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"I'm like a chocoholic. But for booze."
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1104 Useful, 1523 Funny, and 1200 Cool
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Location
Brentwood, CA
Yelping SinceDecember 2007
Things I Love Find Me Inebriated
My HometownIt's German for "a whale's vagina"
My Blog Or Website Why You Should Read My ReviewsThey're more fun than cancer.
My Second Favorite Website The Last Great Book I ReadSuperfudge, by Judy Blume
My Favorite MoviePulp Fiction
My Last Meal On EarthWhomever I'm crushing on
Don't Tell Anyone Else But...I'm an epic nerd.
Most Recent DiscoveryHygiene
Current CrushPhoebe Cates
Date
10960 Wilshire Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90024
(310) 954-8950
Los Angeles, CA 90024
(310) 954-8950
Equinox
Category: Gyms
Neighborhood: Westwood
Plenty of people have done plenty of moronic things in Vegas but I'm prrrrrretty sure one of my actions this past weekend takes the cake.
"Did you drink a liter of vodka, John M?"
Well, yes, but I don't see what's so bad about that other than me trusting the shady Strip Liquor store guy who promised me Svedka "svould teste just like zeh Grey Geese wodka."
He was lying.
"Did you knock somebody up at the club, John M?"
No! They didn't even play Slow Jamz... and you know that's my song.
"Jesus John, now you're worrying me. Did you buy an Affliction t-shirt?"
Tried, but the clerk told me my IQ was too high.
"Well, wtf did you do then that could be so moronic?"
I. Left. My. Wallet. In. My. Cab.
Let's ponder the implications of this for a second. Initially, it doesn't seem so bad. Ok, so you lost maybe 2 hundo in cash, gotta call the bank and get a few cards canceled and withdraw a little bit for the weekend... not so bad, right? Except that I couldn't pull money out from the bank without my ID. Nor could I prove to the front desk that Suite 5111 belonged to me and get a new room key. Worst of all... sans ID, I wouldn't be able to hit the club the next night where they might play Slow Jamz!
A Saturday night spent alone is a sad thing. A Saturday night spent alone in Vegas watching True Lies with a tub of consolatory Dreyer's (while your friends are out living it up) would Guantanamo-esque. So what's a drunk, disoriented guy to do when he realized the cabby's pulling away with his wallet in the back seat?
Run. After. It. Screaming. Like. You. Don't. Have. A. Shred. Of. Dignity (which in Vegas, without cash money, do you have any dignity?). I'm sure it was an entertaining scene for the taxi stand people and other cabbies seeing this grown man run down the valet circle (drunk!) and down the street, flailing his arms, shrieking like a little girl:
*Running down Desert Inn Road* "AAAAHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!" *breath* "AAAAAHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
But he drove off toward the haze of neon that was the Strip.
*John M then screams F word at the top of his lungs* (I yelled this so loud that if it were a movie, the cinematography would show me from above, then zoomed out to the city, then zoomed out to a shot of Earth, all while I yell this).
Defeated, I told my story to the hotel front desk. Luckily, I'd been able to catch the name of the cab company (though not his license plate... I was shithoused, remember?) so the front desk called them. The operator on the other end told us he'd dispatch all cabs who'd recently been to my hotel to check if they'd have it. Hopeful, I asked the front desk clerk how many times people who'd done this successfully got their wallets recovered. She kind of looked at me, then looked away.
Say no more.
The clerk feels bad enough for me that she takes my word on what room I'm in and gives me a new pass. I go upstairs -- in the pit of despair -- when somehow, beyond all comprehension, cab-man comes back to the hotel 20 minutes later looking for me...
WITH MY WALLET! Broski could have taken my wallet and lived it up himself, but instead, not a single dollar was missing. I, of course, paid him $20 (not nearly enough in retrospect) and thanked him p-r-o-f-u-s-e-l-y. Then I went back upstairs and passed the f out, hugging/spooning my wallet.
Mignon McLaughlin once said "anything you lose automatically doubles in value." This is an under-appraisal.
A commercial once said "whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." I'm unspeakably glad a driver at ABC Union Cab made my wallet the exception.
"Did you drink a liter of vodka, John M?"
Well, yes, but I don't see what's so bad about that other than me trusting the shady Strip Liquor store guy who promised me Svedka "svould teste just like zeh Grey Geese wodka."
He was lying.
"Did you knock somebody up at the club, John M?"
No! They didn't even play Slow Jamz... and you know that's my song.
"Jesus John, now you're worrying me. Did you buy an Affliction t-shirt?"
Tried, but the clerk told me my IQ was too high.
"Well, wtf did you do then that could be so moronic?"
I. Left. My. Wallet. In. My. Cab.
Let's ponder the implications of this for a second. Initially, it doesn't seem so bad. Ok, so you lost maybe 2 hundo in cash, gotta call the bank and get a few cards canceled and withdraw a little bit for the weekend... not so bad, right? Except that I couldn't pull money out from the bank without my ID. Nor could I prove to the front desk that Suite 5111 belonged to me and get a new room key. Worst of all... sans ID, I wouldn't be able to hit the club the next night where they might play Slow Jamz!
A Saturday night spent alone is a sad thing. A Saturday night spent alone in Vegas watching True Lies with a tub of consolatory Dreyer's (while your friends are out living it up) would Guantanamo-esque. So what's a drunk, disoriented guy to do when he realized the cabby's pulling away with his wallet in the back seat?
Run. After. It. Screaming. Like. You. Don't. Have. A. Shred. Of. Dignity (which in Vegas, without cash money, do you have any dignity?). I'm sure it was an entertaining scene for the taxi stand people and other cabbies seeing this grown man run down the valet circle (drunk!) and down the street, flailing his arms, shrieking like a little girl:
*Running down Desert Inn Road* "AAAAHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!" *breath* "AAAAAHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
But he drove off toward the haze of neon that was the Strip.
