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...
Friday, 24 June 2011
Thursday, 23 June 2011
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.
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
USA: Toothless Dystopia?
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.
Friday, 17 June 2011
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
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...
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
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...
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:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)