Articles Archive for June 2009
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I’ll tell you one thing: I know that I knock on living in LA a lot (no, really?), but if there’s anything I’ll miss this place after I’ve moved back east in December, it’s going to be the ability to hop in the car on a Friday afternoon, drive 20 miles in two hours in any direction trying to get out of Los Angeles, then drive 200 miles in two hours and end up in some nearby town or destination.
In short: I love road trips. Love ‘em, love ‘em, love ‘em. I didn’t realize this when I lived in NYC, seeing every weekend morning I woke up at noon, fought off a hangover for a few hours, pigged out and generally passed the time until drinking started again (not that there’s anything wrong with that). But since I’ve been in LA, I’ve taken weekend road trips to San Fran, Vegas, Sonoma, San Diego, Big Bear, Santa Barbara, Temecula, and now, Paso Robles (and I may be missing one or two).
It has been these road trips that have made my time on the west coast (at worst) bearable and (at best) enjoyable. Really, even if the traffic around LA during rush hour is deplorable, it’s quite a lovely thing to pile into the Lincoln, put on the iPod, and head out into the vastness of California, witnessing the city turn into hills and then into mountains or into plains, stopping intermittently before reaching your destination to get gas (and Combos and diet coke) or have a burger in a roadside tavern, before finally arriving and tying on a tremendous load in an unfamiliar bar in a new place. I will miss these adventures.
Paso Robles was no exception. With former roommate/part-time lover/volunteer-but-maybe-not-totally-volunteer date (“C’mon! I can’t not bring a date to my agent’s wedding! Do you know what that will do to my career?!? Think of my career!!!”) Selena in tow, we hit the road Friday afternoon and made it to Paso, a little over 200 miles from LA, in four hours. Thirty minutes after arriving I was eating a burger in a local bar; ninety minutes after arriving I was buzzing pretty good; three hours after arriving I was watching my agent/the groom-to-be sing “Rocket Man” in a local karaoke bar while a bunch of sunburned cowboys slow-danced with their ladies.
Say what you want, but you can’t really do this shit on the east coast (or at least, in the Manhattan part of the east coast.)
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The wedding was the next day, with a gracious start time of 4:30pm. This meant that everyone could get bombed the night before, sleep in and have plenty of time to get over whatever hangovers before the ceremony. But the “sleeping in” option was ruined for a number of wedding guests by a not-so-tiny seismic event at about 5:30am on Saturday morning.
All I remember is being in a deep, Bud-and-burger induced sleep when the room started shaking. It was still dark and I was a little hungover, but I immediately jumped out of bed to, as I have been taught, seek protection under the nearest door frame (which in this case was the bathroom). The room was still shaking when I looked back to see Selena still asleep – right under a GIANT picture that hung above the bed. Quick goat thinking, I jumped from under the door frame, woke her up by saying, “There’s an earthquake going on, dummy!” and pulled her under the doorframe.
But as much as a rush it was – we later learned that it was a 4.5 and the epicenter was very close by, so it was a mighty good shakin’ – I managed to fall right back asleep once it was over, despite my phone vibrating with text messages from friends at the wedding both texting about the quake and, I discovered later, wanting to get breakfast because they couldn’t get back to sleep.
(And really, God, I’m cool with the earthquakes. The first one was enough, but that was #4, so you can stop now. Thanks.)
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With nothing to do before the wedding, stylish and classy guy that I am, I decided to get a haircut – at the local Supercuts. My favorite place to get my hair cut is at State Street Barbers in Boston. Even though they cut my hair so short that I look like a balding little boy (with a beard), they give you a free beer and a nice hot shave. However, most of the time, I’d get my hair cut at the Supercuts on St. Marks back in NYC, seeing as, you know, I didn’t live in Boston.