*John M then screams F word at the top of his lungs* (I yelled this so loud that if it were a movie, the cinematography would show me from above, then zoomed out to the city, then zoomed out to a shot of Earth, all while I yell this).
Defeated, I told my story to the hotel front desk. Luckily, I'd been able to catch the name of the cab company (though not his license plate... I was shithoused, remember?) so the front desk called them. The operator on the other end told us he'd dispatch all cabs who'd recently been to my hotel to check if they'd have it. Hopeful, I asked the front desk clerk how many times people who'd done this successfully got their wallets recovered. She kind of looked at me, then looked away.
Say no more.
The clerk feels bad enough for me that she takes my word on what room I'm in and gives me a new pass. I go upstairs -- in the pit of despair -- when somehow, beyond all comprehension, cab-man comes back to the hotel 20 minutes later looking for me...
WITH MY WALLET! Broski could have taken my wallet and lived it up himself, but instead, not a single dollar was missing. I, of course, paid him $20 (not nearly enough in retrospect) and thanked him p-r-o-f-u-s-e-l-y. Then I went back upstairs and passed the f out, hugging/spooning my wallet.
Mignon McLaughlin once said "anything you lose automatically doubles in value." This is an under-appraisal.
A commercial once said "whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." I'm unspeakably glad a driver at ABC Union Cab made my wallet the exception.
1 Curzon Street
London W1J 5HD
UK
+44 20 7717 4900
London W1J 5HD
UK
+44 20 7717 4900
Kinko's
Category: Printing Services
Neighborhood: Mayfair
Pop Quiz:
You never received an email from the boss man (who swears he sent it) asking that 20 more investor presentations be overnighted to London because he got trigger happy and distributed too many in Geneva yesterday. So when he calls asking if they'll arrive by 7am (oh, btw it's currently 4:00pm in LA, midnight in London), and you have NOT A DAMN CLUE what he's talking about, you:
A. Alter your voice and go "¿Que? Ah... No te entiendo. Y sabes que estas llamando a dos de la mañana?! Pinche hueros ayyy!" and angrily hang up.
(thought about doing this, but considering he dialed my direct extension and I answered "this is John," didn't think that would go over so well)
B. Make a mental note to binge drink later.
(mission accomplished. see end of review.)
C. Pee your pants
(ok, so maybe I did this. But just a teeny tiny bit. Like a little *thumb and forefinger together* boop.)
D. Say "no, but they'll be there by 7," hang up, roll up your sleeves, curse, google your boss' hotel address, curse some more, google (uh, I mean yelp) nearby 24 hour printing companies, maybe even some more cursing happened here... yeah, probably it did (this is where I got creative), get some nice gentleman on the phone named Ben and plead "BEN, I KNOW IT'S MIDNIGHT BUT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I NEED YOU TO DROP EVERYTHING AND PRINT/BIND WHAT I'M EMAILING YOU LIKE THE QUEEN'S LIFE IS F***ING DEPENDING ON IT!"
And you know what? Ben dropped everything and printed/bound what I emailed him -- throughout the night -- like the queen's life f***ing depended on it. Moreover, he was the utter personification of manners and deference. Is this what customer service is typically like in Britain? 'Cause if so, malign my teeth and call be "bloke," I'm movin' across the pond to be a soccer hooligan. Absobloodylutely!
Do you KNOW how much better these Kinko's/The Color Company people treat you than those in the 'States? I'll go to the Kinko's in Westwood, wait at the counter, and be greeted with an "ugh, what now?" look. Oh, excuse me. SORRY. What was I thinking, coming to Kinko's and wanting to have stuff copied and bound and all?!
Let's juxtapose this against Ben, shall we? Despite my stressed demands, Ben was top-notch throughout. "No, that's all fine sir... absolutely, sir, it would be my pleasure... no sir, I don't giggle every time someone orders bangers and mash.'" And while I was simultaneously trying to coordinate pickup/delivery with a courier, he stopped me so that HE could arrange to have the presentations couriered to Mayfair... at 4:00am! Look, I'm not saying he treated me better than Geoffrey treated Will and Carlton, because Geoffrey went to Oxford so that's saying a lot, I'm saying he treated me better than Geoffrey treated Will and Carlton, because Geoffrey went to Oxford so that's saying a lot.
And did the presentations get there in time for the first morning meeting? Let's see... *switches over to Outlook*
-----------
Sent: Wed 6/17/2009 10:34 PM (6:34am London)
To: John M
Cc: Colleagues
stay of execution, granted.
-- Boss Man
Sent from my Blackberry Mobile Device
---------------
To quote Johnny Drama: VICTORYYY!
Ben and the staff at The Color Company/Kinko's, a toast to you, with -- what else? -- Olde English. I'm classy like that.
You never received an email from the boss man (who swears he sent it) asking that 20 more investor presentations be overnighted to London because he got trigger happy and distributed too many in Geneva yesterday. So when he calls asking if they'll arrive by 7am (oh, btw it's currently 4:00pm in LA, midnight in London), and you have NOT A DAMN CLUE what he's talking about, you:
A. Alter your voice and go "¿Que? Ah... No te entiendo. Y sabes que estas llamando a dos de la mañana?! Pinche hueros ayyy!" and angrily hang up.
(thought about doing this, but considering he dialed my direct extension and I answered "this is John," didn't think that would go over so well)
B. Make a mental note to binge drink later.
(mission accomplished. see end of review.)
C. Pee your pants
(ok, so maybe I did this. But just a teeny tiny bit. Like a little *thumb and forefinger together* boop.)
D. Say "no, but they'll be there by 7," hang up, roll up your sleeves, curse, google your boss' hotel address, curse some more, google (uh, I mean yelp) nearby 24 hour printing companies, maybe even some more cursing happened here... yeah, probably it did (this is where I got creative), get some nice gentleman on the phone named Ben and plead "BEN, I KNOW IT'S MIDNIGHT BUT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I NEED YOU TO DROP EVERYTHING AND PRINT/BIND WHAT I'M EMAILING YOU LIKE THE QUEEN'S LIFE IS F***ING DEPENDING ON IT!"
