Spanglish, Si, With A Dash Of Sex Pistol, Eh?

This weekend epitomized the paradox of living in LA. On one hand, cool, random events occurred. On the other hand, annoying, head wrecking events occurred. It is a weird buzz to be put in random, cool, surreal situations, interlinked with time wasting, money wasting, annoying scenarios. As in how many times will I get to use the line “Oh, I was just up at Robbie Williams’ place playing 5-a-side with Steve Jones, yeah, the dude from the Sex Pistols, Jonesy”. Then how many times will I be selling a bucket and be told by ten different eager people that they are on the way, cash in hand, dying to buy the bucket, hold it for me, I’m driving there now, what’s the address again, Im one street over, and none of them to show up. Cool next to plain weird and annoying. LA all the way.

So Saturday starts well. I woke up to lots of emails and texts about the truck. All of a sudden it is en vogue, people have been queuing up all night to get their hands on it, the must have item for the season. I’m surprised not to see a line of people in sleeping bags outside my door when I check outside. I email/text them all back, return calls to the ones who phoned me, give them the address, first come first serve kind of thing. Queue the lies and time wasting. I get told “I’m literally outside your house” to “I’m coming up from San Diego to buy it, hold it for me”. I think they’re genuine and not flakes, as they say here, so I think I’ll have a little bidding auction when they all come, the Bucket could make me some money. Three hours later and no sign from anyone. I fooled myself, waste of time (Weirdly one guy kept calling saying he was outside my house, could he come in, he could see me, can I see him, look he’s waving, wave back – I didn’t wave back. Well, not after the third time of waving anyways, ha).

Sick of my phone and wasting the day away, I get a text for soccer in Mulholland, English against the French, they’ve an Italian, we’ve an Irish man. So I head up with this sound dude, and on the way up he’s telling me who’s on our team, mentions some guy Jonesy a few times. Not being familiar with him from the other games, I ask who this Jonesy is. Steve Jones, do you know him? No, who is he? The dude from the Sex Pistols. Oh, right, him. I actually thought they were all dead. Seems he is doing a radio show in LA for the past few years.

So we play the match, hottest day yet since I’ve been here, absolutely in bits from carrying Jonesy all game, and he’s a big man, we lose, game over. So our team is just sitting around afterwards, small talk and rambling on as you do. Stories are being told like normal, everyday stories. (Cue some name dropping by me here, so be warned). So, I’m listening to stories about Jason, Rosie, Michelle, Cameron, Jessica, Rachel, Bob and others I can’t remember. You can guess the surnames if you like. And the stories are good, getting more interesting, funny as funk, some “Oh Jesus” moments. So, I ask who is this person in this story, who is that in that story, and get told the surnames. I pretend not to know half of them, or barely seen that movie he/she was in. Playing it cool as you do. Sometimes I let slip an old “No way, she did that, in the kitchen, with the spoon?”. Not being used to hearing revealing stories with famous actors in it that you might otherwise read and think Bob Hope that happened, its pretty cool post match banter. Probably arms and legs added on to the stories but at the time I didn’t care, interesting to hear. Then a plane crashed into the pitch.

When I get dropped off at my house I notice a guy sitting on the front step who I’d never seen before. He has a massive turban on and big long beard. When I walk by him, his accent throws me off, really really American, plus I had heard it before. He asks me if I know a guy Mork, or Eric, who lived in this building. Mark perhaps, or Merrick? Yes, thats me. He was here about the bucket. I spoke to him earlier on the phone so remembered the voice but did not imagine he looked like this. Anyways, he tells me he’s very interested in buying the truck, can we go check it out right now before it got dark. So we get in his car, and I’m back on my way to Mulholland, wrecked, thinking my idea of throwing the keys away was looking appealing now I’m so tired, but it’ll be worth it to sell the junk. We stop en route to get petrol to put in it, and away we go on the 20 minute trip there.

Great small talk ensues. My new buddy laughs at anything I say while Im half way through saying something that isn’t really funny at all (I can speak German, for example, “Oh man, that is too funny”). Its either laughing or saying you Irish must be drunk so much. For 20 long minutes. Every minute, one or the other, interrupting all the interesting, funny things I have to say. So we get to the Bucket, put the petrol in, doesn’t start up again, I’m ready to try and smash the thing apart. Not that I could but its the most head wrecking purchase I’ve ever bought. My new buddy convinces me we’ll get one more tank of petrol and it’ll start up, these things need a lot of gas man, were you drunk driving this man? Oh that is too funny, I know you were, the Irish must be drunk all the time!!! For some reason he wont accept the fact I’m telling him the gas gauge is bust so I tell him what he wants to hear and mention how I drank all the poteen.

