I don’t know if the city of Los Angeles is a disaster, or if I am the disaster and that town just brings out the worst in me. There I was though, back in the city of demons, having yet another head on collision with Hollywood after only being back there for twelve hours. Let me begin this tale by letting you all know that the whole reason that I was going back to the city that murdered my soul, was to spend two days with a guy that I had only known for two days because clearly, that sounded like an excellent decision.
It was at the end of the last tour that I was on and it was just me and the Tour Manager left on the bus, as the rest of the crew and band had already left. We started the trek westward from Indianapolis, which for some stupid reason is on Eastern time and for some stupid reason it bothers me when states that are not in fact located on the East coast, are on Eastern Standard Time. Also, in my educated opinion, I think that we should just get rid of Mountain time because there is only like nineteen people in that time zone anyway, and that’s where all of the irrelevant states are except for New Mexico which I exclude from the list of my “irrelevant” states because it has exceptional beef jerky.
We drove non-stop for 36 hours, from Indiana to Los Angeles and it was excruciating because we were heading West, so the days were getting longer. We had two drivers, Gary and Lady Gary. Lady Gary was our driver’s girlfriend who came onto the tour later, as an “assistant driver” (which is very unusual but I won’t bore you with the reasons why that happened), so we never learned her name and instead, took to calling her “Lady Gary” to her face because we’re assholes. Because we had two driver’s who alternated, we literally only stopped for gas and so that I could buy $35 worth of beef jerky. At one point during this agonizing ride, which I am surprised that we all survived considering that we had no drugs and no alcohol, (I don’t even do drugs, but if someone would have handed me a mystery pill that had a smiley face on it, or even a skull and cross-bones on it, I would have gladly accepted it and chased it with an overdose of Robitussin just to cure the boredom), I began running up and down the length of the bus, attempting to sing rap music (which is always a bad idea in my case because the only rap that I’ve ever been exposed to is one Eminem song that came out in 1997), and stopping every few laps to breakdown into something that resembled jazzercise. Rhett just stared at me with his mouth open because he was now used to my ridiculous behavior that he had been dealing with for the past couple of weeks, which I chronicle in Adventures of Touring Part 13. The moral of this part of the story is NEVER take highway 40 across the country because none of the truck stops sell alcohol. They seem to think that Native American snow-globes are an adequate substitution.
Once we finally got to LA, it was 1:30am and we then moved all of the gear from the bus trailer to another trailer. Don’t ask. This ended up being a fairly painless, fast and efficient process because Mexicans were involved. We then drove all of this gear through the Hollywood Hills as one of the Mexican’s was speeding us down Mulholland Drive like he had a death wish, but at this point, I didn’t care. We arrive at M’s house which is the size of my hometown, unload all of the gear again, and into his garage. It’s now like 4:00am, but Rhett and I decide to do about 15 shots with M’s roommate, anyway because we felt so deprived from our road trip and because it was the irresponsible choice to make.
The next morning is when I am supposed to meet up with Dan, the boy who I was staying with for the next two days, and the whole reason I suffered through the last 40 hours. Being in Beverly Hills, staying at M’s house with a zip code that is literally 90210, you would think that some of these motherfuckers would petition for cell phone towers… or at least buy their own. I’m sure that the owner of Verizon actually lives in that neighborhood. Regardless, I couldn’t get any service, and all I knew was that my destination is somewhere in Silverlake, which is on the clear other end of town. Remember that line from Clueless, “I expect you home in twenty minutes! Everywhere in LA takes twenty minutes!” This could not be further from the truth. It takes twenty minutes just to back out of your driveway in Los Angeles. I estimated that it would take 50 minutes to get to Dan’s house. If he was someone who I had known for longer than two days, I probably would have made him pick me up, but since I was determined to come across as self-sufficient, and because I hadn’t yet decided if I was going to sleep with him, I thought it best to rely on my independence that boys so much loathe.
A straight cab ride would have been too expensive, and I don’t like Uber because I am like a drug dealer and only deal with cash. My plan was to take a cab ride to the nearest metro station, then take the metro to the stop closest to Dan, which was then, just another quick cab ride to his house. Of course, this is not what transpired. M’s roommate had even offered to drive me part of the way, but because I am a masochist, I thought it would be a better alternative to purposely inflict a painful day upon myself. More importantly, I just didn’t want to put anybody out.
Like I said, I had zero cell service where I was, but I welcome these first world complications, I see them as a challenge and a way to practice my anti-technology problem solving skills so that I’ll be the one everyone is following when the Apocalypse occurs. Rhett was going to the airport, so he used his Uber app to get picked up. I figured that I’d hitch a ride out of the neighborhood, into downtown West Hollywood where I would at least get cell service and a coffee, and be able to asses my current situation with more mental clarity. I asked the Uber driver who came to get us, to please just drop me off at a coffee shop or something that was on the way to the airport so as to not inconvenience Rhett.
Apparently the Uber guy’s sweat that was dribbling down his bald head had drowned his brain because he was fucking retarded. He immediately gave me anxiety when he pulled the car over after we had only gone a half of a mile down the road, and started screeching, “Do you see me?! Do you see me?!” over and over again while Rhett frantically fingered his Uber app. This guy was on more cocaine than Andy Dick at a drag queen show. I choose to ignore the world of technology, mostly because of situations like this. I barely understand what apps are, so I was able to just play dumb in the backseat. The driver was having a meltdown because something in the app wasn’t working (due to the lack of reception) so he thought it would be best to stay parked in one spot and repeat the same obnoxious outcry 508 times while I stared out of the window wondering if this guy was going to a.) have an aneurysm, or b.) kidnap us and sell our organs in exchange for the $1.50 he MIGHT miss out on due to Uber malfunctions in the 90210 area. I told him that Rhett would give him a hand-job on the way to the airport if he would just continue driving the damn car. I suppose it was cruel of me to volunteer Rhett, but I was in the backseat, so it just didn’t make sense for me to be the one to perform the sexual favors for the driver.
