Bosby Tune of the Day: "People, Turn Around" by Delta Spirit

D List Actor Steals Girl From Bosby

Temping at new companies is always filled with awkward interactions and moments. You don't know who anybody is, and they could care less about you.  The president of the company could walk through the front door and you wouldn't know it.  I'm used to this and have learned to take any semblance of anxiety out of the equation.  I'm an even keeled machine that exchanges pleasantries with the new daily coworkers while going about my mundane tasks.  Still, even I must admit that it is terribly awkward when it is someone in the office's birthday.  Today was yet another birthday for someone I've spoken maybe six words to.  Still, everybody invites me into the conference room to sing happy birthday.  I forgot the guy's name so it's (Sing:) "Happy Birthday dear ... Larry?"  I choke down some chocolate cake (I hate chocolate) to seem polite and return to my desk to do online crossword puzzles for eight hours.

Now, about the title of this post.  First let me explain that in LA it is exceedingly difficult to find a girl to date.  I say this because for someone like me who is 23 years old and looks like he's 18, it's difficult for most women to see me as a viable option.  You see Los Angeles is a much older crowd than say Boston or New York.  The average age for women at a bar is low to mid thirties.  As a result nearly every woman I've hooked up with since coming out here has been about 34.  Still, 34 in LA looks like 24 nearly anywhere else.  I've had my run-ins and hook-ups with women with kids, and even one that was married.  Now if going older is not your style, there's always the UCLA and USC idiots, but they rarely stray from the frat parties on campus.

With all that said, last night I finally met a girl who I was digging and seemed to be about my age.  She was a damsel in distress, waiting at the valet stand in the empty parking garage.  We strike up a conversation while the valet is M.I.A.  She's freaking out that she doesn't have any cash to tip the valet.  I give her a few dollars....WAIT A MINUTE....I'm making this sound like she's a prostitute.  But trust me it was one of those rare guy meets girl scenarios that only takes place in movies.  I mean come on, how many guys and girls get together after meeting for the first time in a parking garage?  So we're talking.  I'm making jokes.  She's laughing.  She seems generally into me when....

...this guy creeps out from the shadows of some silver minivan.  His name is Page Kennedy and he's an actor you may recognize from Weeds, Blue Mountain State, and Leprechaun 2: Back to da Hood.  He literally steps right in between us and starts telling her how good she looks.  She says, "Don't I recognize you?"  And with that it's over for me.  He starts going into his whole, "Well I'm an actor..." spiel.  The valet pulls up with my car and away I ride. I check the rear view to watch her try and squirm away from this overly aggressive burnt out of an actor.  What was he doing in an empty parking garage anyway?  Is that where he picks up girls?  People always ask me if I run into celebrities in LA.  My answer is always that running into celebrities in LA is like running into someone from your high school in your hometown.  You might think "O hey!, that's so-and-so" but you would never freak out and start harassing them.  Still, I've also learned that the actors at the bottom of the totem pole or just as sleazy as every other wanna be creeping in the Hollywood bar scene.  I've even seen Jeremy Piven get rejected by four girls in a row and then duck out the back door.  In the end I was a bitch and should of tried to get the girl's number.  But hey how could I compete with "Twizzle" from In the Mix?

Bosby Tune of the Day: "Jolene" by Ray Lamontagne

The Bartender Hates You

This is a new weekly feature called the "Bartender HATES You!"  The aim of this new feature will be to provide you with a little insight on what the bartenders are really thinking behind those fake smiles.  I could write an entire book on bar etiquette, so today I'll just start with a few things people do that the bartender absolutely hates.  And yes, I speak on behalf of every bartender in existence.  Hopefully, none of ya'll do any of these things, but if you do please stop now because the bartender is definitely fucking with your drinks.

1. Never say the following:
1. "Light ice..."
2. "Just a splash of coke"
3. "Can I get that in a big glass?"
4. Or the all time worst: "Hey, hook me up..."

There is absolutely no subtle way to tell the bartender to pour you a strong drink so do not even try.  The bartender will just get pissed off and fuck with your drink.  9 times out of 10, the people who say the above phrases will tip nearly nothing, even when they get a strong drink.  The bartender knows this and secretly hates the customer.
 