And nearly every time, the Supercuts haircut was horrible. Sure, I guess you get what you pay for, and I shouldn’t have expected much at a chain hair place in the middle of one of the skuzziest streets in the East Village, but many of these haircuts were laughable and required significant damage control when I returned home from them (beard trimmer, scissors, the whole thing). However, they were cheap and convenient and enabled me to get Sea Thai afterward, so for years, that Supercuts was my place.
When I moved to LA, I kept it in the Supercuts family, but the one I would go to in Hermosa Beach was much nicer than the one I went to NYC. And though both were staffed by immigrants and/or people who really, really didn’t want to work there, my haircuts were generally nicer at the HB Supercuts. And then there’s the whole thing that I (kinda obviously) am not into the whole “looking good/taking care of my appearance” thing. I mean, whatever. I learned about 15 years ago that if I was ever going to get laid, it wasn’t because I was good-looking. So spending less time and money on what I look like and more time and money on buying drink after drink after drink for my chosen seductee was and is the better use of my time.
So this weekend when I needed to get a hair cut in Paso Robles, where else would I go but the local Supercuts? In case they were as crappy as the people at the NYC Supercuts, I’d only get a lil’ trim, just a clean-up, really. I found the local SC on my iPhone, called ahead and started the mile walk over to them.
By the time I made it over there, I was sweating and completely frazzled. The SC wasn’t a mile away; the totally fucking gigantic outdoor mall that the SC was hidden in was a mile away. It took me another fifteen minutes and another half mile of wandering aimlessly around before I found the SC. Angry and hot, I walked in.
And, um, wow.
The hostess was about 5′10″, green eyes, jet black hair, slim figure and wearing a lil’ sun dress. When she said “Hi” when I entered the store, I think I may have uttered a small “Ugh” before catching myself and saying “hi” on back. Then I looked around and saw that every single girl cutting hair (there were only women) was striking. I mean this in the most literal sense; I was struck, physically taken aback, by each of these girls – the tall waifish blonde over there; the shorter, bustier brunette to my right; the redhead near the back whose jeans made me want take out my cell phone and shoot a text message to God that said, “Bro, redhead in PR SC – WHOA!!! Seriously, tx.”
The girl who cut my hair was adorable (or, as the Spaniards say, adoRAHble); maybe 23, she had light brown hair, was also tall, and exuded “if your mom met me, she would respect and possibly love you again” vibe. I immediately sat down ram-rod straight, chest puffed out, and when she asked me if I lived around Paso, I told her I was in town for a wedding. When she said, “Oh, that’s nice. Whose wedding?”, it was five…four…three…”Oh, it’s my agent’s. He’s my friend, too. So we’re cool. But he’s my agent. So basically I have an agent. That’s, I guess, what I’m trying to say. Agent.”
We then talked for a little while about how I was from Philly but lived in NYC for seven years, and about how she grew up in Paso Robles and had only been to San Fran once (!) and really wanted to travel more, how she loved watching “Sex in the City” and really wanted to go to NYC. I swear, by the end of her conversation, instead of giving her an outrageous tip (which I eventually did), I wanted to take her by the hand, look her deep in her eyes, and say, “I want to take you away from all this and show you the world and take care of you forever. All I ask in return is that you not ask questions about why I keep my shirt on every time we have sex.”
Alas, I didn’t have the courage. Also, my wedding date was getting her nails done and would probably have been a little bothered by coming back to the hotel room to find a barely conscious girl in the bath tub “resting.” Such is life.
But I will tell you this: central and northern California consistently has the most beautiful women I’ve seen anywhere in the country. Seriously. It seems like every single one of them is tall, has perfect teeth, and a slim figure (personally, I’d like to see a little more boobage from them, but I can’t complain too much). I’m telling you, when I’ve been to San Fran or Sonoma or even Santa Barbara (which I know is more southern Cali), I can’t help being shocked by the beautiful women crawling all over the place. Provided, I grew up in Philly, where a girl was considered hot if her eyes weren’t crossed and she stopped after her third slice, and went to college in Boston, were a girl who didn’t say “fuckah” in every sentence and could only beat you up 30% of the time was considered a keeper, but still. The girls in LA are good-looking, but they’re hot because of their superficiality (fake boobs, fake tans, teeth so over-whitened they can double as nightlights) and they all seem to have that hint of desperation, the need for fame or recognition or validation. I’ll take the natural and effortless beauty of the Central/Northern Cali girls any time, thanks very much.
