Somewhere Near The Well - Late 2006...
Walking down Sunset Blvd., a little past midnight, I'm thinking to myself that I may be approaching the low point of my existence here on Earth. I walk by this bar, The Well, and turn to my left to take a look at another handful of the terrible people here in Los Angeles that have nearly emptied my soul. In the middle of these fucks I see a girl who's no so bad looking....
Tall, pale... really fucking pale. She's talking to some kid half her height. All these kids seem to be half her height. I feel like I'm in Ireland. Fucking small people everywhere.
This is where I bring in the Mavman. The Mavman is a jew cowboy from Dallas. He's been a first hand witness to all this bullshit more than any other of my friends that have survived. I'll tell you more about Mav in a bit.
Mav and I creep around in the crowd for a bit. We usually park our car in the parking lot across the street from The Well, so if we hit up other bars in the area, and fail, we always have The Well to take one last shot at finding something worth trying to fuck. Mav always takes the lead. I'm too depressed to initiate conversation with anyone. Mav is genius with broads. He uses that NLP shit. It helps that he's a good looking guy with floppy black hair and built like a spokesman for soloflex. But it's the NLP shit that puts him over the top.
Weak crowd of broads tonight. Mav isn't able to put anything together. I head inside for a few minutes to see if this redheaded bartender is working tonight. I love redheads. The fucking best. There she is. Beautiful pale skin, flaming red hair, fucking bottle opener slid into a black elastic garter on her right thigh. Holy shit. Last week we shared a moment. I played some old school Modest Mouse on the jukebox, fucking Trailor Trash. I started groovin to it a bit and I look behind the bar and there she is groovin with me. She looked right into my eyes as she ripped a little lyric. That moment. Stop right there. Freeze it. That's it. That's what I've been waiting for my whole fucking life. The most important moment of my life and I'm too miserable to talk to her. So I do nothing. I do nothing but smile like a clutz and act like a creep. Fuck. I do have a plan. The plan is to get some fucking meds. Whatever it takes. Celexa, lexapro, efexor, wellbutrin, lamictal, fucking lithium --fucking whatever! I'll wait til something sticks then come back here and lock this down. I will not lose this woman. She is my destiny.
A note on regret...
To this day the redhead, Nikki, remains one of the greatest regrets of my life. I try to find her online at least once a month. I type in the most ridiculous shit into the google. That moment... that moment we shared listening to Trailor Trash... that moment was... nice. I mean how can I explain this it's... it's never been like that with any other woman. Not even close. As many broads as I've fucked, never. And I know I probably shouldn't be telling any of you guys this but fuck I've never known anything like it... ever. To this day, and I feel I'm right about this, I believe that Nikki felt something special had happened as well.
I left L.A. without ever talking to Nikki. I never could win enough extra cash to see a shrink and get on anti-depressants. My mental state just continued to deteriorate until I left. But to this day I think about Nikki, the redhead bartender with the fucking bottle opener slid into that elastic garter. To this day... I know something special happened.
Annie wants my number...
I walk outside, sick, a fucking pussy once again. Mav grabs me and leads me back to the Infiniti. As we're approaching the Infiniti a car pulls up next to us. The driver says to Mav, "Hey! My friend wants your friend's number."
I'm on the other side of the car, right next to the passengers seat. The window's rolled down and sitting in the passenger seat is the fucking tall, pale broad. "Hi I'm Annie," she says. "Like the orphan." I have no idea what to do in this situation. I can't speak, so I just nod my head. "Do you want my number?", she says, excited and nervous, in a very strange way, just looking straightforward as if she's talking to the glove compartment. Do I want your number? Am I looking that good tonight? How the hell did you spot me in the first place? It must be the sportcoat. That's got to be it. The fucking sportscoat.
The fucking sportscoat...
I'll continue to wear this sportcoat just about every night I'm out searching for tail for the next year. I don't find out the real deal until over a year later. The reason this broad wanted my number was because her friend, who was driving, thought I was the little guy who'd been chatting her up while they waited for the car, which was valeted. Annie is such a weirdo she didn't put it together until months later. She did think I was a bit taller upon our first meeting than the little guy, but just rolled with it. If I ever find this little shit who was chatting her up he's dead. The guy's singlehandedly destroyed my existence.
