Thus far, E3′s been way too normal. Nothing bizarre has happened and it’s all been so humdrum I started to think something had gone seriously wrong with L.A. Well, today changed all that. Then again, maybe the craziness is my fault. I did ask for it by spending the evening pretending to be an extrovert.
As mentioned in a previous post, parties aren’t my thing. Still, I had an invite to an IGDA thing at the Figueroa hotel and I always wanted to see what it was like on the inside so I went. Well, it’s like recreation of Disney’s Aladdin. I grabbed my free drink and since I suck at mingling, I took Neil Gaiman’s advice, which loosely translated is, “if you don’t think you can do something, pretend to be someone who can.”
I approached a group of total strangers and asked to sit down at their table. All was well and I was fairly impressed with my social acumen until I knocked my drink over, soaking the table in mandarin vodka. (In my defense, the table was concave in the middle, shaped like a friggin’ coffee-table-flying-carpet)
Totally inapropos picture of apples I still have not eaten.
That seemed like a good cue to leave, so I went out into the twilight to find something to eat. I for some reason, decided to go to the historic Pantry (a greasy spoon with all the mediocrity that that implies). I ended up talking to two E3-ers while waiting for a table, and they asked me to sit with them. That’s TWICE I successfully forced myself upon strangers!
OK, while that’s unusual for me – talking to people, I mean – it’s hardly anything that could be called “weird”. Well on the way back to my hotel, I passed a bar called Monty , a place I’ve passed many a time and never stopped into. It has just the darkness I love in a bar and hey, it had a picture of Charles Bronson and a buffalo head mounted on the wall. What’s not to like? I went in and I wasn’t there for ten minutes before a young girl came in with a man roughly three times her age who looked like a dumpier version of Dr. Moe from Storage Wars Texas.
I’m sipping my beer in a dark booth when an upbeat electronica-type song comes on and this Humpty-Dumpty-shaped man with the Grecian formula-ed mustache and pants up to his armpits starts dancing like his socks are on fire. All by himself. He’s shaking and jigging and spazzing out all over, and the girl just sits there giggling. (and curse my luck, I couldn’t take a video of it because my phone was out of juice)
Highly entertaining it was, but then the guy calls me over and starts babbling about how you have to dance from the heart, and about how he went to school in Berkeley, and how I need to make a video backgammon game because he and his friends are obsessed with backgammon. I then make a huge gaffe by asking the giggling girl, “Is this your dad?”
I should have remembered this is L.A. She giggles and he goes, “This is my sweetheart!” Oops.
Seriously, she doesn’t look old enough to drink, so I try not to gawp and he goes on to tell me, “She’s famous all over town! I haven’t seen her in three weeks! She hasn’t let me see her and I want to come here but she won’t come here because her brother comes here and she doesn’t want him to see me!”
As you can imagine, I tried my best to back-pedal out of there as fast as possible, but he wasn’t having it. He decided that the girl needed my phone number so when he brings her to San Francisco, he can take me and my husband dancing. (I have to admit, his and Nick’s dance moves did have something in common – BWAH!) He then repeated the whole story about how the girl hadn’t let him see her for three weeks and I nodded and smiled and backed slowly toward the door before he could suggest we have a threesome.
So yeah. I was concerned I’d leave L.A. without anything bizarre happening, but I needn’t have worried. There’s too much weirdness in this town for that to happen. I’m just so bummed I couldn’t at least take a picture of the geriatric Don Juan busting a move. As consolation, I offer you plushies of Hello Kitty as Street Fighter’s Cammy and Guile.