Saturday, mar. 15, 2008 | 0 comments
This was originally an emailed response to glorious Spike's query re: any exciting Los Angeles stories?
was once quasi-molested by Seymour Cassel (apparently some cultural icon that I am totally unfamiliar with but whose name impresses some). Here's what happened (gather 'round kiddies): I was taking a break from clearing the Starbucks post-morning-rush pile-up of non-fat berry muffin wrappers and paper cups lined with decaf mocha scum, lying with stomach and facial cheek on the counter (it was the end of my shift and I was feeling the typical 10-more-minutes-oh-my-god-i'm not going-to-make-it food service dismay). Suddenly Seymour (is that a song title? the name of a band straight outta the UK?), who was a terrifyingly regular regular, hung out ALL THE TIME for hours on end making lewd comments to all the young, hopped up on coffee cuties, lay down on top of me. Had I not been wearing my requisite tan trousers, white button down shirt and barista apron, and he not wearing his "did I mention I'm an actor" outfit, we would have been fucking like dogs. I froze, then screamed "ewwwechhh" and jumped up. He laughed, my back burned with revulsion (did I mention he's, like 1000 years old?), and that was that.
Let's see. That wasn't all that exciting. I am now tense over the three un-eventful years that I pissed away in the City of Angels.
I was in the big LA earthquake. As well as the SF one...the former being way worse--there's nothing like waking up from a dead sleep at 4:17am to find your entire house behaving like a loosie-goosy train screaming through a tunnel. Scared the crapshitfuck outta me. I ran around in circles, screaming "the power's out, I can't turn on the lights, go turn on the TV to see what's wrong"...my roommate had his millionaire heiress girlfriend out from New York, who was crazy like only those kind of over-monied types can be, and she actually fainted a la Gone With the Wind. So, he was running around looking for smelling salts or something while my other roommate decided, seconds after the quake, while we were surfing aftershock after aftershock and in the pitch black, that we needed to start cleaning up the broken bottles of honey, Grand Marnier, and Channel #5 (shattered all over the kitchen and bathroom). She ran around with a dustpan, screaming that she wasn't going to clean up the whole mess by herself, and I stood, dumbfounded, in front of the television, punching the "on" button over and over, uncertain what to do with my conduit to the world severed.
I was also around for those fires in Malibu. And the ones in Oakland. I am a disaster magnet, both personally and globally.