 2.  The bar is not a fucking buffet.  That means you do not ask for extra olives or cherries and start wolfing them down like you haven't eaten for days.  If you eat that many cherries you are just going to look like you blew the Kool Aid guy.  Especially do not reach over the bar or into the condiment caddies and start grabbing your own garnish feast.  This happens more times than you think.

3. This is fairly specific, but if you happen to be a bartender do not start bragging about this at a bar.  I hate it when people tell me they are a bartender.  I don't care.  Do people who work at grocery stores tell people at other grocery stores that they too bag up customer's shit.  Most times when people tell me they're a bartender they say it like "I know a lot about drinks because I'm a bartender."  They then proceed to order a well vodka and cranberry and tip a dollar (this happened on Saturday).  If you say you are a bartender, and you really are one, then prepare to tip a lot because that is what a real bartender would do.  He also wouldn't be a hassle like all these other idiots.

4.  If it's your birthday, never say "Do I get a free birthday shot?"  Well if you have to ask, then the answer is get out of my bar and die because I hope this is you last birthday ever you dumb jackass.  OK that's a bit of an overreaction, but still never ever ask for a free drink from the bar.  Bartenders do not like being told what to charge for drinks.  If you are cool and tip well then most of the time the bartender will hook you up. 

5.  Lastly, I'd like to end every week's edition of the Bartender Hates You with a drink you are not allowed to order at a bar.  This week's drink is: Bacardi 151.  Bacardi 151 is for high school kids who can only convince Bernie's older brother to buy one bottle of alcohol. It serves no purpose other than getting people black out drunk and throwing up in your bar.  Nobody actually likes 151.  The guy who invented 151 doesn't even like 151.  Thank God my bar doesn't carry this stuff.  When I tell people we don't have it, they almost always respond with "Well, what do you have that's similar to 151."  I then usually respond with, "Get the fuck out of my bar."  If you cannot afford to go out to a bar and drink normally, then don't go out.  Buy a bottle of Everclear and get so fucked up that you can only hook up with other black-out drunks (that's what the majority of people who go out in Hollywood aim to do anyway).

Well I hoped ya'll learned something today.  Till next time...

Bosby Tune of the Day: "Fuck You" by Cee Lo Green

The Freaks Come Out at Night

Good evening dummies.  I'm sitting at the front desk for yet another temp job; so basically I dilly-dally all day on the computer while picking up the phone a couple times.  Today I'll give you some insight on the night scene in Hollywood.  Now I'm not talking about where the hot clubs are and where you can spot all the celebs.  I'm talking the real Hollywood.  Hollywood is essentially a shittier, more compressed version of Vegas.  That is without the gambling and open container policy.  It's a clusterfuck of international tourists and idiots from the Valley.  Everyone is overdressed for the clubs and underdressed for the weather.  What I mean is all the girls look like they're auditioning for an early 90s rap video and all the guys look like they're auditioning to be Diddy's new butler.  During the day, however, there is no one to be seen.  When the sun comes up it's like flicking on a light in an old house and watching the cockroaches scatter to the shadows.

Here's a little rundown of the gauntlet I have to run through in order to get my car after work.  I usually get out of the bar around 3:00AM and my car is only about 2 blocks away.  That's about a block and a half too far. Alright, here we go...

Bosby's Bar

1. Dodge the hoochie mamas and gang bangers loitering outside of Kitchen 24.  Kitchen 24 is located right next to my bar and it's apparently the hot spot for people trying to creep once all the clubs let out.  Make sure to hold your breath (or take a deep breath depending on your mood) as you pass through the haze of marijuana smoke.  Keep your eyes locked on the ground because you will become hypnotized by some of these girls' rear ends.  I'm saying some of these asses are so big that if one of these girls sat on James Franco's hand he would have to cut.....(alright that was terrible).  But I'm serious when I say do not make eye contact with these girls or their butts, or you're just asking for trouble.
2. Grab your keys from the Persian valet who also happens to be from Jersey.  Joke about your home state and politely humor his constant invitations to Vegas.
3. Make a wide berth of Bernard, the amateur pet salesman.  Bernard is a homeless black guy wearing a large trenchcoat.  Inside this trench coat are numerous puppies, kittens, and baby rabbits that he tries to sell to unsuspecting tourists.  This guy is crazy and if you don't buy the animal, he threatens to snap its neck.  I know this sounds horrible.  The cops have been trying to chase down this guy for years and apparently he has eluded capture.  I've talked to some people that have actually bought the rabbits, and they've said that they all died a few weeks later.  The rabbits died, not the people. 
4. Glance at six policeman as they violently stomp on a poor Mexican's hot dog cart.  In Hollywood tons of people try to sell hot dogs without a permit despite the warnings from the local law enforcement.  See the poor Mexican cry as the tools of his trade are destroyed right in front of him.  Don't worry, he'll be back the next night with a brand new cart and more delicious hot dogs to sell.
5. Hop over the sleeping crackhead.
6. Walk through an empty parking lot and brush off the stray cats napping on your car roof.  
7. Make your way home (still a 40 minute commute at this time of night) while dodging countless drunk drivers and turning down hookers at nearly every other street corner.