First encounter cont'd...
Finally gathering up the strength to speak to a broad I respond, "Why not...give it to me," even though this broad seems like a fucking freak show. I do the thing and take down her number and call her.
"Ok. Are you going to call me or should I call you?" she says, still looking straight ahead at the glove compartment.
"Yeah," I mutter. She laughs. "Ok." And they drive off.
There's no way I'm calling this broad and broads don't call men. They just don't so that's that. Like I said -- Dark times upstairs... DARK. I have the self-esteem of Christopher Reeve after he fell off that horse. Besides, I really just don't give a shit about anything in this world but Nikki. Annie could be fucking Giselle and I'd blow her off.
A week later the fucking Orphan calls me. What the bloody hell. It's a Sunday afternoon. Mav and I are at Barney's Beanery in Hollywood watching the games. She asks me if I'd like to meet up with her later. It's around 4pm and Mav and I have been drinking pitchers of Bud since 10am (you've gotta get up early to watch these fucking games out here... it sucks.) "Sure," I say, knowing that I'll be rolling into this thing annihilated and extremely sad.
At this point I'm just hoping to scare the shit out of this broad so I don't end up getting involved with something evil. I'm very vulnerable right now and a lock for a Faustian bargain. I tell her to call me when she's leaving work and I'll tell her where to meet me. She agrees and I pour myself another glass of Budweiser.
I get a text ten minutes later. 'El carmen at 10???' I ask Mav if he knows anything about El Carmen. The Mav knows every bar in L.A. I text Annie and tell her I'll be there. Twenty seconds later... 'kkkkkkk.' What the fuck? Who is this crazy broad? I just started texting yesterday as it is, which makes this girl seem even more insane.
My own death v. your own life: A First Date...
This is where it begins. This is where the baton is officially, unknowingly passed and my life is taken from me. The courtship, the manipulation begins. I'm powerless. My ego has completely dissolved at this point of my life. I'm a blank canvas for Annie to paint with any style or color she chooses. A blank canvas to piss and shit on. And boy does she paint, piss, and shit. She sniffed this out from the very beginning. This is why I'm the chosen one. It reminds me of that Neil Labute film,"The Shape of Things," where that girl makes Paul Rudd her art project and transforms him from the nerdy shithead that he is into the boyfriend that she wants him to be. Paul Rudd is her sculpture. I'm fucking Paul Rudd in that film. I'm Annie's sculpture! Only this is not Annie's Thesis. This is real fucking life! Jai Ya!The late games are finished. I'm cleaned out. Mav and I push off for El Carmen. Never once has Mav refused a drink because he was driving. If anything it helps. He's a bit ADD so it's better for him to drive with a bit of concern. It keeps him focused. He does like to look straight at me sometimes when he's talking, which makes me a bit nervous when we're pushing 80mph, but it hasn't been a problem up to this point. And we did get pulled over on the way to Commerce Casino a couple months ago, and Mav went to jail for about 18 hours or so, and I had to take a cab home, but Mav's a lawyer so he handled that shit. Like I said... no problems.
We get to El Carmen. El Carmen is a Mexican bar. They've got all kinds of tequila behind the bar and Mexican wrestlers wearing masks on every wall in the joint. Mav and I order a couple Cadillac margaritas, fucking Patron, and get to it. It's 9pm, so I've got an hour to get a nice buzz on for this broad. After 20 or so glasses of Budweiser I feel completely sober.
Mav immediately goes right to work on few broads to our left. He's already touching shoulders, talking real slow, and making some clicking noise in the back of his throat. They're all hanging on his every word. I'm telling you the guy's the best. The fucking best. There's a short blonde who's kinda cute. A tall, thin brunette that's alright looking, about a 6. And a big broad. I'm forced into the conversation, and after a few minutes Mav is touching me on the shoulder and I can't keep my eyes off him. We have a safe word for these situations, so when Mav says "Jason Terry," the spell is broken. Mav uses the safe word and I immediately return to my aloof, indifferent self. The little blond seems to a be all about it. Maybe she knows the safe word too? After a half an hour of awful conversation with this blonde, it's quite clear that it's on. I start trying to figure out a way to get her out to the Mav-mobile and and throw her a bang. I could probably take care of things before Annie gets here. The fucking problem is this girl would probably get a bit upset if I fuck her and then she sees that I had a date with someone else all along. I figure when I walk away from her the moment Annie walks through the door she might cause a scene. So I scratch that idea. I guess I could blow Annie off. She seems completely bananas anyway, and this blonde is ready to roll. Shit I can't make the call.
