Tag Archives: london

Bachelorette Recap: Week Five

Had the Bachelorette existed in the 1700s (apparently just after Filibuster believes Shakespeare was writing, sweet Jesus), our forefathers would have had it so much easier.  There is no way after seeing the travelling shitshow we call “entertainment” that they’d have fought so long and hard to retain the colonies.  I mean, truly, after watching this group tour London I am positive, the Redcoats wouldn’t have been coming, they’d be leaving.

The hardest part for me about this episode, besides everything that happened during it, was listening to Lady Veneers pretend to give a shit about London and recite the same 3 lines about William and Kate getting married.  Look.  London is one of my favorite cities.  They managed to shoot there on the 5 days a year it is not grey and foreboding.  That was misleading because while London’s foggy gloom usually foreshadows a wicked hangover for wild bucks like me, in this case it would serve a fair warning to Lady Veneers:  THIS IS NOT GOING TO END WELL FOR YOU.

We had to be spoon fed our obligatory watch Chompers and Child play on a hotel bed scene.  It was great.  We learned Ricki, despite being what, like six, still thinks dragons live in Buckingham Palace.  I don’t want to be hard on this girl, but isn’t six like a first grader?  Or almost one?  By first grade I understood the rules of baseball and am pretty sure I had no expectation that a fucking dragon was flying out of the Getty Villa.  This is what you get when your rich child has a 1700 sq. ft. bedroom and you let her watch Game of Thrones.  She probably thinks her mother is Khaleesi.

Anyway, the dates got rolling with some steamy ABC After School Special sightseeing with Strawberry Lemonade who was so excited to be in London they made him pack three pairs of “knickers” in case he got too excited.  Which he did on the double decker bus.

What immediately was offputting was the fact that Lady Veneers was clearly sick and had a frog in her throat.  This was mildly disturbing given the fact ABC went out of their way to show that it was possibly Lady Veneers was, in fact, having a torrid affair with Kermit the Frog.  A “frog in her throat”?  Chris Harrison, you pervert!  Emily is from North Carolina now and if there’s anything we learned in their last election, it is that marriage is between a man and a woman there.  Man and a frog?  Do you realize what kind of scrutiny you have put Chompers in?  How will Ricki Bobbi go to school and learn that dragons don’t live in Buckingham Palace (also the name of a Raleigh-Durham strip club) if she is constantly ridiculed for having an amphibisexual mother?  Why ruin the life of someone with such perfectly fake horse teeth?  They take marriage WAY SERIOUS in North Carolina.

I am kidding.  I support all marriages, even the 50% of them that fail.  Or 99% of them if they were formed on this television show.

Anyway, I wish I had more to say about Strawberry Blonde’s date, but he is so boring I want to find the dragon in Buckingham Palace and wear armor made of bacon in hopes I was set ablaze, eaten and sparred the obligatory “can I kiss you” move that everyone does with Chompers.  Is this because she is so hot that guys are freaked out just to let it rip?  Is this because she is from West Virginia and they based the film Deliverance on there and they are afraid she will lure them back woods and Ned Beatty them?  Is it just because with teeth so powerful you want to make sure she’s not chewing gum and creating the potential to have your face chewed off in light of the zombie apocalypse bath salt talk that’s been going around the east coast?

Nope.  It’s just because these guys are weak sauce and there has been one fucking helicopter so far and it is week five.  All of you apologize to Ben Flajnik right now who took helicopters JUST TO GET TO the helicopter he was going to use to go somewhere extreme.

When they made him say London is calling and then played a rip off too-cheap-to-buy-a-license version of the Clash’s “London Calling” a little part of me died and my wife and I spent forty minutes burying it in the yard.  Our neighbors love us.

They rode a double decker bus [fart noise].  They took a picture in front of a soldier [wet fart noise].  Then they had Strawberry Blonde give a speech about love where he sounded like Atticus Finch’s mentally challenged inbred donkey child.  Like, he was speaking like a lawyer-reverend-3rd grade speech class student.  And what the fuck was he even saying?

