L.A. Sexcapades

One of the advantages to living in an apartment complex is getting to know the folks around you in a neighborly way. In Los Angeles, befriending your neighbors is not a reality. Instead you pass each other in the halls never quite sure if they live there or if they’re just visiting. You’ve all had that moment where you enter your building and someone quickly follows after you – and then you wonder if you’ve just let in a murderer and if your neighbor’s going to end up dead because of you. Then you go towards your place in a quickened pace because you know you could just as easily be killed by the shady man you’ve just welcomed to murder you.

Anyway last night I went to sleep around 1 am and there were plenty of people up and about. That’s another thing about living in a row of apartment complexes – the inability to mask out noise of neighbors from other buildings, or homeless people digging for recyclables in the alley. If people decide to be loud and your asshole neighbor doesn’t decide to yell obscenities out the window, you have to deal with it. So if people are blasting R&B and hip hop music, you have to train yourself to fall asleep even though it’s impossible. And if you’re trying to drown out the music and you start hearing moaning and screams of excitement, you start thinking, is that really happening? Then you’re left trying to drown out sex noises, but at the same time in between the bass of the really terrible R&B, you end up listening to your neighbors having sex. And this isn’t the first time. Apparently, somewhere near me is a very passionate woman and I hope to God it’s not the older one with frizzy hair because that would just be disturbing.
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When you’re trying to pick someone up, don’t talk about socialism

So I was down at the pub yesterday watching the football.  I’m not really a sports fan but the World Cup is exciting.  After both the US and Australia bit it, I decided to root for France.  Eh.  Why not?  I speak French and I’m uncomfortable rooting for England while living in Scotland (not that it matters anymore since they’re out).  Zidane is a good player and France are sort of a long shot since they’re all so old.  So it was France and Brazil for a place in the semi-finals. 

Anyway, there was a man staring at me from the bar.  He was cute.  He smiled.  I smiled back.  I got up to go get us more drinks.  The pub was full of French people singing and screaming (Allez!  Allez les bleus!  Allez!) so I had to squeeze past him to get to the bar.  In the process, I managed to look up at him while he was smiling at me.  Oh.  Cute.  Ok.  So I order my two ciders and a coke from the bartender and while I’m waiting he starts to chat with me.

“I see you’re rooting for France.”

“Yeah.  Er.  What?” I say.  How did he know?

“You keep cheering for them.  Loudly.”

“Oh, yes.  That.  I er…yes.  Allez les bleus and all that.”

“Are you French?”

“No I’m…no, I speak French though.  And the US are out.  Er.  I don’t really know anything about football.”

“Oh,” he said.

I then proceed to launch into a long-winded tirade about Americans not liking football and don’t blame us because we’re so far away from anything else and well, not all of us are so bad, take me for instance, I’m okay and all my American friends in St Andrews are pretty cool, although it has to be said most of the Americans in St Andrews are not cool, not really, of course most of them are rich, though I’m not a class warrior or anything, although I am kind of a socialist which I suppose does make me a class warrior, kind of in the most traditional sense of wanting to fight a class-based war, but I don’t hate people because they’re rich.

“Oh,” he said politely.  I took my drinks and went back to my seat with my friends.

Needless to say, I did not get his number.Â