And you know what? Ben dropped everything and printed/bound what I emailed him -- throughout the night -- like the queen's life f***ing depended on it. Moreover, he was the utter personification of manners and deference. Is this what customer service is typically like in Britain? 'Cause if so, malign my teeth and call be "bloke," I'm movin' across the pond to be a soccer hooligan. Absobloodylutely!
Do you KNOW how much better these Kinko's/The Color Company people treat you than those in the 'States? I'll go to the Kinko's in Westwood, wait at the counter, and be greeted with an "ugh, what now?" look. Oh, excuse me. SORRY. What was I thinking, coming to Kinko's and wanting to have stuff copied and bound and all?!
Let's juxtapose this against Ben, shall we? Despite my stressed demands, Ben was top-notch throughout. "No, that's all fine sir... absolutely, sir, it would be my pleasure... no sir, I don't giggle every time someone orders bangers and mash.'" And while I was simultaneously trying to coordinate pickup/delivery with a courier, he stopped me so that HE could arrange to have the presentations couriered to Mayfair... at 4:00am! Look, I'm not saying he treated me better than Geoffrey treated Will and Carlton, because Geoffrey went to Oxford so that's saying a lot, I'm saying he treated me better than Geoffrey treated Will and Carlton, because Geoffrey went to Oxford so that's saying a lot.
And did the presentations get there in time for the first morning meeting? Let's see... *switches over to Outlook*
-----------
Sent: Wed 6/17/2009 10:34 PM (6:34am London)
To: John M
Cc: Colleagues
stay of execution, granted.
-- Boss Man
Sent from my Blackberry Mobile Device
---------------
To quote Johnny Drama: VICTORYYY!
Ben and the staff at The Color Company/Kinko's, a toast to you, with -- what else? -- Olde English. I'm classy like that.
3601 Overland Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90034
(310) 559-9999
Los Angeles, CA 90034
(310) 559-9999
Overland Café
Categories: American (New), Breakfast & Brunch
Neighborhood: Palms
Yelp is funny because occasionally, you run into reviews where a writer's ability to contextualize is about as successful as the Titanic's maiden voyage, with a dash of Chernobyl sprinkled on top.
Take my fellow reviewer who calls Overland's all-you-can-drink champagne brunch a "cheap gimmick," before thumbing their nose at the place's ambiance. I'm sorry, but going to a place that's famous for bottomless champagne (for only $5!) and saying the ambiance wasn't up to par makes about as much sense as going to 2-for-1 lapdance night at Scores and complaining their club sandwich was too light on the bacon. Oh, I'm SOOO SORRY, other reviewer, that you were surrounded by boozy UCLA sorority girls. Because you know what REALLY sucks when you dine out? Hot, educated, drunk women being all around you. How awful you had to endure that! Que pobrecito mi amor!
Fine, fine, I know I should be reviewing other reviews. I'll extend an olive branch by even acknowledging that non-stop champagne IS a cheap gimmick... a cheap gimmick that gets you absolutely sauced!
"Shut the fuck up, Matthew J. Did you just say endless champagne for only $5?" You bet your too-sober ass I did! Plus you can even get rolling while you wait to be seated:
"Why hello there, bartender. Here's a Hamilton. I'll take two tickets to sozzled-ville, please. ...Oh, you'll even give me a free pitcher of OJ to mimosamize this party? And you'll just add it to the table's tab even though we don't have a table yet? HELL TO THE YES. Sunday officially just became fun day."
More seriously, you might be wondering about the food (in which case, I question your judgment considering whose review you're reading). But my omelette was more than passable -- much more. As were my potatoes, english muffins, and the rest of my meal. No really, it was good food, and wholly unexpected. Then again, I was a bottle or two deep into the classy, classy champagne they kept bringing, so take that for what you will.
I don't even know why I'm talking about the (admittedly excellent) food because did I mention... FOR THE PRICE OF PARKING IN WESTWOOD, YOU CAN GET ALL THE CHAMPAGNE YOU WANT?! ...I did? Oh. Well it bears repeating. Turning Sunday into fun day is Overland Cafe's raison d'etre, and it pulls off its mission with aplomb. Downright, unimpeachable, sorry-I-missed-your-call,-mom,-I-was-taking-a-midd ay-drunken-nap aplomb.
Adieu, productive weekends. I hardly knew ye.
Take my fellow reviewer who calls Overland's all-you-can-drink champagne brunch a "cheap gimmick," before thumbing their nose at the place's ambiance. I'm sorry, but going to a place that's famous for bottomless champagne (for only $5!) and saying the ambiance wasn't up to par makes about as much sense as going to 2-for-1 lapdance night at Scores and complaining their club sandwich was too light on the bacon. Oh, I'm SOOO SORRY, other reviewer, that you were surrounded by boozy UCLA sorority girls. Because you know what REALLY sucks when you dine out? Hot, educated, drunk women being all around you. How awful you had to endure that! Que pobrecito mi amor!
Fine, fine, I know I should be reviewing other reviews. I'll extend an olive branch by even acknowledging that non-stop champagne IS a cheap gimmick... a cheap gimmick that gets you absolutely sauced!
"Shut the fuck up, Matthew J. Did you just say endless champagne for only $5?" You bet your too-sober ass I did! Plus you can even get rolling while you wait to be seated:
"Why hello there, bartender. Here's a Hamilton. I'll take two tickets to sozzled-ville, please. ...Oh, you'll even give me a free pitcher of OJ to mimosamize this party? And you'll just add it to the table's tab even though we don't have a table yet? HELL TO THE YES. Sunday officially just became fun day."