So you know what my wife deals with, I would have gotten up there and just read the beginning of “Trainspotting” (even though they weren’t British) while randomly nodding my head and flicking people off.  At the end I would have thrown someone’s digital camera over the fence behind me and than ran the opposite direction singing Girl From Ipanema.  Yes I’ll accept that rose, obviously.  You never expect the Muppets.

They kept trying to say London is romantic.  It isn’t.  It’s an amazing city, but it’s a city where they will give you Yorkshire pudding with beef jus in it while you are drinking heavy ale in a pub you can smoke in.  If you go out all day in London and blow your nose, it’s got soot in it.  Cops fight drunks in London over their pint which they have just walked into traffic carrying.  London plays for keeps.  It doesn’t play for romance.

Proof?  You went on a date to the Tower of London.  All that tour is about are dudes called Beefeaters (hilarious) telling you that you need to tip your executioner a lot so he cuts your head off in one fell swoop as many prisoners suffered a grisly death of like ten blows before the head came off.  If you have been to London on this tour, you know that it is just all about gross out stories.

So yeah, let’s go inside, eat food shipped in from an organic restaurant in La Jolla and talk about how many kids we want.  And what better place to talk about how many kids you want than the Tower of London in romantic…London.

And how about that?  Emily.  These dudes will make babies with you.  If you don’t quit asking, the porn music will start and you will have to put your money where your mouth is and conceive these kids.  Hell, you want so many kids, just have one with each of the top five and then marry the one who has the best DNA (or at least the one you think can get Ricki off thinking dragons exist).

He gets a rose, I went and got a scotch.

Group date was more England racism.  Let’s go perform a bunch of Shakespeare again.  The Talented Mr. Lipstick was legit creepy the whole time.  He took it really seriously, when the correct answer was this:

Which of my readers would not fall in love me with if in England in front of a bunch of hard core thespians who take shit way too seriously I just did a scene from Billy Madison and played BOTH Adam Sandler and that other guy?  Wait, you are all in love with me already?  Yes, I accept that rose and no it’s not hard to be so humble.

Filibuster grew back the Seneca Wallace and perved out hard when he got to kiss Chompers.  Speed Racer kept getting a red face and every girl everywhere was all like “awwwww”.  Seriously, from my California home it sounded like there was a cat genocide.  Get over yourselves.  Egg Guy was fine, but like I still just don’t have a name for him and whatever [fart noise].

The only other note was Kalon telling Chompers to “run along” so he could practice and America was outraged at the fact this douchebag was still a douchebag. DUN DUN DAH!

Also, Emily responded by saying “this isn’t Broadway” and I am thinking, Jesus ABC, you got her to memorize all this other shit about London but you couldn’t get her to say West End instead of Broadway?  England like invented the play.  THEY WERE IN ENGLAND DOING A PLAY FOR A DATE BECAUSE ENGLAND IS SO FUCKING THEATERY.  Just because Veneers is boring and her daughter still believes in dragons doesn’t mean you get to phone it in and not give us helicopters or fact checking.  I mean, shit.  In Belize they were like explaining the top exports and gross national product over a ten year span.  GET IT RIGHT.

Then, in more English racism and because Harrison had to go pick up some Diana Ross (they call cocaine that there sometimes, especially if you look dumb and American, are on Spring Break lost in the West End after your mother bought you tickets to see Lion King and you drank a lot of tequila in a weird bomb shelter bar right before curtains up), they went to a pub for a pint.  Derp.

That’s when the fireworks started because Talented Mr. Lipstick called Ricki baggage, and in fairness, who wants to tell a kid dragons are only on Game of Thrones.  Dad decided to throw him under the bus and then Filibuster stood up and was all “that was not a cool thing to say” and the pile on began.  Lipstick was defenseless.

Lady Veneers said she was gonna go West Virginia, hoodrat, backwoods on him, only then she let Doug do the hard work.  I don’t think she knows what West Virginia, hoodrat, backwoods is, because again, it’s Deliverance.  It’s a deformed kid playing a banjo.  It’s “squeal piggy” (please don’t see the movie if you can’t handle rape, Burt Reynolds or both).  It’s not kicking a man in a women’s sweater out of a pub to leave England in a minivan.