Ten minutes and a few miles later, and it’s not fucking funny anymore, this dude is seriously freaking me out. I have no idea where we are, but I ask him to pull the car over and let me out. Both guys looked at me perplexed, but I didn’t have the mental power to explain myself, I just needed to get out of that car. So they dump me off on the sidewalk with my two suitcases and a giant backpack. I put my over-sized sunglasses on (because in LA, even if you look like a sweaty homeless girl who is carrying everything she owns down Sunset Boulevard, if you add over-sized sunglasses, it makes it chic) and began walking through the glamorous part of West Hollywood where you would find the type of celebrities whom have purse dogs and are getting brunch and sporting their over-sized sunglasses. Basically, I looked like a fucking idiot. At least now I had cell phone reception.
I called Dan and decided not to tell him about my current predicament, and instead, tell him that all was just swell and that I’d be there in an hour. I then heave my 200 pounds of luggage up the steps of “Urth Cafe,” a place that I already hated because misspelling words for the sake of marketing annoys me. Thank you Dunkin’ Donuts, now the entire world thinks that you spell doughnuts, d-o-n-u-t-s. This bougie cafe had at least 150 people in it, all wearing over-sized sunglasses, but all lacking 200 pounds of luggage. At this point I am literally laughing out loud at myself as I am trying to find a place to park my suitcase so that I can order a damn green tea before these people think that I am a bum looking for air conditioning. Actually, that is exactly what I was at the moment, but I was frantically trying to solve that problem. So I grab a business card with the address to fucking “Urth” cafe, and call a cab.
The cab driver shows up in a timely manner, and he is a chubby, friendly, little Armenian man with a lot of arm hair who I was so grateful for because anyone was better than the coke-head, organ stealing Uber driver I just experienced. The chubby Armenian informs me that I can smoke in the cab, but I explain to him that I don’t smoke. For some reason this blew his mind. Really dude? Of all of the things that I am sure you have seen as a cab driver in Hollywood, me not smoking is really the most surprising?! No one in LA smokes by the way. They all even do that pretentious thing where if you’re smoking outside, even during a goddamn wind storm, they’ll still fake cough and wave their hand in front of their nose and give you and your cigarette a dirty look as they walk by. That type of behavior actually makes me want to take up smoking.
Chubby then asked me if I’ve ever smoked an Armenian cigarette. When I said no, he seemed even more shocked at this notion, because clearly, it’s alarming that someone who doesn’t smoke in the first fucking place, has never smoked an Armenian cigarette. After turning down multiple offers to try one, I finally accepted the cigarette just to shut him the fuck up.
I drink coffee like it’s my job, so I consider myself immune to coffee caffeine, but for some reason, a single caffeinated tea feels like I just injected cocaine straight into my bloodstream. So, I was already shaking from the tea I just had at the cafe that doesn’t know how to spell Earth, and jittery from the series of events which had just transpired, and now I’m adding this damn cigarette to the mix which is only heightening my anxiety. The way Chubby was selling this thing, I was expecting it to have magical powers, or at least be laced with some hardcore narcotics that made me see Unicorns. Nope.
So Chubby drops me off at the Metro Station, and I get onto the train with relative ease. There is a nice looking black man a few seats from me who smiles sweetly and I consider for a moment asking him if he’d like to stop whatever productive task that he is in the middle of, and get a drink with me because I definitely need one. I refrain however when I realize that a.) it is only 11:30am and b.) I am currently on my way to seeing another boy whom I have already forgotten about because of this disaster of a day. I closed my eyes and pictured Dan’s cute smile and told myself that everything would be okay once I got to his house. I then opened my eyes, only to witness a schizophrenic playing with fire. One of the crazy’s on the train took out a crack lighter and was just keeping it continuously lit for absolutely no apparent reason. At first, I thought he would just flick it on and off the way that people do when they’re fidgeting. When that didn’t happen, I decided that he was going to light a bomb, so I came up with a ninja-like exit strategy in my mind, which included me and the hot black guy next to me busting out some tae-kwon-do and escaping just in the nick of time. When the bomb had still not detonated after the schizophrenic kept the hand lighter lit for a straight five minutes, I thought it best to not test my luck, and got off at the next stop even though my stop wasn’t for another few miles.
I was about to call a cab to take me to Dan’s once and for all, but decided that it was not a good idea to let him see me in my current state. After this fucking catastrophe I was definitely suffering from PTSD and determined that I needed to get a margarita, or six, to calm down and get my life together before seeing the boy whom I currently had a crush on. I knew of a nearby Mexican joint, and impressed with my memory of the LA streets, found myself walking with 200 pounds of luggage down the sidewalks of Los Angeles yet again, but this time content because I had margaritas in my near future.
I sat down and ordered a 20 ounce margarita which I drank in 17 seconds, then called a cab. The new cab picked me up and safely brought me to Dan’s house, and that is the last time that I will ever think it’s a good idea to act like an independent woman. Next time, I’ll just sleep with him so that I don’t feel bad when I need to ask for a ride.