More seriously, you might be wondering about the food (in which case, I question your judgment considering whose review you're reading). But my omelette was more than passable -- much more. As were my potatoes, english muffins, and the rest of my meal. No really, it was good food, and wholly unexpected. Then again, I was a bottle or two deep into the classy, classy champagne they kept bringing, so take that for what you will.
I don't even know why I'm talking about the (admittedly excellent) food because did I mention... FOR THE PRICE OF PARKING IN WESTWOOD, YOU CAN GET ALL THE CHAMPAGNE YOU WANT?! ...I did? Oh. Well it bears repeating. Turning Sunday into fun day is Overland Cafe's raison d'etre, and it pulls off its mission with aplomb. Downright, unimpeachable, sorry-I-missed-your-call,-mom,-I-was-taking-a-midd ay-drunken-nap aplomb.
Adieu, productive weekends. I hardly knew ye.
1154 Westwood Blvd
Westwood, CA 90024
(310) 954-8191
Westwood, CA 90024
(310) 954-8191
Peet's Coffee & Tea
Category: Coffee & Tea
Neighborhood: Westwood
I'd always wondered what Peet's tasted like, ever since interning at the Beverly Hills Branch of the Swiss bank UBS and hearing a wealthy broker remark dismissively, "Starbucks is for the commoners. The people who go to Peet's tend to be more classy." And then he followed it up with "now go copy these reports, slave!" No, he really didn't... but you know that's what he was thinking when he said "Now go and copy these reports, intern!"
Anyhow... really? I mean really! Starbucks, the place that charges me $4.20 for my daily coffee/kick-in-the-balls, is only the drink of the proletariat? I've been so wrong all these years. Find me some aristocrats in need of illegal tax havens 'cause I want to work for UBS and piss on Starbucks too -- stat!
The University of Chicago sells t-shirts that proudly boast "UofC: the place where fun goes to die." I say Peet's should cop that and rework it into their merchandise because, judging by the Westwood location, it's where joy in any form goes to flatline.
Put another way, it's easy to see why a Beverly Hills broker said what he said. Walking in, one trades the upbeat urban jungle of Westwood for the gerontological-palooza of stuffiness that is Peet's. Is that chick in the corner *really* reading Goethe while Vivaldi's Concerto No. 2 in G minor plays over the speakers? Is that dude over there composing an opera libretto in a moleskine notebook? Am I overhearing a conversation about Friday's event at the Jonathan Club? That's reeeeally fucking stuffy. A little too much so, in fact. And this is coming from someone who can be one stuffy motherfucker. For example, earlier, I bought a loaf of bread that came wrapped -- TWICE. Suck on that, oxygen. Let's see you try and stale my bread now. Degelatinization of starch molecules into moistureless, polysaccharidic carbohydrates MY ASS.
Back on point, this particular Peet's has the ambience of a hospital waiting room, combined with festiveness of a funeral. Despite the place being entirely packed, I've taken final exams in libraries that were less quiet. Downtown Montrose at 2am is less quiet. Death is less quiet. So needless to say, I grabbed my medium latte with a quadruple shot and peaced on out of there back into the jungle that is traffic-tied Wilshire in the mid-afternoon.
In Peet's defense, it was one of the better lattes I've ever had -- hence the 3 stars. It cost $4.55... but also a little bit of the youth in my soul though. That's a little too expensive, for me anyway. So sorry Peet's, I'll just have to hoof it to Starbucks with the rest of the poors, even though they write my name as "Jhon" on the side of the cup. At least they go about misspelling the most common name on earth with some liveliness and gusto. And I suppose this also means my short-lived affair with double-wrapped bread is over... which I'd ordinarily be a little sad about. Then again, forget bread; it's entirely ok by me. So long as it's my soul that never gets stale.
Anyhow... really? I mean really! Starbucks, the place that charges me $4.20 for my daily coffee/kick-in-the-balls, is only the drink of the proletariat? I've been so wrong all these years. Find me some aristocrats in need of illegal tax havens 'cause I want to work for UBS and piss on Starbucks too -- stat!
The University of Chicago sells t-shirts that proudly boast "UofC: the place where fun goes to die." I say Peet's should cop that and rework it into their merchandise because, judging by the Westwood location, it's where joy in any form goes to flatline.
Put another way, it's easy to see why a Beverly Hills broker said what he said. Walking in, one trades the upbeat urban jungle of Westwood for the gerontological-palooza of stuffiness that is Peet's. Is that chick in the corner *really* reading Goethe while Vivaldi's Concerto No. 2 in G minor plays over the speakers? Is that dude over there composing an opera libretto in a moleskine notebook? Am I overhearing a conversation about Friday's event at the Jonathan Club? That's reeeeally fucking stuffy. A little too much so, in fact. And this is coming from someone who can be one stuffy motherfucker. For example, earlier, I bought a loaf of bread that came wrapped -- TWICE. Suck on that, oxygen. Let's see you try and stale my bread now. Degelatinization of starch molecules into moistureless, polysaccharidic carbohydrates MY ASS.
Back on point, this particular Peet's has the ambience of a hospital waiting room, combined with festiveness of a funeral. Despite the place being entirely packed, I've taken final exams in libraries that were less quiet. Downtown Montrose at 2am is less quiet. Death is less quiet. So needless to say, I grabbed my medium latte with a quadruple shot and peaced on out of there back into the jungle that is traffic-tied Wilshire in the mid-afternoon.
In Peet's defense, it was one of the better lattes I've ever had -- hence the 3 stars. It cost $4.55... but also a little bit of the youth in my soul though. That's a little too expensive, for me anyway. So sorry Peet's, I'll just have to hoof it to Starbucks with the rest of the poors, even though they write my name as "Jhon" on the side of the cup. At least they go about misspelling the most common name on earth with some liveliness and gusto. And I suppose this also means my short-lived affair with double-wrapped bread is over... which I'd ordinarily be a little sad about. Then again, forget bread; it's entirely ok by me. So long as it's my soul that never gets stale.