Filibuster bought Emily a present and what was hilarious was she totally started coming around to him, proving my point that to be on this show you need to be the kind of girl that can be bought off by jewelry and 11th grade football player game.  “I’m gonna ignore your beard shape and the fact you are a walking erection and just accept this gift because it would go great with this racerback I just bought”.  Seems like only yesterday he was writing her 7th grade poetry and calling her a future fat chick.  I love Filibuster so much.

The worst part of this date was that Emily, who apparently wants a man’s  man, expected all these guys to puke and tell her what Kalon had said.  A man’s man doesn’t puke.  He gets a guy like One Direction to puke and then says “I was gonna tell you but he beat me to it”.  Emily is creating a house full of super whiner assholes out of a house of whiner assholes.

Next date was One Direction who was wearing a suit right off the Bonobos catalogue.  How did he pack for this trip?  He had casual high sock Bermuda wear for last week.  Now, he is ready to go riding in case the show’s British racism lead to a spontaneous polo match.

They went to an etiquette class that was just a failed experiment.  Jef was fine.  Emily was sick and bored and just for good measure, they faked it like they ran out.  The lady came back in doing her best Hogwarts professor “WHERE ON EARTH DID THEY GO”.  Speaking of which, anyone else feel like HBO has been playing Deathly Hallows Part Two on repeat for a month now?  It’s the new “Call Me Maybe” which was the new “Levels”.

They left to… GO TO A PUB.  Again.

Jef ordered two pints and a fish and chips.  Racist.  (I know this is not racism, but nationalisticisimsmsm, but let’s be honest, I don’t remember what I just wrote.  You never expect the Muppets and on a scale of one to ten…  Dragons).  Look, fish and chips is fine.  I get it.  But two “pints”.  This is like ordering two “glasses” at a bar in the use.  A pint of what One Direction?  Tartar sauce?  Urine?  Oh, beer?  Got it.  Pick one.  We have 200 on tap because it’s England.

Then, super fun, One Direction says something about a Chloe handbag.  I do not claim to be an alpha male (alpha males don’t need to claim anything, we built this city on rock and roll).  I mean, look, I lived in Beverly Hills and am aware of ladies’ brands and the basics of couture.  My Chuck Taylors are made by John Varvatos.  I mean, I am kind of a dick.  The thing is, I didn’t know what a Chloe bag was.  Now I do and I know one thing:  Jef shouldn’t know about it.  He also said like “a Chloe handbag you’d want to keep forever”.  I always thought Jef was just a mellow slow roller, but maybe he’s just super into fashion or maybe, like Emily, he is into Kermit the Frog too.  Like, he’s not a Miss Piggy kind of guy, but I bet he knows what purse she wants.

Yeesh.  Emily was won over by Filibuster’s dumb necklace, so Jef might be the new Ames.  One Direction seems wrong.  Both Directions, probably.  Good for him.  That’s so not Salt Lake City and I dig it.

They then went in the London Eye, talked a bunch about nothing and it was boring.  Jef did however say he would have non-stop all night dance parties with Ricki in Salt Lake City which sounds terrible, just like Salt Lake City.  [fart noise].

Then, like everyone else, he asked to kiss her, but at least wasn’t gross about it like Speed Racer, who leads with more tongue than an ear, nose and throat doctor.

Cocktail party, Chompers just interrogates everyone as to why on earth they wouldn’t sell out a guy who would never ever win.  Filibuster continues his headfuck by just doing the thespian thing AGAIN, but it works and now Emily can be bought by jewelry or the even more timeless male tactic of “be a dick, then be nice, rinse and fucking repeat”.  Thanks Agoura High School for teaching me everything I needed to know to cover bad reality television.

In the end, having only to do with the fact he was the last non white dude on the show, Alelelelejando was booted.  Forget the fact this guy was gonna be a banker.  Forget the fact that the “mushroom farmer” as ABC calls it actually invented a way to grow gourmet mushrooms out of recycled coffee grounds which he has sold to Chez Panisse and Whole Foods and got a grant from Berkeley.  Emily likes white dudes with Seneca Crane beards that bribe her and treat her like shit.  And will lie to Ricki about the existence of dragons.

Off to Croatia.

Couple things…

FIRST.  A BIG ASS HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO KAARIN O. AND HER LOST ANGELES FANS WRITING FROM SEATTLE.  Seriously, I hope this birthday feels better than a helicopter ride in the Alps.