Then I get a text from Annie. 'I'm my way!!!' I text her back and tell her I'm here. Twenty seconds later... 'kkk...order me a Red Bull!!!' Red Bull? So that's it. I'm locked in. She's made the decision for me. Thank God. Now I can relax.
I knock back a couple shots of Patron with the crew and order another Cadillac. I think I'm ready. I'm talking to the Blonde and turning around every 30 seconds to check the door. Finally, there she is. We make contact and she gives me a goofy wave. I turn away from the blonde mid-conversation and greet Annie. She's still tall. Real fucking tall. Six foot I figure with the heels. I'm six three so it's no problem. She's wearing a purple dress. (Later on she'll have no recollection of a purple dress, just as she had no recollection of what the mini who was chatting her up outside The Well looked like. This lack of memory will continue to be quite prevalent in our relationship.) She's kinda gorgeous I think -- but I could be wrong. Who the hell knows these days.
We sit down at the bar. I order her a Red Bull and another Cadillac for myself. She tells me she's exhausted and that she's been working all day and that she works for a newspaper in Pasadena. She has a real job. This girl's way out of my league. Beautiful. This shit is over as soon as I walk out that door. No evil.
We talk and talk. The conversation is actually moving pretty good. I mean I'm actually talking. The tequila has done it's job and I'm manic as hell at this point. She's hangin right with me and seems to be as manic as I am and she's sober. This broad is crazy time.
We share a lot of interests it seems. Most importantly Death Cab for Cutie. We both fucking love the Death Cab. Once I went on a 12k run playing 30/60 limit listening to The Photo Album. Shit I listened to the fuck out of that album. I don't tell her that.
Mav and the broads take off. On the way out I introduce Mav to Annie. He's can't so much as speak, but he's ready to drive. Annie is quite disturbed by this. I assure her he'll be Ok.... "don't worry... Mav's the best. The fucking best," I tell her.
We continue yakking away, like we just killed an 8-ball together in the Mav-mobile. Finally, she says she has to get home so we stumble out of the joint together (she's sober mind you and I swear she's stumbling.) Reality sets in with the streetlights and I realize I'm lost. It's at least a $50 cab ride to get home. I've got $12 in my pocket.
"Where are you going?"
"Oh, nowhere."
"You don't have a car do you?"
"I do not."
"Ok Ok come on. I'll give you ride. Where are you going?",
"Ok Ok," still laughing like a dork.
She throws in Death Cab and we head to the Hills. I get us lost of course, and what should have been a 30 minute ride, turns into an hour. She seems to find this hilarious but. We pull up to the house. I'm staying in the guest room, which happens to be in the pool house of my friends five million dollar house overlooking all of Los Angeles. This place is an ass-machine. It hasn't failed me yet. And even though I think this broad is kinda alright, my sole focus at this point is to try to bang her.
A brief history of the ass-machine in bullet points...
My friend, The Director, invited me to come out and stay in the ass-machine back in April. We went to college together and did some film and theater shit together while we were there. He ended up making it big while I ended up, well, here.
- My second night staying in the ass-machine I banged this broad that was bartending the pool party The Director through that day.
- I did nothing during the day but layout by the pool, laps, npr, porn, bukowski, online poker, basketball, drink the booze left over from the party, rip American Spirits, and eat turkey subs from the deli down the street.
- I met Mav at Barney's during a Dallas game. I had my balls on Dallas and it was quite obvious. Mav approached me because he thought I was a Dallas fan. It's been on from there.
- All summer long I'd go out with Mav every night. He'd NLP broads... and we'd bring them up to the ass-machine.