At this stage I’m sick to death of everything related to the truck. Don’t care about selling it, don’t care about putting more petrol in, don’t care if I’ve wasted all this time and money on it for nothing, just take me home, my back is killing me from Jonesy!!! However, my new bud convinces me one more tank will do the trick. I don’t have the energy anymore to argue. So we drive all the way to the closest petrol station, which is about a 2 minute drive away from my house. One more tank will do the trick. It doesn’t, obviously, it couldn’t be as easy as that. So I ask him to bring me home, I’ve had enough, its been almost two hours since he picked me up. I’ve been back and forth going on six times today. On the way home it all gets a bit weird. First he keeps dropping hints about how much petrol he’s using up, I should really give him money towards it, I’m only joking, I’m using so much gas though man, did you drink it? Are you drunk on my gas right now? Oh man, that is too funny! If these little sayings are annoying you now, imagine two fun filled hours of it. 

Then my new buddy asks who do I live with, looks like its a nice place, can he come see it? I stupidly tell him I live with two girls, it is a nice place. Oh man, the four of us should go out together tonight. or I should come to yours and we drink with them, see what happens. Emmm, as appealing as it sounds, I’ll pass. As we drive past the Viper Room…we should go there tonight man, would be you be interested? Every bar we drive past is the same, I pretend to be falling asleep and didn’t hear him. There are only so many places I can tell him I’ve been once and never, ever, ever want to go back again. I realize then he must want a friend. He never actually seemed interested in buying the truck looking back at it. Oh Jesus, not even I have stooped this low for a wing man. We get outside my house, I make him pull up two buildings down hoping he wouldn’t notice. He does. Asks could he come back in and wash his hands and face, meet my roommates, perhaps. I throw him a tenner for petrol, car still rolling slowly, tell him he cant, we’ve painters in, painting the whole place, looks awful, wouldn’t want guests around, another time.

The look of dejection was not hard to get over. It was also a nutter look he gave me. Fairly freaked and tired I decided to lay low for the night. I’ve gotten a good few texts and emails since. Can he just have the truck for free? Can he take all the parts he wants off it? Can he call over for a beer? What am I doing tonight? Did I get his voicemail? Sweet Lord, its the cable guy.

Sunday starts more promising. I get woken up by a guy ringing me saying he’s on my street, could I show him the truck. I go outside and he’s actually there, with his wife, its legit. I give a quick look for the cable guy, no sign of him in the bushes. We go back to the truck(I could drive there blindfolded now I’d say), get in, starts up perfectly, the Love Truck is back. We take it for a drive, going well, swing it around in my buddy’s driveway on Mulholland if you like, ha, ape. He says he’ll mull it over, get back to me tomorrow about it. I don’t really mind now, the Bucket is back running, at least I can get it back outside my house. 

When I pull up outside my house, there are two little Mexican chaps waving me down. I pull in, and somehow figure out they’re here to look at the truck. I also figure out quite quickly that they can speak almost no English, one guy can say truck and three, the other can just look at me grumpily, as if he wouldn’t mind shooting me for some reason. Also, I have no Spanish except “Que, si, noo, Rauuuuuul” and some chat up line which I don’t even think makes sense any more. So for the next few minutes the grumpy dude checks the car out while I have a good, free-flowing conversation with the other guy. So do you want to buy the truck? “Si, 3″. Ok, pardon, 3 which? 3 hundred? “Noo, 3″. Ok, 3 what? “Eh” Si? “Eh?” What the funk, and why does the grumpy dude hate me and keep throwing me dagger looks. I try to speak German to him for an unknown, hopeful reason. Nothing. Irish perhaps? A phrase or two of French? My Spanish chat-up line? None of the above work. I tell him I’ll take 300 dollars for it. All I get back is “ehh?”. And then they just walk away, get into their car and drive off. That was the last bit of haggling they did…”Ehh?”. If he had said si I would’ve probably given it to him for 200.

I give up on selling it today, at least people were showing up, still wasting my time, but in the flesh at least. I go to play soccer downtown again then tonight. We’re playing a team of all Mexicans, a few don’t seem to like me either, elbows thrown, 4-1 down, we win 5-4. Horrific game but at least we won. And its clear that the gays might like me, but the Mexicans don’t. 

I get home about 9.30, see I’ve a missed call and a message saying a guy is on his way to look at the truck. And he actually shows up on time. And is sound. And wants to come back in the morning and buy it for $400(wants to bring his wife in the morning so she can drive his car back for him). And he actually seems genuine. But its not sold yet. Close though. And, weirdly enough, I think he was Mexican and not gay. And we got on well. Pretty weird, pre-tty weird.

After writing this horrendously long post Ive realised very few cool things actually happened. A few did. A lot of annoying things happened. And then just weird things too. Unfortunately not one acting related incident. At least now though, I know who I have to sleep with to get a break, just like…did, and like…did for a good while, and who likes a spoon where in the kitchen??!! Ha. Duu.

Here’s a great song for the day…You Only Live Once by The Strokes [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UfA3Jyl4_Gg]

Tags: LA, Spanglish, The Bucket