SECOND.  At the urging of many of my readers and now a few of my friends, I am going to do some advice posts.  Send me an email at lostangelesblog [at] gmail [dot] com and ask me your question.  I’ll hide your real name, all that jazz, but I will also solve your problems.  Want to Filibuster?  I can help.  Want to STOP A FILIBUSTER?  That too.  Send me some emails and I will post more content and probably save your world.  All I ask is that you name your kid Zack (boy or girl, don’t care) and buy them a hot ride when they turn 16 so they get some hot dates.

LASTLY-  FOLLOW ME.  My tweets are legend.  Instagram is now heating up.  Facebook fan page gets extra content.  Keep an eye out for me on ConnecTV, I’ll be doing some live chat on Tuesdays.  Google them to learn more.



Filed under Bachelor/Bachelorette

Fear and Loathing in Los Angeles.


So many changes so quickly.  Strange almost, the impermanence of everything.  If you imagine life being lived at high speed, almost like in fast forward, the planetary motion of a lifetime would have you being everywhere and nowhere all at once.  We are frighteningly impermanent.

My apartment is a bit caustic now as I am marveling at all my self-imposed training, sleeping on couches to fit in as much interaction and noise as is humanly possible.  I am learning once again to be uncomfortable.

I think back with eyes squinted shut.

Memories of the deep thick woods in New Jersey that lit up with lightning.  The wet brown forest floor packed with red and orange leaves that found their way into the treads of my shoes.  The empty bottles and remnants of some mysterious culture of people who spent long hours in these woods hiding.  The feeling of being watched and the short distance of my 9 year old gait.


I think about the wind storms in Texas and the hugeness of the sky there.  So big you could almost feel the curve of the Earth and know that the world you lived in was actually a circle.  To stand under it was to know how small you really were.  The ghostly pale light of the high school football cathedrals and the quiet loudness they made in the distance.


Plans, business, neighborhoods and recreation. A night in West Hollywood, an early morning walk in Roxbury Park.  Sitting on the floor of an empty apartment in Beverly Hills.  Climbing rooftops in Toluca Lake and stealing fruit from gardens.  Hotel lobby in Universal City.  A drug store on Olympic.  An empty office in Brentwood.  A strip mall in Agoura, a dock in Westlake.

Life slows down into a slideshow.  I know a lot is going to change so I am taking pictures with my eyes.  I cannot stop myself from looking backwards.  I have always been too nostalgic.


The white frosted dome above the south side of Chicago.  Before my grandparents passed, before they moved to California, they still lived in the home they made after the war.  The salt on the roads and the slush on the curbs.  The endless backyards and the patches of crab grass.  Trips to the Lincoln Mall breathing in second hand smoke from Grandpa’s Portofino Macanudos.  The tobacconist handing me jars of pipe tobacco to smell.  Eating ice cream that felt warmer than the air outside.  Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen against Magic and Larry Bird and John Stockton and Robert Parish.  The oddly colored basement.


Sabino Canyon at sunrise in Tucson just before Christmas.  It’s raining and I am cold.  Brief, wild explosions of sunlight doing battle with pouring clouds elbowing their way through Bear Canyon.  Wind whipping my face as it gathers itself on the long road leading into the canyon’s entrails.  Climbing a picnic table on the bank of the river being driven into a frenzy with rainfall.  I stand on the bank and watch in a full downpour.  The noise and the energy in my muscles.  I am alive.  I am so glad I am alive to see this.  My life, so much fuller than it once was.  Someone had left the light on in me.


Seattle with a girl I just fell in love with.  It’s our first trip together.  We’re going to see a movie I made at a film festival.  The theater is old and they let us drink beer inside.  We are so young.  People ask me questions about why I wrote certain things.  I am not used to people caring.


There is a bar deep underground and it is lit by candles.  The air in the Northwest is amazing.  There is a wall covered in gum and I smoke a cigarette by it.  There is a bar in Belltown with a fire escape.  We climb out to the balcony and look at the water, dark and expansive.  Kids are in the alley below.  We hold hands.  We still do.