312 W 2nd St
Los Angeles, CA 90189
Los Angeles, CA 90189
City of Los Angeles Parking Violations Bureau
Category: Public Services & Government
Neighborhood: Downtown
Why all the one-star hate? LA parking cops are the most competent, adroit, on-the-ball employees I've ever met.
For your consideration: Saturday morning I crashed at a friend's in lieu of driving home drunker than Bradley S. when he realized he wasn't Elite '09. Figuring that my parking faux pas (rear end extended into a red zone) would only last a few hours of the wee early weekend morning, ~1am to 5am to be exact, I thought I could escape the long arm of the parking violations law.
Wrong. Incorrecto. Faux. Falsch. Mali. [Chinese characters that Yelp doesn't support]. Ongwray.
Yep. Sometime between those four hours on a freezing, raining, Saturday morning, some diligent parking enforcement officer issued me a ticket... in a plastic zip-loc, no less to ensure I couldn't protest by claiming rain related illegibility.
Fuck the postal service. LA parking cops will do their jobs and ticket your ass in rain, sleet, snow, floods, earthquakes, riots, typhoons, biblical plagues as described in the Book of Exodus, and all other natural disasters/acts of God. That's how committed and skilled they are.
I don't know why we keep sending sending the same bozos to Washington as our elected officials. LA parking cops are SO damn competent, I'm convinced that if Congress were composed of them, we'd have universal healthcare and oil independence. For that matter, I bet parking cops could broker Middle East peace, decipher what herbs and spices are in the Colonel's recipe, AND help Jack Bauer save Los Angeles.
In twenty-three hours.
So on behalf of Yelp, dear parking enforcement officials, I apologize for the negativity you've garnered from other reviewers. You're better at screwing people than Peter North experiencing priapism (look it up) thanks to an ill-timed Cialis binge.
I've always wanted to end a review like that. *Checks off bucket list*
For your consideration: Saturday morning I crashed at a friend's in lieu of driving home drunker than Bradley S. when he realized he wasn't Elite '09. Figuring that my parking faux pas (rear end extended into a red zone) would only last a few hours of the wee early weekend morning, ~1am to 5am to be exact, I thought I could escape the long arm of the parking violations law.
Wrong. Incorrecto. Faux. Falsch. Mali. [Chinese characters that Yelp doesn't support]. Ongwray.
Yep. Sometime between those four hours on a freezing, raining, Saturday morning, some diligent parking enforcement officer issued me a ticket... in a plastic zip-loc, no less to ensure I couldn't protest by claiming rain related illegibility.
Fuck the postal service. LA parking cops will do their jobs and ticket your ass in rain, sleet, snow, floods, earthquakes, riots, typhoons, biblical plagues as described in the Book of Exodus, and all other natural disasters/acts of God. That's how committed and skilled they are.
I don't know why we keep sending sending the same bozos to Washington as our elected officials. LA parking cops are SO damn competent, I'm convinced that if Congress were composed of them, we'd have universal healthcare and oil independence. For that matter, I bet parking cops could broker Middle East peace, decipher what herbs and spices are in the Colonel's recipe, AND help Jack Bauer save Los Angeles.
In twenty-three hours.
So on behalf of Yelp, dear parking enforcement officials, I apologize for the negativity you've garnered from other reviewers. You're better at screwing people than Peter North experiencing priapism (look it up) thanks to an ill-timed Cialis binge.
I've always wanted to end a review like that. *Checks off bucket list*
24002 Via Fabricante Suite #511
Mission Viejo, CA 92691
(949) 380-4328
Mission Viejo, CA 92691
(949) 380-4328
Rossi Auto Repair
Category: Auto Repair
Things that are clutch: Michael Jordan, the morning after pill, and Rossi Auto Repair. Let me explain.
You're probably familiar with my predisposition toward shitty luck but I think I outdid myself recently when my alternator belt decided to just France it and give up on the freeway. "Where were you going, John M? Work?" Of course not -- that would be awesome. "Oh yeah hi work, I think I'll be 3 hours late and there's really nothing we can do about it. So sorry." The gym? Pfft, I wish I had such an excuse to bail on a workout... and extra points if I broke down in front of an In n'Out. Or the Pepperdine women's volleyball team, for that matter.
But no. I broke down on the way to my mother's birthday party. In the middle of south Orange County. Yes, Orange County! Now, I know you're rolling your eyes and thinking "Ohhhh nooo, John M, not upper class, homogeneous Mission Viejo! What an awful place for a motorist to be stranded!" But seriously, have you looked up the white collar crime rates for MV? Yeah, you think mail fraud's all fun and games until it happens to you. Plus those bitches on "The Real Housewives" scare me. They inject more botchulism toxin into their faces on that show than the Taliban has in storage!
Anywho, I'm forced to call roadside assistance who, in all their expertise, ask me where I'd like my car towed. Because, you know, I wrote the entire South OC Yellow pages and am familiar with all of the local grease monkeys. But after they read me a list of names of local mechanic shops (without even bothering to check if they're open!) I take a stab in the dark and pick Rossi because I like the name.
Now, a smarter person such as yourself dear reader, if you were in my shoes, would probably have a more sophisticated methodology for choosing a mechanic. In fact, it might even involve 1) calling ahead to make sure they're open on Saturday, and 2) making sure they know how to repair a German auto, let alone will take it in. But frankly, I was too worried about being racketeered ('cause MV's straight up white collar G like that) and it didn't occur to me until I was sitting in the Rossi waiting room an hour later going "... wait a second... did I just happen to be towed to a place that was open on a Saturday AND works on German cars?" It's enough to make you believe in the possibility of world peace and Christmas miracles*.
As for Mr. Rossi the expert mechanic, his wife does all the English translating but aside from not being an anglophone, he knows what he's doing. He discovered that a bearing within the primary pulley of my alternator belt system had failed, destroying both in the process -- not to mention my plans to visit dear old mom.
