September 15, 2004 at 3:12 pm
· Filed under Uncategorized
OK, so it’s been a while, I know. But I’m back. And I’m inspired. And you know that is never a good thing. As a daily-or-whenever-I-get-around-to-it, syndicated columnist for the nobot.chatterbox, I have a fiduciary (?) responsibility and more importantly, a readership starving for my Chronicles like a murder of Goth kids skulking out rumours on an internet chat site regarding the next installment of Lestat’s adventures. So, without further ado…
It was Sunday the 12th September, and I was in a great mood. I actually got up early for a Sunday, right around 13:00. I had spent the majority of the prior night with friends at Svelte, the new buzz-teraunt in town. Phenomenal Kobe beef burgers and seared Toro steaks, and oh yes, the Balvenie and Bordeaux were a-plenty.
It was a pretty rude wake-up, as it was to the unbridled screaming of rabid, mendicant children running around the pool. (For my loyal readership in the ‘Outer Boroughs’ of Orange County and the Fly-Over States, I live in an end-unit, right on the pool. This has its advantages, such as a shorter walk thereto, the ability to collect ‘intelligence’ (if you can call it that) from my neighbors as they dump their minds as well as the contents of their bladders in the community hot-tub and my favorite, the Miami Vice blue glow I get at night in my upstairs bedroom from the pool lights. Precious!) But I digress…so, these fucking kids! You know how two-to-four-year-olds repeat things when no one responds to the first twenty times they say something because it’s mindless, short-sighted and retarded? (Daddy, where’s Joey? Daddy, where’s Joey? Daddy, where’s Joey? Daddy, where’s Joey? Daddy, where’s Joey? Daddy, where’s Joey? Daddy, where’s Joey? Daddy, where’s Joey? Daddy,
where’s Joey? Daddy, where’s Joey? Daddy, where’s Joey? You get the point.) If I want to hear repetitive nonsense like that, I’ll listen to a DJ Shadow CD, thank you very much. Well, this stupid two-to-four-year-old was running around the pool like an idiot, SCREAMING AND REPEATING AT THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS: “DADDY WATCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”.
What on God’s Green Earth could have been so important as to replicate my Nakamichi SoundSpace 3’s discordant alarm function with such volume, pitch and clarity? I opened my eyes, in truly Vampiric fashion, you know, kind of annoyed to be rattled out of slumber, but eager to feed? Yeah, you got it. So, with a sigh, I decided 13:15 was as good a time as ever to get out of bed and made my way to the closet to don just the right pair of Levi’s Premium Skinners for my trek out to retrieve my Sunday Times (New York, ‘natch) from my drive-way. I love this morning ritual for a couple of reasons: (1) I look absolutely split in half when I wake up because I’m just a little dehydrated, but it’s worth that first look in the mirror because I actually have an eight-pack and that makes me happy. However, if I brought something home with me and it didn’t have the good sense or taxi-fare to leave at four a.m. when we were done, inevitably, they want to go for another round after watching me
walk around the room. “Can’t see it. I have a big day.”; rote response; (2) My neighbors notice and there is nothing better than making weak men feel even more insecure and knowing that, during some round of ‘Married Convenience Sex’, the wife, in between visions of Brad Pitt’s Tristan in ‘Legends of The Fall’ and Jake Ryan in ‘Sixteen Candles’, I pop into her sad little consciousness and seal the deal. Life is good when you have abs. But I digress…
So, after grabbing the paper, saying “Hello” to all of my female neighbors, and watching their approving reflections in my entry-way window as I walk back to the front door, I started in on brunch. I started on the Week In Review section, and simultaneously filled my Bialleti three-cup stove-top espresso maker with Illy Caffe finely ground and sliced some nectarines and mangoes. I believe in a balanced diet, so I also had one boiled egg and a corn tortilla to match.
The day was actually full of promise; I continued to read the paper (I was on to the World Business section at this point, enjoying a most salient article on the future viability of Intel’s CEO, Craig Barrett and another regarding the departure of embattled Michael Eisner from the Disney helm). I moved on to the Magazine section, and therein was an article about raising polite children in a rude world or something like that. This got me thinking:
What ever became of manners?
