An LA Story

This column is going to be a letdown. Lets just get that out up front. Hemingway I am not, nor am I Michael Crichton, Dan Brown or whomever else you’re reading while you sit on the toilet, chastising yourself for eating Taco Bell and McDonalds today. What were you thinking! See “Supersize Me” immediately. My creativity stems from the banal observations of everyday life and making them into something a little more entertaining. So after a weekend in Vegas, column stemming from that, it is only fitting that the next column, chronicling the next leg of my journey, falls a little short. You can’t compete with Sin City! You shouldn’t even try. So, Like the 1987 Mets, the ‘73-74 Knicks, or the, uh… 1919 Red Sox. I can’t keep this high caliber stuff up all the time.

With that said, why not speak briefly on the days following Vegas, where I rested my alcohol soaked, sleep deprived body, before returning to fast-paced, step-on-others-windpipes-to-get-ahead NYC?

I left Vegas Monday afternoon and took a brief one hour flight to LAX where my friend Bob was waiting for me. The flight was great, other than the two huge BP’s behind me. Here were two guys done up in Karl Kani and more ice than you could imagine. I didn’t mind it so much, except for the fact that I was really tired and couldn’t put my seat back due to my fear of big dudes who spend entire flights talking about the new Jordans that are out.

As I stood in the baggage claim, I once again encountered Reggie and Jamal, only to see Eddie Griffin (the comedian, not the troubled, alcoholic basketball player) sandwiched between them. Apparently they were his bodyguards, and I’m guessing they all went to Vegas to see Roy Jones’ impression of Mike Tyson circa 1990 in Tokyo. I bring up the Eddie Griffin sighting for two reasons: one – to reiterate the fact that this column will be a letdown. Eddie Griffin is the only celebrity I saw in LA, besides my friends apparently seeing Lindsay Lohan at a club we went to Wednesday night, but I disregard that as he, was drunk, and I didn't see shit.

 

Honestly, what kind of content can you expect when all I got is Eddie Griffin? Two – As I stood next to Eddie waiting for my bag, I heard him cracking jokes with his two security cronies. The funny thing was, they were the same jokes I crack with my non B-Celebrity status white friends. “I’m Rick James Bitch!” he said. “Welcome… to the China Club. A China chang, a changa-chang-chang!” Eddie Griffin, quoting Chappelle! I guess I should have figured it out when he was riding coach on an America West flight, but when you’re quoting someone else in your exact genre, that's a definite sign your career is in its twilight stage. That’s like me quoting Aaron Karo, or Tucker Max, or…wait, forget it.

After that, the stories from LA are few and far between. I will say a few things in general though, and then take it out with one last example of how absolutely pathetic my life is.

The one night we really went out hardcore, to the places with lines and table service, and apparently Ms. Lohan, I met a petite girl with that deer-in-the-headlights look.

Me : So, what do you do

Girl with Extra Chromosome : I’m a spiritual advisor, and personal life coach.

Me : (trying desperately not to laugh) Oh, so what does that entail exactly?

Brainless : Its just about getting in touch with your feelings, fully accepting what happens to you in this world, but also being able to overcome the uncertainties, (this kept going, her talking about different religions and something else while I stared at her and smiled… until I spilled my bright red drink all over her.)

Me : So what does your philosophy tell you about getting spilled on?

Her : Just to fully accept it, and move on.

At which point she simply smiled and walked away. One thing I will say about LA, the people are very nice, albeit in a fake, off-putting way. My former boss once explained the phenomena as such: it’s because everyone in LA is trying to be someone else, a writer, an actor, a producer, and no one knows who you are. Everyone has to be nice to one another because God forbid someone just called Steven Spielberg’s godson or gardener’s daughter a cunt-rag. It would be harder for that guy to find work than those Commies during the McCarthy hearings.

The last part of my night at the bar known as Concorde, after my non-Lohan sighting, and spilling my drink on HHDSL (Her Holiness, the Downs’ Syndrome Lady), I came across a tall blonde, gazelle like creature dancing with herself. I headed over and started to make small talk, and then started to dance with her. “No grinding!” was all she said. So I unbent my knees and told Jimmy down South to control himself. This girl didn’t know what she was in for.

One part Theater Minor, two parts hair gel, and a dash of athleticism has made me quite the dancer. This was like a scene straight out of Newsies. I was the Swayze to her Jennier Grey. She was lovin’ it. What I wasn’t happy to see was my friend Rudolph down by the bar tossing his cookies all over the floor. My friend Brad came to tell me they were leaving. Before I left, I asked the girl her name. “I live in New York,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“So do I,” I said. “Where do you live?”

“My name is Deanna Marquis, I’m living in a hotel right now, the Intercontinental.”

I walked out of the bar, but not before putting that info into my phone. That was Wednesday night. I got home Friday, and finally on that following Wednesday I decided to look into this. Deanna Marquis? She had to have been lying. Either that or she danced in a Burlesque show. I looked up the Intercontinental, figuring it wouldn’t exist, but it did.

So I called. The concierge picked up and I asked for Deanna Marquis. I was put on hold while I waited for the obvious response, “I’m sorry sir, there is no Deanna Marquis here.” I waited a bit, feeling stupid, when the hold music finally stopped and the woman came back on again.

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