This, understandably, makes me a little angry so I have to rant now. ... ... Bavarian Motor Works MY ASS! More like: wait for it... waaaaait for it... Bavarian Motor ***DOESN'T*** Work! Ahahahahaha! Get it?! I put the "doesn't" before the "work," and hooooo-ey! Oh man. Lookout Seinfeld because I am just killin' it on Yelp today!
Ahem. Despite that it took maybe two hours for him to diagnose/repair, and that several parts needed replacement, he only charged me for the belt and an hour of labor. I'm used to paying out the nose for repairs but luckily, Rossi saved me enough so that my $$$ could go to even more important things -- flowers for Mrs. M. for being late.
Rossi was so great that I'd even consider taking my car in to him again, even though he's 70 miles away. But I'd check the State Dept's Travel Advisory website first. There's so much botox in the OC, I'd think there'd be at least a few bioterrorism advisories from time to time, right?
------------------------
*Technically, December 20th miracles. But that doesn't roll off the tongue as easily so just roll with it, aight?
You're probably familiar with my predisposition toward shitty luck but I think I outdid myself recently when my alternator belt decided to just France it and give up on the freeway. "Where were you going, John M? Work?" Of course not -- that would be awesome. "Oh yeah hi work, I think I'll be 3 hours late and there's really nothing we can do about it. So sorry." The gym? Pfft, I wish I had such an excuse to bail on a workout... and extra points if I broke down in front of an In n'Out. Or the Pepperdine women's volleyball team, for that matter.
But no. I broke down on the way to my mother's birthday party. In the middle of south Orange County. Yes, Orange County! Now, I know you're rolling your eyes and thinking "Ohhhh nooo, John M, not upper class, homogeneous Mission Viejo! What an awful place for a motorist to be stranded!" But seriously, have you looked up the white collar crime rates for MV? Yeah, you think mail fraud's all fun and games until it happens to you. Plus those bitches on "The Real Housewives" scare me. They inject more botchulism toxin into their faces on that show than the Taliban has in storage!
Anywho, I'm forced to call roadside assistance who, in all their expertise, ask me where I'd like my car towed. Because, you know, I wrote the entire South OC Yellow pages and am familiar with all of the local grease monkeys. But after they read me a list of names of local mechanic shops (without even bothering to check if they're open!) I take a stab in the dark and pick Rossi because I like the name.
Now, a smarter person such as yourself dear reader, if you were in my shoes, would probably have a more sophisticated methodology for choosing a mechanic. In fact, it might even involve 1) calling ahead to make sure they're open on Saturday, and 2) making sure they know how to repair a German auto, let alone will take it in. But frankly, I was too worried about being racketeered ('cause MV's straight up white collar G like that) and it didn't occur to me until I was sitting in the Rossi waiting room an hour later going "... wait a second... did I just happen to be towed to a place that was open on a Saturday AND works on German cars?" It's enough to make you believe in the possibility of world peace and Christmas miracles*.
As for Mr. Rossi the expert mechanic, his wife does all the English translating but aside from not being an anglophone, he knows what he's doing. He discovered that a bearing within the primary pulley of my alternator belt system had failed, destroying both in the process -- not to mention my plans to visit dear old mom.
This, understandably, makes me a little angry so I have to rant now. ... ... Bavarian Motor Works MY ASS! More like: wait for it... waaaaait for it... Bavarian Motor ***DOESN'T*** Work! Ahahahahaha! Get it?! I put the "doesn't" before the "work," and hooooo-ey! Oh man. Lookout Seinfeld because I am just killin' it on Yelp today!
Ahem. Despite that it took maybe two hours for him to diagnose/repair, and that several parts needed replacement, he only charged me for the belt and an hour of labor. I'm used to paying out the nose for repairs but luckily, Rossi saved me enough so that my $$$ could go to even more important things -- flowers for Mrs. M. for being late.
Rossi was so great that I'd even consider taking my car in to him again, even though he's 70 miles away. But I'd check the State Dept's Travel Advisory website first. There's so much botox in the OC, I'd think there'd be at least a few bioterrorism advisories from time to time, right?
------------------------
*Technically, December 20th miracles. But that doesn't roll off the tongue as easily so just roll with it, aight?
1600 Westwood Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90024
(310) 474-8525
Los Angeles, CA 90024
(310) 474-8525
Sterling Cleaners
Categories: Sewing & Alterations, Dry Cleaning & Laundry, Shoe Repair
Neighborhood: Westwood
$11.50
That's how much my bill was for having three shirts washed. (Note that the industry standard is somewhere in the range of $1.50-$1.75/shirt). Granted, that's not a big sum of money and it's not like I went hungry as a result, but at that price per shirt, I expect the clerk behind the counter to be Kate Beckinsale... and for her to blow me and then afterwards, tell me "You're looking particularly dapper this morning, Mr. M." And I think these are completely realistic expectations, given the prices that Sterling charges.
Don't get me wrong, the clerk I had was really pleasant and maybe even a little cute with that latina accent of hers. But she was not Kate Beckinsale, nor did she perform any acts of fellatio, nor did she comment on my appearance in a positive manner, so... whaddya gonna do? *shrug*
Oh, you think I'm being unfair do you? Well life's not fair! That, and one of my shirts wasn't so clean afterward. AND they lost the collar stays in all of my shirts. Now don't worry about me too much, I survived. Fortuitously, and perhaps even a little presciently, I happened to have a box of extra stays in my car, which I was able to slip on in the elevator without having to unbutton... and can we all just admit that was pretty MacGyver?
I suppose that kinda sums me up. Everyone else hoards water and canned goods in preparation for when the big one strikes... while John M stockpiles shirting accessories (ahem, necessities?) for when sartorial disaster rears its ugly head. Don't look at me, I didn't choose these genes.