(I would venture to guess that the above paragraph will piss off between 20-50 women in my life. Whatever. I’m tired.)
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After the haircut, we were quickly en route to Joel and Liz’s wedding. Let me say a few things here:
- The whole thing was held on a vineyard and, as such, I shouldn’t even have to tell you that it was incredible. Rolling hills of grapes were behind the couple; the temperature was in the upper 70’s, the air perfect and dry; and the sun shone gently overhead, not too brightly, not too strongly, but just sort of saying “hi” and letting you know it was there. If there is such thing “picture-perfect wedding,” I just went to it.
- Liz looked beautiful. Joel looked…clean. Yeah, let’s go with “clean.”
(In seriousness, props to Joel, who wasn’t fat to begin with but lost a bunch of weight and got in great shape for the wedding. I know how much it pained him to give up drinking during the week during his diet. Mad respect for that.)
- I’ve been to so many weddings that it’s impossible to say that any particular thing was “the best wedding ____ I’ve ever had/eaten/experienced,” but I will say that the food at this wedding was TERRIFIC (yes, all caps). It was Spanish-influenced and my main course, the braised short ribs, were so good that they made me pee a little bit but the pee was clear and smelled like bleach and it felt like a sneeze. And I was hitting the wine pretty hard (more on this later) and can’t remember the specifics of the three appetizers, but I’m not ashamed to admit that after eating mine, I made some rounds around different tables to see if anyone happened to be allergic to any of their apps and, “Well, sure – I mean, if you’re not gonna eat it, I’ll have it. Don’t want to waste.”
- I am a beer drinker, but I will say this: I hate Firestone beers. Apparently, Firestone has some monopoly in all the CA bars south of SF and north of LA and must be served everywhere. I don’t care for this or for their beer. Not my least favorite (that would either be Peroni or Moretti, followed by Beck’s, Heineken and Stella), but I’d rather not.
Fortunately, red and white wine was being served and, long story short, I had a torrid affair with the red wine. Again, I’m a beer guy, but the red wine was one of the best I’ve had; as such, I started drinking it like it was the antidote to every ill that has plagued me in the past twenty-nine years. After my third glass in less than thirty minutes (and after Selena suggested I “maybe take it easy, champ”), a thought occurred to me: there was sure to be pictures and dancing, and if I kept going at this rate, my entire mouth – and likely my shirt, jacket, tie and genitals – would be caked in red wine, made purple. So instead of having a glass of water between each glass of red to reduce the purpleness of my mouth – you know, something that a normal person would think of – I decided that I would alternate one glass of red with one glass of white going forward.
At the time, it was a great idea. I got really drunk, had a blast, and didn’t have any purple teeth or lips in the pictures (success!). But the next morning, when I woke up, I had one of the worst hangovers I’ve had in a long, long time. I know that “worst hangover” is probably one of the most used phrases or words on this site, right up there with “lil’ penis” and “cockass” and “…so hard right now.” But this one was a good one. I spent almost two hours in the shower, not even reading but trying to gain strength. We almost missed the brunch, at which I had at least twelve pieces of bacon, and then on the ride home I almost threw up twice because I ate two Wendy’s junior bacon cheeseburgers and then felt like I had been shot in the gut. Not my finest moment, but a rather expected end to a lovely wedding weekend.
