular:  a little light lunch at the Chat opposite a famous director and his dog who was actually sitting on a chair at the table, as if prepared to dine (FYI the armchair the dog had was of way superior class to the bench his agent was relegated to perching on.  I'm just saying...), was followed by a digestive stroll down Melrose, until a hand thrust me this:

Yes, today is the day that I got offered free sex by a gigolo.  And not just any old gigolo.  A gigolo riding a bicycle.  Living the dream folks, living the dream...