In Sterling's defense, they do offer free pick-up and delivery which is why I'm guessing their prices are so high. But I hiked my ass down Westwood Blvd myself -- and if you drive on the Westside, you know rich people drive like idiots. Also, they give you cool little working cufflinks with your shirts... which are obviously cheap, but hey, free cufflinks! And one of my shirts came out whiter than when I bought it... which is cool because I'm wearing it right now and it's so white, I look Canadian. What's that all aboot?
Lose some collar stays, get some cufflinks... that about sums Sterling up. Yes, it was $11 for what should have been a ~$5 cleaning bill... but then again, free pickup/delivery. And really, raise your hand if you've muttered a few colorful words upon discovering that the shirt you thought was in your closet was, in fact, still at the cleaners (because those bastards close early and you couldn't drive over) and, as a result, your date tonight gets to see you in a wife beater. Sometimes, $6 isn't a lot to pay for convenience. Though if they DID hire Kate Beckinsale, it would make the bill easier to swallow. Wow, now that wasn't subliminal diction choice or anything...
That's how much my bill was for having three shirts washed. (Note that the industry standard is somewhere in the range of $1.50-$1.75/shirt). Granted, that's not a big sum of money and it's not like I went hungry as a result, but at that price per shirt, I expect the clerk behind the counter to be Kate Beckinsale... and for her to blow me and then afterwards, tell me "You're looking particularly dapper this morning, Mr. M." And I think these are completely realistic expectations, given the prices that Sterling charges.
Don't get me wrong, the clerk I had was really pleasant and maybe even a little cute with that latina accent of hers. But she was not Kate Beckinsale, nor did she perform any acts of fellatio, nor did she comment on my appearance in a positive manner, so... whaddya gonna do? *shrug*
Oh, you think I'm being unfair do you? Well life's not fair! That, and one of my shirts wasn't so clean afterward. AND they lost the collar stays in all of my shirts. Now don't worry about me too much, I survived. Fortuitously, and perhaps even a little presciently, I happened to have a box of extra stays in my car, which I was able to slip on in the elevator without having to unbutton... and can we all just admit that was pretty MacGyver?
I suppose that kinda sums me up. Everyone else hoards water and canned goods in preparation for when the big one strikes... while John M stockpiles shirting accessories (ahem, necessities?) for when sartorial disaster rears its ugly head. Don't look at me, I didn't choose these genes.
In Sterling's defense, they do offer free pick-up and delivery which is why I'm guessing their prices are so high. But I hiked my ass down Westwood Blvd myself -- and if you drive on the Westside, you know rich people drive like idiots. Also, they give you cool little working cufflinks with your shirts... which are obviously cheap, but hey, free cufflinks! And one of my shirts came out whiter than when I bought it... which is cool because I'm wearing it right now and it's so white, I look Canadian. What's that all aboot?
Lose some collar stays, get some cufflinks... that about sums Sterling up. Yes, it was $11 for what should have been a ~$5 cleaning bill... but then again, free pickup/delivery. And really, raise your hand if you've muttered a few colorful words upon discovering that the shirt you thought was in your closet was, in fact, still at the cleaners (because those bastards close early and you couldn't drive over) and, as a result, your date tonight gets to see you in a wife beater. Sometimes, $6 isn't a lot to pay for convenience. Though if they DID hire Kate Beckinsale, it would make the bill easier to swallow. Wow, now that wasn't subliminal diction choice or anything...
You'd think I'd give take some stars away for the wireless internet being spotty, but no, I was really, really thankful actually. I perhaps even thought God may have been smiling on me.
You see, I had this test which a certain newspaper calls "the Mt. Everest" of what I do and my total study hours fell far short of the minimum recommended 350 -- because, oh, about 300 of them had been spent on Yelp Talk arguing about everything from if chivalry was dead or not to the in's and out's of erotic asphyxiation. Oh. Hey. Unintentional pun. 'Love those!
No, really. If you're not a Yelper and someone who's actually just looking for an honest appraisal of the Radi-Covina (because countless families in Florida must be drooling over brochures sent to them by the C-Town Chamber of Commerce), stay off -- I repeat -- stay off Yelp Talk! You'll find yourself postponing gym appointments because you're caught up mid-discussion. Significant others will leave you when you stop paying attention to them, and you won't call your parents back. You'll say "oh, wow, is it 2pm already? I guess I forgot to eat" because you were on Talk and you'll convince yourself that that blurriness and nausea isn't REALLY an ambulance-necessitating stroke because, hey, you just made a really good point in that fake boobs thread and you can't wait to see how _______ __. responds to that infallible logic. Yeah, suck it ______ __!
What's worse, that wasn't my only distraction. Everyone kept wanting me to go out and drink, and while my best college testing was done while drunk -- since, like driving, you do it extra, extra well to overcompensate (not that I drive drunk!) -- I think I've killed a few too many neurons in the interim and am off my game.
So aaanyways, what does one do when they need to get away from it all? Why, hole them self up in a hotel in the middle of BFE (apologies to all Covina residents), far, far from anything that would even resemble nightlife, alcohol, or women.
Or so I thought.
Now, it could have been delirium from not having slept. It could have been the neurological reaction to unprecedented levels of BRC (blood-redbull content). Or, maybe it was a mirage because a twenty-something male can only read about Macaulay Durations for so long before his mind reverts back to the default male thought of ........... boobs. ("So long" meaning roughly 10 seconds or so). But I swear to you at about 11pm that Friday, that hotel turned into South Padre as a group of 30 high schoolers/college kids rented out several suites and decided to throw a de-facto poolside kegger. What people were doing having fun in Co-fucking-vina on a Friday night I have no idea, but I saw it with my own two eyes. Which is just what I need when I'm coming back from my car where I left my calculator. Girls saying they have Jack and that I should stop by suite ###.
Scratch that part about God smiling down at me. He was doing the usual pointing and laughing.