- I know that I’m lucky to have had Joel come into my life in the professional sense; he’s an agent at a real-live agency and has opened career doors to me that I never thought possible, and if it wasn’t for him, I’d probably be married to some angry, overweight woman by now, with a two-year old at home who barely recognizes me but recognizes that he hates me, trolling S&M sites after 2am as an outlet for my anger and overcompensation for my impotence. But I am also lucky to have made such a good friend, and to have made so many other good friends through Joel, including his lovely and talented wife, who actually beat Joel and I in our fantasy football league last year (Liz finished first, Joel second and me third – but in my defense, it’s a QB-heavy league with 6 point TDs and my first pick was Tom Brady, so I’ll get them next year).
Anyway, it makes me happy when two people who so obviously belong together allow me to get really drunk when they make it official. Love really is magic.
(And I swear I will crush both of them in fantasy football this year.)
- I moved to Westwood, the neighborhood in LA near UCLA. It’s lovely. But it’s not “I Don’t Still Desperately Miss the East Coast and I Might Head to LAX Now for My July 1 Red-Eye to Philly Just to Be Safe” lovely. I’ll discuss in detail later.
- My colleague has been out for a long vacation and I’ve been covering for him. I can’t really explain my job, but I will say that there only about eight of us at the company that do it and we each have individual specializations. This is good, because we’re all irreplaceable, but bad, because we’re all irreplaceable.
You can think of it kinda like the Justice League. My colleague, Batman, has been away on vacation for some time. I, Aquaman, have been covering for him. So in addition to my sea-related duties (of which there are several, mind you), I’ve been getting calls all day like:
“Hi, is Batman around?”
“Um, no – he’s on vacation. This I’m Aquaman, I’m covering for him. Can I help you with something?”
“Oh…uh, yeah, I guess. Well, the Joker’s escaped Arkham and he’s already murdered fourteen people, cut all of Gotham’s power, and is threatening to release a poisonous gas into the atmosphere.”
“Wow…that’s, uh, that’s pretty bad.”
“Yeah. Sure is.”
“Let me ask you something: are you having any problems with fish or with dams leaking or anything like that?”
“No, not that we know of.”
“You sure? Nothing about dolphins and the plastic soda rings or that kinda thing?”
“Not really, no.”
“You know, the ones that come on six-packs? Six-packs of cans? The plastic rings?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know them, but we’re ok in that department.”
“Ok. Hmm…because that’s sort of what I do – the whole fish/sea/water thing. Not so strong with murder and all that other stuff you mentioned.”
“Right, right…but do you think you might be able to give it a shot?”
“Oh, totally – I’ll totally give it a shot. But I just wanted to be up-front with you as to where I stand, and my areas of expertise. But no, I mean yeah, I’ll totally give it a shot.”
So the result is that I spend half my days flailing away at something that I have no idea about and with limited success, before turning back to my own duties. I shouldn’t complain, because it works both ways – if someone else at the company could do what I do, I would have been laid off, oh, five to eight years ago. So it’s good that way, but tough when co-workers go on vacation.
- Finally, I’m turning 30 in less than a month (July 17) and it’s freaking me out.
(Not really. Calmer than you are.)
(And I’m currently accepting 30th b-day beer money via the “Make a Donation” button on the right.)
At any rate, I’m off to agent/friend Joel’s wedding in wine country this weekend, but wanted to give you some songs to give a lil’ listen to.
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Six Songs
“Prison Sex” Tool
Looking back on it, I simply can’t believe that in 1999-2000, my sophomore and junior years of college, I stood on stages in various bars in Boston, pretending to be a bad ass and playing this song (on bass) with my college band. I mean, the song is called “Prison Sex” and is about exactly what you think it’s about (as evinced by the poetry of “I have found some kind of temporary sanity in this/Shit, blood and cum on my hands”). In college, I liked Elvis Costello and W.H. Auden and wanted to be a history professor, yet I rocked a hooded sweatshirt on stage, trying my best to look menacing, while playing this and other songs that I not only didn’t even like, but for the most part made me cry.