And that was only last Saturday night.  As you can see, Hollywood is a mess.  Good thing my bar looks like a foreclosed strip club from the outside or else I would probably have to deal with all these characters all night.  Thankfully, I only work in Hollywood, and you wonder why I try and live so far away from it.  

Bosby Tune of the Day: "Turn Back Your Clocks" sung by the Dads

Hilarious video that I'm sure everyone who talks to their parents over the phone can relate to.

So Ridiculous

Bosby Walk Across America and Fails

Sorry that this post is coming so late but I recently moved to Santa Monica and have been without the internet all week.  I am currently writing this post at the front desk of a Hollywood management company, still burned out from a late night of bartending.  Last night I had to bartend the after party for the official premiere of a movie about Muslim punk musicians.  So you can imagine what a gas that was.  With the cable guys coming tomorrow, I can assure you that the City of Broken Dreams will resume with its normal updating schedule.

So we have a lot to catch up on.  Let me warn you that I am very susceptible to phases.  By that I mean every week or so I have a new grand idea.  These have included the following:

1. Buy around-the-world plane tickets.
2. Get a work visa and move to Australia.
3. Move forward with my rib clips idea.
4. Start a chain of fast food salad restaurants in the Los Angeles area.

Basically, I get very excited about something, do tons of research on it, and then give up on it once the first major obstacle presents itself.   I'm a big idea man, but terrible when it comes to the execution.  Which brings me to last Friday, when I started contemplating the idea of walking across country.  That's right, walking across country.  I have already driven across country three times, so naturally the next step is to walk from the Pacific to the Atlantic.  I figured out the time and money it would take, and determined that I would start the journey after my current lease runs out (so about a year from now).

All jazzed about my new plan, I decide to go out with Fuzzy to the bars in Venice Beach (something I rarely ever do.)  About an hour into the bar and a half a dozen drinks later, I finally realize why I hate going to random bars in Los Angeles.  What better time to practice for my walk across country than to walk back to our apartment from the bar?  So I let an inebriated Fuzzy know that I'm leaving (he knows better than to question me when I'm on a mission).  Just a side note:  I have an uncanny ability to always find my way home, no matter what state or condition I'm in.  I could be high on heroin and get run over by a car and still find my way home.  All my friends know that at least once during the night I will walk off on my own without telling anyone where I am going.  You may call it shady, but I call it an adventure. 

So the bar is about four miles from my apartment, and I figure as long as I pick out a star to the east and follow it I should be fine.  Long story short, two hours pass and I am nowhere near my apartment.  In fact I am almost farther than when I started.  I now figure that I was probably following a plane.  By now I am so tired that I just stumble onto someone's front lawn and pass out under a tree.  I call all the usual suspects to pick me up, but it's late on a Friday night and everyone is either across town at a bar or too inebriated to even comprehend my situation.  As a last resort, I call the Electrician, which is the resident drug dealer in my neighborhood.  Not only can this guy get you any drug you want but he's also the most gracious host I've ever met.  And yes he's an actual electrician.  To my surprise, the Electrician says he'll pick me up, and a half hour later he shows up in his pick-up truck blasting German techno. 