- After a couple months we finally pulled our first DT together up in the ass-machine. Her name was Marie. Marie would only let me fuck her. She would just blow Mav. Believe me I did everything I could do to get Mav's dick in her. The best thing about Marie was her cellphone message. It was the Michigan Fight Song. Til this day, I get excited whenever I hear it.
- Without Mav's Infiniti I would have rarely left the ass-machine. It was really my only connection to the outside world.
- To relax I liked to play boche on the nice strip of grass outside the ass-machine.
- But what I remember most about the ass-machine (and it is my fondest memory) you'll find by cutting and pasting this link into your browser..... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PlS3twJWYSc&feature=related
Now Annie...
She asks me if I live here. I'm so tempted to say yes, which I've pulled off before, but figure the pool house should be good enough to get the job done, as it always is. So I ask her if she wants to come up and see the place. She says she "doesn't think so," and tells me she should get home. She has to get up early she says. I tell her there's a fucking olympic size pool in the backyard overlooking the city. "Not tonight... another time," she says. I'm very confused. This girl really doesn't give a shit. Is my ass machine really going to fail me?
"Ok you're sure now?... Listen I'm going to give you one more chance here. Now this is it. This is your last chance to hook-up with me. Whatcha think?"
"Hahaha...Yeah I don't do this." She apparently either thinks I'm joking or she's simply not a whore.
I surrender. "Ok"... and I lean in for a kiss. The broad turns her head. I get the cheek. The fucking cheek. What the fuck? I thought I destroyed her tonight. I was manic as hell, I threw the Death Cab at her, I live in this ass-machine that I've described in detail to her -- What else could this broad ask for? (I later find out that I almost fell asleep in her car and smelled like petrol, which was enough for her to pass on the kiss and the ass-machine.)
"Ok then," I say. I open the door, slap my thighs, and get out of the car.
"How the hell do I get out of here?"
"Just follow this fucking road all the way down and you'll be good."
"Ok... goodnight."
"Alright Later then."
And off she goes... I'm at a loss. That's a first for me. Not even a goddamn kiss. Well that's it then. I must have scared the shit of her. No evil. Beautiful.
A week later I'm forced to leave my pool house. My friend, The Director, is returning from Pittsburgh where he's been shooting a film. He's going to turn my ass-machine into an editing room. I have conflicting emotions about the situation. I know that while there's really nowhere else to go but up from here, as far as life's likability is concerned, I also know that my life will never be any cooler than it is right now. But hey fuck it. I don't really like to swim anyway.
I call the Mavman to come get me the fuck out of here. I failed to mention there is a bi-polar, bald, British dude here I've had to tolerate while The Director's been in Pittsburgh. I say British because he claims he's from the UK, but was raised in Brooklyn. Here's a few things you should know about this asshole.
A few things you should know about this bi-polar, bald, British fuck...
1) He dated the black Spice Girl for a bit. She was a rebound.
2) The girl he was rebounding from crushed him. She dumped him because he's a bi-polar, bald, British fuck. They would often get in fights in public. He would act like a little baby boy. She would call him a bitch and man child. This has been confirmed by many.
3) He thinks he's a great musician who's on the brink of fame. He's not. His music is maudlin and trite. It sucks.
4) He's into the male empowerment movement. He goes to meetings, reads Iron John, and watches the Tom Cruise scenes from Magnolia everyday.
5) His favorite song at the moment is Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol.
6) He's a sociopath. It pains me to say this, since I've always thought sociopath's were super cool. From what I know, and what I've pulled from Wikipedia, here are a few characteristics of a sociopath.
a) Glibness and superficial charm... This guy is a cross between Guy Ritchie and Charles Manson. He has a harem of weak and vulnerable actors who have no fucking idea who they are. They do whatever The British tells them to do. He speaks fluidly, spitting out bullshit, oscillating between both British and Brooklyn accents (sometimes in the same sentence.)
b) Manipulation and Conning... The guy is house sitting in The Director's five million dollar home... end of story.
c) Pathological lying... He told me once he just got back from the Barber Shop.
d) Shallowness, Callowness, Lack of Empathy... It's like anything else. The guy is a little bitch. Always whining about himself, and all his pain, and expressing all this pussy emotion that poses as depth and sincerity when in reality it's fucking heartless. The guy's a fraud and I want to punch him in the face.
e) Parasitic Lifestyle... The guy lives all up in this shit and doesn't work. He does nothing. I've never seen him take out or pick up the fucking garbage. I do that shit. He VJ's once a week. He makes a $100 maybe? I mean yes I'm freeloading up here myself, but at least I try to make money and consider what I do a job. I mean I put in at least 40 hours of online poker a week... Fuck.