Don’t get me wrong – it was a total fucking blast. But when I think about these times now, they are so foreign to me that saying “Remember when I was in that band in college and we played that really hard rock music?” is almost as strange as reminiscing “Remember that time when I was married to a dude for three years?” I mean, it was messed up.
“Fistful of Love” Antony and the Johnsons
When I’m bored, I like to think of possible scenarios involving me performing musically that would kill my father. For years, the leader has been if I were to reprise Tim Curry’s Dr. Frank N. Furter role from “Rocky Horror Picture” show; I am 90% certain that my father would collapse before the second verse of “Sweet Transvestite” even started. Also, for those of you have heard Rockapella’s version of the Gummi Bears Theme Song, I don’t have to tell you that if I were to perform as the lead singer of this song, this would not only cause my father to take his own life, but possibly the lives of his own parents, as he descended from them and I descended from him.
But I have to say that, in terms of “real” songs, affecting Antony’s pattern of speech/singing and eccentricities just might do the job for dear old dad. Don’t get me wrong; I’d really have to vamp it up. But if he didn’t have at least a mild stroke, I’d be surprised.
(To be honest, the funny thing is that my dad is a very, very tolerant person, practically qualified to be a Board Member of the Non-Straight-Irish-Catholic People Alliance, especially by neighborhood standards. Still – and even though he was a big Bowie fan as a young man – I wouldn’t even show him “Rocky Horror,” just to be on the safe side.)
“German Love” Starfucker
Don’t be scared; it’s cool. Pretty, foot-tappy song that I actually played with the windows open while cleaning the apartment before realizing that my neighbors might not think the phrase “German love/I will give it to you” is as awesome as I do.
“Challengers” The New Pornographers
Ppppppuuuuurrrrdddddyyyyyy. Immediate add to the “Let’s Make Out or Something” playlist, and I’m still deciding if it should be included on “Sad as Fuck” (there are several songs that are on both, for reasons we should not get into now). Love the “Whatever the mess you are/You’re mine, ok?” line. I mean, who doesn’t want to help fix a mess? This is pretty much the only reason why I think I get laid. Well, that and the cherished combo of an extremely emotionally-distant father and about $34 worth of Jagermeister.
(As much as I like that line, there is a limit. We’ve all had that female friend who likes the “mess” a little too much. I feel like in just the past few months I’ve had a number of conversations with my female friends that go:
Female Friend: “…Well, Michael got in a little trouble this weekend.”
Me: “Oh yeah? What happened?”
FF: “It’s a long story, but, more or less, he got drunk and probably killed a cop.”
Me: “Wait – ‘probably killed a cop?’”
FF: “Yeah. I mean, the cop or whatever is definitely dead, but he may just have been a security guard or something.”
Me: “Wow.”
FF: “Yeah, he’s so spontaneous, I love him.”)
“I Don’t Believe You’ve Met My Baby” Jerry Douglas (Featuring Alison Krauss)
If there was a draft in which men everywhere had to pick a wife based only on her singing voice, Alison Krauss would go #1. Hands down. And when she walked up on this stage to shake the commissioner’s hand, this would be the song that was played. Hearing her voice, hearing this song, makes me think that love really does exist and is not just some social construct invented by (who else?) the Jews to keep everyone from raping each other.
(Wait, what?)
(PS – for the record, I love the Jews. Love ‘em, love ‘em, love ‘em. For three or so years, I dated Jewish women almost exclusively and it was wonderful.)
(And no, I’m not just saying this because I maintain careers in business, television and publishing. So there.)
“Tessallate” Tokyo Police Club
Off the top of my head, the only band names I hate more are Vampire Weekend, I Love You But I’ve Chosen Darkness, Death Cab for Cutie and The Ladybug Transistor (I’d have to look at my iTunes to compile a more thorough list), but I won’t hold that against them for this one. Another pretty one – they’ve all been kinda slow since “Prison Sex” – that makes me feel nostalgic for something I can’t place. Sometimes under that blanket of non-specific nostalgia is a nice place to be.
[Have a good weekend.]