I guess that I should preface this analysis with my experiences in the previous two days which collectively formed the impetus for my query. I’ll start with Memphis on Friday night…
It was a relatively quiet Friday evening, after a three day weekend and a four-day work week. I ventured out at about 20:30 to Cafe Pascal for a quick glass of wine and a sunset. I then called my brother to see if he wanted to meet up with me for a bite before getting on the wheels at Memphis at 22:00. We agreed to meet up at 21:00 at Mother India to nosh some Naan. While the decor at the M.I. is lacking, the food and service is always top-drawer. Sean and I had about three Kingfishers, way too much food and good conversation about the business of clubs and bars in the Newport-mesa area. We then left to make Memphis at 22:00. Now bear in mind that I never show up to Memphis before 23:00. But I went in with my brother, to see the dinner crowd still there, finishing up their chocolate bread pudding and whatever extra calories and fat they clearly did not need. These people were simply moldy. There were two long tables in particular that caught my discerning eye. The first
was obviously a birthday party for a corpulent slob with an undersized Alkaline Trio t-shirt and shorts on. The other was pre-bachelorette party dinner with what appeared to be a contest to see which attendant could have the most back-fat bubbling out of their Se7en Jeans like a home-made loaf of multi-grain bread. Ghastly, really. The bar-back, Cancho, saw me coming in and immediately set up a table in the back-yard, with four chairs, a candle and a clean ashtray. OK, even though I’m out early like an amateur, I have a great table and a killer pour of Scotch in-hand. So I sat, observing the idiocy, and taking solace in the fact that it would soon be moving on to The Lodge or The Shark Club, or some other bastion of low-class lunacy. No such luck.
As I sat there, enjoying a Dunhill Light, my second Oban (neat, of course) and my third Pellegrino, the crowd discernibly changed. It became a sweaty sea of white blubber seeping out of low-rise jeans, beach bricks and men in shorts and trainers. Fine, whatever. But what came next is what really got me.
I sat there, observing these people, their topics of conversation the semiotics of their costume choices, and wondering what their bathrooms looked like. A pair of Mensa members (clad in what I believe is from the “Carnival Cruiseline” catalogue of shorts, camp shirts and those stupid, stupid all-terrain Teva sandal things. For fuck’s sake, it’s after Labour Day, it’s night-time, this ain’t no barbecue, and we’re not wind-surfing. Why the hell are you dressed like that?) sat down at my table as though I was not there.
Hmmm…
I asked them if they would like to join me and they looked at me as though I appeared out of the ether. Now, I know my boyish good looks and preternatural charms occasionally have this effect in the right light, but this look was precious. They actually did not realize that I was sitting there first. Needless to say, they didn’t answer and I didn’t pry. I didn’t bother listening to their conversation, though I’m sure it was about “going to Bed, Bath and Beyond tomorrow” or something nearly as basal. They obviously were unaccustomed to asking permission for anything, as was evident by the empowerment they obtained by ordering directly from the ship’s catalogue and having it delivered to their doorstep before they even arrived home. Oh, how liberating, to live each day as though you’re on the top deck, shooting skeet and eating eclairs until your liver taps out! Every day like a Jimmy Buffett song! Oh sweet joy and hamburgers in Paradise!
Morons.
So these two fashionistas retrieved their Budweiser bottles and walked away about twenty minutes later; not a bad time I thought, and it’s pissing me off enough to make me write. I like that. But then the real fun started.
More guys in shorts. The “GQ” members of the shorts-wearing clan were wearing those stupid, bold-striped, colorful Queer-Eye shirts. OK, I wore these things three years ago and they were fun. But when guys in West Texas are wearing them, it’s time to let it go. And ditch the sunglasses on the back of the head. Buy a car, when the sun goes down, put the sunglasses in it. Simple.
I was now alone at the table, just how I like it. At this point, I’m glad that I never show up before 23:00, because none of my crew apparently does either. And now I know why my brother is in such a foul mood by the time I get there. So, the funny guy in shorts comes over and puts his drink on my table. Mistake #1. This is my second worst pet peeve, just after the mis-use of the word “your”. Never, ever put your foul well vodka tonic or foul well gin ‘n’ tonic or foul well vodka Redbull on my table if you are not seated with me. Mistake #2: walking away. After subtly ‘adjusting’ the table a couple of times, I realized that I would not be able to dislodge the tonic-based tumor from my table, as it was placed pretty much dead-center. So, as my friend decided to place his drink right next to my ashtray, and I had had soooooooooo much to drink already, I dropped a big, Sixteen Candles Grandma-sized ash in his drink. I mouthed to myself, “that’s RENT, bitch.” My friend took his
drink away, never even noticing that he was imbibing the worst possible concoction this side of a German scheisse film. And the world was balanced again.
I was back to square one and I guess at this point, I should note a bit about my apparel choices for the evening. I was wearing a black Prada fitted short-sleeved shirt that accentuated my biceps nicely. I paired this with a pair of black Levi’s Premium boot cut cords (button-fly, of course) and my usual black Prada motorcycle boots. My accessory choices for the evening were pretty bling, but not over the top. I did however; wear my new Omega Seamaster Chrono, with the very rare white face. I topped it all off with a black military-inspired cap by Goorin.