So as you can see I hate this fucking guy. I would have already murdered him, but I didn't want to give up my pool house. I came close once, but my attempt was thwarted. It went like this...
I threw a party, a fucking big one, and I made sure The British was cool with it before I put it together. So the party goes off. We have a DJ in the pool house, everyone's drunk and doing drugs, broads are naked in the pool, titties all over the estate... shit like this. Toward the end of this party, The British shows up ranting and raving about how I didn't have the authority to throw a party and that it wasn't my house and that he was going to have me arrested for trespassing...shit like this. Fucking clown. I had a bottle of tequila and a couple grams of cocaine in me at this point, so naturally I went nuts, and had to be restrained from attacking him with a pool skimmer. After things calmed down a bit, and The British realized how much ass I had at this thing, he relaxed and jumped in the pool. He tried to be cool with me again, and I played along, continuing to drink Cadillac's, snort cocaine, and plot this guys murder. The party finally came to an end. Pretty much everyone left and The British went to sleep. I sat with the Mavman and a couple broads in the ass-machine, continuing to do bad things and talk about stabbing this guy in his sleep. I swear I was going to do it. I wasn't just fucking around when I picked up a knife at 6am and started walking toward the main house. I'm telling you if the Mavman wasn't there to tackle me to the ground, I'd either be in jail or in Berlin right now. Goddamnit I should have stabbed that prick. Second biggest regret of my life.
Do you think I'm fucking with you reader? This happened. I'm telling you this is my life!
And Now Ladies and Gentlemen, without further adieu, I give you The British...
Right now The British is running around slamming shit all over the place, trying to clear out the pool house and get it ready for editing. He's telling me to hurry the fuck up and get my shit out of the poolhouse. He's using this tone with me because he has a 300 pound homeless black guy, prone to anxiety attacks and shadowing, sleeping on his couch. The homeless guy came up for that party I threw and hasn't left. The British figured he could use a big body up here to keep the peace and help him out with his operation. Anyway, I just got back from the Commerce Casino and haven't slept a wink so I just want to get my shit together and find somewhere to sleep.
I end up going straight to a bar and am forced to drink straight through the day and into the evening. Mav's got nowhere to put me up. His roommate is a puss and doesn't want anyone staying in the apartment. So I have to sleep in the Mav-mobile. The fucking Mav-mobile. Awesome car. Shitty bed. Every night I'm forced to go out with Mav and get as wasted as possible to prepare for a nights sleep in that fucker. After a few nights of this shit I book a flight to Miami. This Venezuelan friend of mine is living there and says he can get me a job bartending as soon as I land and has an apartment that we can both move into the week I arrive. My plane ticket cleans me out so I borrow $700 from the Mavman for expenses. Miami baby.
I have a layover in Washington. I get off the plane and head straight to the bathroom. I drank screwdrivers with this stripper on the plane and am trying to get away from her. As I'm walking into the bathroom I get a text. It's Annie. 'What are you up to? Why haven't you called me???' What the hell. I never thought I'd hear from this broad again. I think for a second. At this point I'm sitting in a stall, planning on waiting 15 minutes or so before I go back out there. I'm on the fence about texting her back now, or waiting, or not texting her back, or texting her and telling her to move on and leave me alone. After a little contemplation I figure fuck it and send her a text. 'I'm sitting on a toilet in Chicago O' Hare reading the Economist (I figure if I'm going to play this game I might as well try to sound as smart as possible) and trying to avoid another encounter with this stripper I got drunk with on the flight here.' 20 seconds later... 'The economist and drunk strippers. A true renaissance man you are!'
Who is this Annie?
I hate to break it to you, hanging your head in depressed paralysis is the only realistic reaction to connecting with someone over a Modest Mouse song.
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