So we roll through the night at 3:00AM blasting some remix of Du Hast.  By the time we get home, he convinces me to chill at his apartment for a little while.  I'm exhausted beyond belief but I can't say no after the guy just picked me from some random person's front lawn.  So I go into his apartment where soft core porn is playing on the TV and a small mountain of cocaine is on the coffee table.  After turning down doing some lines with him several times, I'm forced to listen to some guy (who I swear is my age but has gray hair) espouse his theories on Afghanistan.  He tells me that over the last couple of decades the US military has been peddeling Afghani heroin throughout the US.  And now the Afghani people have had a stroke on remorse and want to convert the poppy fields to food crops, but the US government wont let them.  The eyes are literally rolling into the back of my head as this ambiguously aged cokehead is making no sense.  Between this guy yammering, the sniffling of the Electrician, and the moaning of the naked coeds making out on the TV, I'm slowly going insane.  I regret ever contemplating walking across country.  I couldn't even make it four miles.  Finally, I find a moment to ditch the apartment and retreat to my bed.  Like I said, I always find my way home.  LA sure does have a way of constantly making your life feel like a scene in a movie.

Till Tomorrow Dummies,

*Bosby*

O have any of you seen this video I posted above?  It's absurb.

When Michael Caine Met Sally

 

 Ran into Michael Caine today at a pharmacy.  It was exactly like this.

Bosby Tune of the Day: "Who's Lovin You" by Lauryn Hill

Watch as the Apollo crowd boos a 13 yr old Lauryn Hill.  Also watch the world's creepiest MC at the beginning.

A Day in the Life of a Hollywood Runner

One of the many temp jobs I work out here in LA is that of a Hollywood runner.  What a runner essentially does is all of the out-of house chores for the company.  Sounds boring but it allows you get into all of the studios, agencies, and productions companies without any hassle.  You basically have a security pass to get into any building in the city.   It's just you and the open road...clogged with a million cars that move an inch an hour.   All last week I worked as a runner at a top management company for some pretty big names.  Here's a rundown of Friday's events.

1. Pick up a prescription for one of the managers.  His credit card doesn't work so I pay cash.  The manager's assistant then reimburses me with cash and a handful of dimes. "Sorry that's all I have," she smiles.  You're kidding me right? Dimes?  She was like the female John Stockton dishing me out all these dimes.  So I jingle jangle out of the office to complete my next errand.
2. Pick up four 12-pack wine shippers and boxes.  Basically these are huge boxes with Styrofoam that allow you to mail 12 wine bottles securely.  I don't know why they thought I could fit all that in my little car but I couldn't; so I had to put the top down on the Stanger Banger and pile the boxes up in the front passenger seat.  So I'm driving ten miles under the speed limit with my right hand on top of the boxes when one of them flips out the back of the car and onto the road.  I pull over and watch as two cars nip the side of the box and send it flying.  Oh well Bobbin Williams, I guess you'll have to mail your wine in shitty boxes.
3. Drop off a script at CAA, one the biggest agencies in the world.  The building literally looks like the deathstar.  I'm actually friends with the guy who works the front desk, whom I first met when I unsuccessfully interviewed for a job at CAA.  I may not have landed that job but I was able to recruit a bunch of its employees as high tipping regulars at my bar.  So we shoot the shit over the weekend's potential Halloween parties and I'm on my way.
4. Go to the Tonight Show in the valley to pick up a copy of last night's episode on DVD.  Bullshit with the limo drivers for all the celebrities appearing on that night's episode.

So basically as a runner you're a little errand boy for the company.  It's not all bad though. You get to befriend all the other people at the bottom of the food chain in the industry.  From receptionists to limo drivers, studio pages to celebrities' assistants, everybody's in the same boat as you.  Plus you can always use the LA traffic as an excuse for running late on a run.  There have been times when I have just stopped in a bar and grabbed a beer after picking up a script from Warner Bros.  As long as you are competent, which few people in this town are, and get the job done, you're bosses never give you shit.

Bosby Tune of the Day: "Eighteen with a Bullet" by Pete Wingfield

Bosby Bleeds All Over the Club

Oh hey, I forgot ya'll were there. Before I get started I'd like to give a shout out to my brother Albus who last week got pulled onto the court during the Sixers vs. Heat game. You know, one of those hit a basket, win a vacation type deals. The video is below. Basically he had to hit one NBA 3-pointer in 45 seconds. Sounds easy, but he had no practice, thousands of people yelling at him, a shitty McGregor ball to shoot with, and a creepy half-man, half-rabbit mascot named Hip Hop looming over his shoulder.