There was this couple seated to my left who had quite clearly been out on the lash since early afternoon. They were accompanied by a good-natured, robust fellow who reminded me of John Rhys-Davies in Shogun or Raiders. He was dancing to the summer hits and enjoying himself in his shorts, white trainers and abstract-patterned camp shirt. The woman in the equation was very bored by the whole situation, but was presentable and arguably the best-dressed female in the joint at that time. (Bear in mind, the rest of my crew had yet to arrive.) I peripherally noticed that she was looking at my watch. She slid over, put her arm around my neck and whispered into my ear with breath that reeked of an odd combination of well vodka gimlets, Camel lights, cheap Bolognese sauce and vomit, “Are you having a good time? What kind of watch is that?” I sighed, removed her arm, and said, “First, let’s be friends that don’t touch. Second, yes, I am beside myself with glee. Third, it’s a Casio
G-Shock Special Edition. You can only get these in Burundi”
“Wow, it’s really pretty. Do you have any mints?”
Good God almighty. If there ever was a time to have a bottle of bleach and a wire barbecue brush out with your normal Friday night kit, this was it. I said “Unfortunately, no Ma Chere, I do not.” She whispered, into my cheek this time, perilously close to my lips, “then what do you do to keep your breath fresh in situations like this…?” To which I replied, turned to my drink and said “I drink more Scotch and encourage others to do the same.”, whilst removing her arm and face for a second time.
At this point, I look briefly to my left and see that her male counterpart is watching, but not angry, or even surprised, for that matter. But she excuses herself and makes her way inside. Her male then says to me across the expanse, “Dude, sorry about that. She’s my girlfriend.” I replied succinctly, “Put a fucking leash on it.” He nodded. Like a coward.
I guess the rude-ness here goes unsaid, she’s involved with this guy, not getting enough attention, and proceeds to try to throw her tongue down my gullet no more than two meters away from her supposed ‘boyfriend’. Lack of manners. If you want it that bad, wait until next week, brush your teeth and come alone. Simple.
This comedy repeated itself all night; I actually left early, at about nine sheets to the wind.F
The next day, Saturday, I was pretty excited as I was going to be getting my new Heavenly® Mattress, which as all of you know, is the W hotel’s signature mattress. Ahhhhhh…sweet, sweet slumber. So I went out to buy some new sheets at Macy’s. Since I have not purchased new sheets in about five years, I figured it was worth going full throttle and grabbing some high thread count sheets, a silk duvee cover and some decorative pillows. I was putting my new bed-look together and this yippy, blonde, barnstormer comes up to me and immediately begins to violate my personal space. And not in a cool European way, but in an “I would love to demo one of these demo beds for you” way. Whatever. So we start talking and she asks what my room looks like.
God, please.
I tell her that it’s extremely minimal, all white walls except for the main wall behind my bed, which I had painted Ralph Lauren Stadium Red (look it up, it’s very crowd-pleasing). She about loses her panties at this point, and asks how I came up with the idea to do one red wall. I admitted that it was kind of dumb, but still, cool…Mr. Big did it on Sex in the City. The bra and boots were about to fly at this revelation. “OH MY GOD!!! THAT IS SOOOO SEXY!!!!!!!!!!! I HAVE TO SEE IT!!!!!!!!!” Yeah, right. OK.
Next, that idiotic question that every woman with absolutely no identity asks: “Who do I remind you of on that show?” I had just enjoyed a phenomenal meal at the sushi bar at Kitayama about 45 minutes prior to coming into Macy’s. I didn’t want to spray yellowtail, albacore and Japanese snapper all over this woman, but she was really pushing it. I thought about it, crinkled my eyebrows and replied, “Samantha”. Ha ha ha ha ha! You should have seen the immediate revulsion. It didn’t deter her though, and she said, “No! I’m Carrie Bradshaw!” Of course you are, ma chere, of course you are.
So we took my choices up to the checkout stand, she rang them up and handed them to me. As I walked away (by the way, she was so wound up in my charms that she hadn’t realized yet that I had yet to pay the $957.92 for the densely-woven cotton and silk goods with which I was about to abscond.), she handed me her business card and offered her services “in any way at all” and commented pathetically that “she has to see this room, in photos at least.” So I am half-way down the escalator when I hear her screaming, “Michael! You haven’t paid for that stuff yet!” I feigned an incoming phone call and kept on my way, but she insisted on screaming louder (a la Daddy, Where’s Joey?), so I acknowledged her with a sheepish smile and gestured that I would be right back up. I paid and was on my way, with almost 1,000 more frequent flier miles in my UAL account.
I’ll admit, I was the one without manners there, but it was just reciprocity on my part. She was annoying and obtuse. I could have moved a lot faster and been a lot more clandestine, but I really didn’t think she deserved to get fired over comparing herself to Carrie Bradshaw.
So, I got to thinking…where have manners gone? Why don’t people say please, thank you and excuse me? Why do people steal?
I don’t know, it just makes for a funny story, and it gives me a rare (?) chance to be a dick to people I don’t know.
Until next time, adieu.