My Mom takes me to the city.  I have a day off school.  My father is working at 30 Rock.  I love the neon signs and the echoes of car horns off the buildings.  I cannot sit still in the Bonneville crossing the GW.  I can see the Twin Towers.  I can see lots of things a little boy can’t believe exist.  My Dad smells like Old Spice.  My Mom goes to shop at the nice stores on 5th Avenue and my Dad tells his co-workers in the hall we are going on a “business” lunch.  I am excited and take it seriously.  I want to be just like him.  We eat at a deli.  He takes me to FAO Schwartz.  I don’t even want a toy.  I just walk around for an hour wild-eyed at the possibility that places like this exist.  I ask Dad if I can work there when I am an adult.  He assures me I can.  I ask when that will be.  He tells me I am a little boy, soon I’ll be a middle boy, then I will be a dreaded teenager.  I ask if my brothers are dreaded teenagers.  They are.  We get a street pretzel and walk through the muddy snow back to his office.  The Christmas tree is already lit on the ice skating rink.


I live downtown.  I am alone on the balcony and I have been drinking and writing in a notepad with black ink.  The city is freakishly silent.  A helicopter cuts the silence and pulls up next to an adjacent skyscraper.  It opens fire in a wild show of flashing bursts and loud noises.  Glass explodes.  It is 4am and Los Angeles is under attack.  The director yells cut.  Lights come on.  It is all for a film.  I need to walk.  I explore the hotels of downtown and finish my whiskey.  I am warm and carefree and alone.  I go to the pantry and eat toast and write.  I am just a boy in a room in a city on the planet.


I am wandering London.  I have just had a beer confiscated by a policeman.  A man asks me if I want drugs by asking me “Bob Marley?  Diana Ross?”  A girl asks me if I am Irish.  I tell her no.  I think she just wants to talk to me.  She has studied in San Francisco.  She and her friend invite me back to their flat in Green Park and we listen to music I have never heard.  They all smoke Marlboro Reds and drink Budweiser.  It puts all the Heineken we used to drink in perspective.  They are good people.  This is my city.  It is the only place that seems to understand me.  We run about Trafalgar Square at night, wild beasts in the moonlight playing chicken with the Tube schedule and the last train on the Bakerloo line back.  There is a DJ spinning somewhere beneath a Dutch pub and we all decide to go.  Someone hands me a Yorkshire pudding with au jus in it.  I cannot believe you can simply order bread with beef juice in it.  I look very American to them, but I think they like it.  A man from Stockholm tells me America brought 9/11 on ourselves but that he was sorry about it.  I shove him into the bar and tell him sorry for spilling his beer.  I get dragged out of the bar.  Anarchy in the UK.


We arrive in Eugene at 4am.  No idea why we are heading north for Spring Break.  Maybe a Thompsonian quest for the American Dream or to see the Bob Dylan exhibit at the EMP.  We walk around campus and stop to smoke a cigarette in a graveyard.  There is a strange light flickering.  We are talking about how we were almost arrested on the way up from San Francisco.  Long story.  The light keeps flashing.  It begins to move.  We decide to run.  In the morning after a strange night at a local motel, we return to the cemetery.  The gravekeeper has a clef palette and is smoking a cigarette.  He stares at us, ominously, coldly.  The light was his cigarette.  We were being watched.


Why would a person look back so much.  Nostalgia always hurts.  Perhaps it’s just a need to be ready to put the next foot forward, knowing the ground will be sturdy.  Endings and beginnings, being a human.  Hellos and goodbyes.  Yes and no.  North, south, east and west.  Eight million people thinking the same things in the same city with thoughts connecting us all back through decades to every corner of this giant lonely planet.  In that infinite loneliness is bred the unfathomably similarities between even the most dissimilar people around.  It is in those similarities that we are never alone and perhaps lonely moments are best viewed as quiet personal soliloquies where you stick a pin in your personal map and know exactly where you are at.

I am sick to my stomach in a good way.  My mom once showed me a painting that said ‘most people don’t know that there are some angels who’s only job is to make sure you don’t get too comfortable and miss your life.’  These angels are my roommates right now.

It’s a new movie, new characters, new adventures.  But the coming attractions have been amazing.

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Filed under Rants and Musings, Whiskey Drinking Stupidity