Thatta Boy Albus

I know this is the first post in almost a week but it was quite the rough week. I was pulling double duty working as a runner for some big time actors' management company and then going straight to the bar to work the late night shift. I'm pretty sure I can't name the actors but lets just say their names rhyme with Bobin Williams, Crilly Bystal, and Schmoody Allen. More on those escapades tomorrow. I'd rather use tonight to vent on one of the most miserable nights I've had in LA. The night Bosby bled all over the club.

Bobbin WIlliams?

So let's set the scene. It's Friday Night. Los Angeles. The City of Fast Food, Fast Times, and Fast Women. Bosby has just spent all day running bullshit errands for Bobin Williams. Finally work is over and it's time to let loose. Take into mind that that day Bosby suffered three nosebleeds. Bosby has no idea why for he hasn't done any "skiing" for months. Still he makes it through the day and starts pregaming at a neighbor's apartment when his nose starts bleeding again. Time is 10:00PM. His buddy, fellow bartender "El Paso" calls and tells Bosby he's picking him up for the club in an hour. "Why that's more than enough time to get rid of this nosebleed," Bosby says as he retreats to his couch to lay back and let the natural healing begin its course. EL Paso, late as usual, shows up and Bosby gets up to go to the car (his nosebleed now gone). Oh, take into account that El Paso is dressed as a Twister board (this being Halloween and all) and Bosby is dressed as that asshole who shows up at a costume party without a costume. Ten minutes into the car ride, Bosby's nose resumes bleeding.

El Paso's costume looked nothing like this.

The two idiots get to the club and Bosby gets by the bouncer only by pretending to give him that upward nod "What's up" type gesture. His nose is still bleeding. He then makes a bee line straight to the bathroom where he proceeds to burn through a small rainforest's amount of tissues. Nothing will stop it. So Bosby shoves some tissue far enough up his nose so that no one will notice. All is good. El Paso's waiting with some beers and shots of Jager. Bosby goes to talk to some cute chick that's checking him out when his nose starts bleeding through the tissue and all over his shirt. Girl is disgusted and runs away. Bosby takes two more shot of Jager in frustation, blood dripping down his chin, and returns to the bathroom. Now what should Bosby do?

1: Go outside and deal with this shit? No, this is downtown LA and a guy stumbling around with his nose bleeding will either get arrested or his ass jumped by some homeless vampires.
2: Call a cab and go home? Hell no, cabs from the club to Bosby's place are going to be 50$. Plus no cab driver would pick up a dude with blood all over him.
3: Lie down on your back in a bathroom stall for a half hour and hope that your nose stops bleeding?

Bosby can relate.

If you chose option 3 you are unfortunately correct. Bosby lies down on his back in a fairly disgusting rock club bathroom. He trembles as dudes shake the door and yell "Hey, hurry up and finish shitting already." Twenty five minutes pass. Bosby stares at the lightbulb swinging from the ceiling when the face of a bouncer appears over the stall door. "Get the fuck out of there," he yells. Bosby gets up and explains his dilemma. The bouncer for some reason completely understands and merely says, "Don't bleed in the club." OK! Wait a second, during this conversation Bosby realizes his nose has stopped bleeding. Hooray!!!!

Bosby returns to the club where El Paso is waiting with yet more shots of Jager and more Dos XX. All is right in the world when....yep. Old Faithful, AKA Bosby's nose, starts going again. Funny thing though, nobody gives Bosby shit or is that disgusted because it's Halloween and everyone think the blood on his shirt is part of his costume. Bosby goes on to get wrecked at the bar with his nose bleeding at all.

In case you forgot I AM BOSBY, and that night was absolutely horrible. El Paso drove me home after the club closed with my nose bleeding the entire way. I finally just laid an old towel on my bed and went to sleep with my nose still going. The next day I was fine, though extremely weak after losing a quart of blood, and till this day nobody knows what caused that nose bleed. Hey what a spooky story right?

Well since ya'll waited a week here's your first glimpse of Bosby: