Los Angeles Adventures Part 1 – Gold Member meets Iron Mike, Those Fucking Tourists, and Revenge Of The Nerds Number M3
I got on the Metro at Rosa Parks station in LA. I was wearing a brown plaid hat, white skinny jeans and a shining gold American Apparel windbreaker.
“Damn!” said an African-American lady. “That is one mean hat!”
“Why, thank you.”
“Hey man,” said the guy next to me on the train. “Is that… Mike Tyson?” About ten metres away was a six foot tall black man, with a blurry monochrome tattoo under his right eye, wearing a suit and a fedora. Attached to him was a pretty, trashy, blonde white girl.
“If Mike Tyson rode the Metro -”
“He just might.”
“- he probably would look exactly like that.”
“Yes, he would. But no, I don’t think it is him. I wouldn’t have cared if it were anyone else, but damn. Iron Mike was my idol.”
Maybe the guy was a pimp.
As I got off on Hollywood Boulevard, a large Mexican blocked my way and said “That is wan preetty jacket man,” in the creepiest way possible.
“Thanks bro!” I said as I darted off.
The hostel was just across the Boulevard. Funny how our accomodation had gotten progressively worse over the trip. First we stayed in a hotel with a roller-coaster on top – it doesn’t get much better than that.
Then we were in adjacent rooms in a budget motel fit for criminals.
Then in a shared room in a hotel filled with asbestos.
Now we were staying in a room with a Canadian metalhead with toxic foot odour.
“Do me a favour man,” said Mr. Foot to Aster as he woke from his slumber and stumbled out. “Don’t steal any of my stuff.”
The hostel was filled with the usual suspects. A couple of cute Germans. A few stinky Geordies. A handful of Canadians.
“You know, there’s one thing that really pisses me off,” said Aster. “People travel halfway around the world, then they buy booze and sit in the hostel watching movies.”
“Yeah. You may as well just stay in a hostel in your own city for a holiday.” Fucking tourists.
We went out to the Saddle Ranch that night. It has a mechanical bull in a fenced off area near the front, a bunch of tables placed hap-hazardly around it, and a large circle bar that makes the place annoying to move in. A girl got up to ride the bull. She kept re-adjusting her shirt.
“Her tits are going to pop out for sure,” said Aster.
I got my camera ready just in case. She gave the bull a fair crack, forty seconds or so, then got bucked. The girls did not make an appearance.
We went across the road to the Standard. The Standard is a small-ish cocktail-ish bar, with a hammock in it. There were only about fifteen girls in there, but it had a great ratio, and good quality. And three or four conspicuously dressed, slightly nerdy looking guys in the corner. Mystery Method guys.
For those of you that don’t know, Mystery Method is a nine step method for getting girls, broken down for logically-minded nerds that are trying to “crack the code”, and execute the correct moves in the correct sequence, in order to get the correct outcum. Nowadays, I think the whole thing is kind of silly, but there’s some truth to it.
One of them was standing next to me and said “Hey man, you should dance with some of these girls to shake things up a bit.”
I said “That’s a great idea!” A tall blonde had just walked in. I grabbed her by the hands and lead her to the dancefloor.
“No! What are you doing??”
“I’m taking you to dance with me!”
“No haha! You can’t do that!”
“Sure I can, it’s just a two-step.”
“Hahha I have to hang out with my friends!”
“I don’t care!” I said, with a huge grin on my face.
Pretty soon she was dancing with me.
Meanwhile, the Mystery chodes were standing there saying to Aster “What??? Wait… What?? How is he doing that??? I never read about that in the Mystery Method Venusian Arts Handbook. This doesn’t compute! This doesn’t fit into the M3 model!? How is this possible???” I guess there’s some things that you just can’t learn in books. Like having balls.
To be fair though, the Mystery guys were pretty cool. When they grabbed their sacks, they even talked to some girls, and it went well.
I got the girl’s phone number, then she left for another club. I started talking to this other blonde, and about two minutes in, she asked for my phone number. She said she’s having a pool party and wants me and my friends to come. I said sure, why not, and gave her my number. Then she walked off. I couldn’t help but feel like something weird just happened, like she was playing a joke on me or something. I had the address of her party though.
Then we left the club.
I tried to pull a girl back to her hotel room by walking in the elevator with her, but it didn’t work out.
We went to Denny’s. I ordered a white chocolate cheesecake thickshake. Then we went back to the hostel.
The Geordies were in front of the TV watching Rush Hour 2. We went to bed.
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