"What the fuck, John M, I'm a family from Orlando and I got this glossy brochure extolling the beauty of the Eastern San Gabriel Valley and I'd really like to know what you thought about the hotel already!" Oh, sorry. Umm, service was about on par for a 3-star, rooms were quaint and have been renovated, use Hotwire to book it ($60/night = score!), yell at them if they say all the double Queens have been sold out, yadda yadda yadda, photos here: http://www.expedia.com..., sleep number bed is comfy (I like setting 7), apparently people throw hotel parties on Friday nights in December... WHY ARE YOU STAYING IN COVINA WHEN L.A. IS 30 MINUTES AWAY?!
Long story short, I gave into temptation. *Sigh* I know. I know. But thankfully, the internet was spotty so even though I desperately tried to get on to Yelp Talk, it was too much of a hassle. What, you thought I was talking about the girls? Pshaw, no, they were from the Valley! Well, A valley anyway, but close enough. Didn't want to risk it.
PLUS I was too distracted with a certain exam. And by that, I mean constantly clicking http://yelp.com/talk. Here's to hoping the success rate there isn't a foreshadowing.
You see, I had this test which a certain newspaper calls "the Mt. Everest" of what I do and my total study hours fell far short of the minimum recommended 350 -- because, oh, about 300 of them had been spent on Yelp Talk arguing about everything from if chivalry was dead or not to the in's and out's of erotic asphyxiation. Oh. Hey. Unintentional pun. 'Love those!
No, really. If you're not a Yelper and someone who's actually just looking for an honest appraisal of the Radi-Covina (because countless families in Florida must be drooling over brochures sent to them by the C-Town Chamber of Commerce), stay off -- I repeat -- stay off Yelp Talk! You'll find yourself postponing gym appointments because you're caught up mid-discussion. Significant others will leave you when you stop paying attention to them, and you won't call your parents back. You'll say "oh, wow, is it 2pm already? I guess I forgot to eat" because you were on Talk and you'll convince yourself that that blurriness and nausea isn't REALLY an ambulance-necessitating stroke because, hey, you just made a really good point in that fake boobs thread and you can't wait to see how _______ __. responds to that infallible logic. Yeah, suck it ______ __!
What's worse, that wasn't my only distraction. Everyone kept wanting me to go out and drink, and while my best college testing was done while drunk -- since, like driving, you do it extra, extra well to overcompensate (not that I drive drunk!) -- I think I've killed a few too many neurons in the interim and am off my game.
So aaanyways, what does one do when they need to get away from it all? Why, hole them self up in a hotel in the middle of BFE (apologies to all Covina residents), far, far from anything that would even resemble nightlife, alcohol, or women.
Or so I thought.
Now, it could have been delirium from not having slept. It could have been the neurological reaction to unprecedented levels of BRC (blood-redbull content). Or, maybe it was a mirage because a twenty-something male can only read about Macaulay Durations for so long before his mind reverts back to the default male thought of ........... boobs. ("So long" meaning roughly 10 seconds or so). But I swear to you at about 11pm that Friday, that hotel turned into South Padre as a group of 30 high schoolers/college kids rented out several suites and decided to throw a de-facto poolside kegger. What people were doing having fun in Co-fucking-vina on a Friday night I have no idea, but I saw it with my own two eyes. Which is just what I need when I'm coming back from my car where I left my calculator. Girls saying they have Jack and that I should stop by suite ###.
Scratch that part about God smiling down at me. He was doing the usual pointing and laughing.
"What the fuck, John M, I'm a family from Orlando and I got this glossy brochure extolling the beauty of the Eastern San Gabriel Valley and I'd really like to know what you thought about the hotel already!" Oh, sorry. Umm, service was about on par for a 3-star, rooms were quaint and have been renovated, use Hotwire to book it ($60/night = score!), yell at them if they say all the double Queens have been sold out, yadda yadda yadda, photos here: http://www.expedia.com..., sleep number bed is comfy (I like setting 7), apparently people throw hotel parties on Friday nights in December... WHY ARE YOU STAYING IN COVINA WHEN L.A. IS 30 MINUTES AWAY?!
Long story short, I gave into temptation. *Sigh* I know. I know. But thankfully, the internet was spotty so even though I desperately tried to get on to Yelp Talk, it was too much of a hassle. What, you thought I was talking about the girls? Pshaw, no, they were from the Valley! Well, A valley anyway, but close enough. Didn't want to risk it.
PLUS I was too distracted with a certain exam. And by that, I mean constantly clicking http://yelp.com/talk. Here's to hoping the success rate there isn't a foreshadowing.
One star?! I haven't gotten to do this in awhile. I'm kind of excited. *Cracks knuckles*
------------------------
LA Fitness? More like "LA F-you, valued member." Nothing says "we appreciate your patronage" more than when your gym decides to close down for a week and doesn't care to inform you. Oh, ok, I'll just go back up to my office in these awesome basketball cutoffs and this Hanes wife-beater. "Uh, excuse me Mr. Client? Why are we superior to all the other finance firms out there, you ask? Because we're mother****ing cholo bankers, holmes!" *gang sign* (specifically an 'X'... to represent the supply and demand curves)
Ugh.
So rather than just throw away an entire half hours worth of psyching myself up to go to the gym, I decided to jog around Westwood... which takes on an entiiiiiirely different persona after dark. By day, it's an upscale retail area home to roaming groups of young professionals and Cal extension campus-ers who can't quite figure out the complicated formula that underpins blue man=walk/red hand=don't walk. At night though, it's home to packs of loud, crazy people.
Please don't misunderstand my lack of political correctness. No one tugs at my heartstrings more than the homeless, and on my long-term list of life goals in between "date a moneyed divorceé who's just using you" and "have *someone else* write an article about you on Wikipedia" is "get rich and use proceeds to fund a foundation that examines the social causes driving homelessness in efforts to eradicate it." Seriously. There aren't many who have a softer spot in their hearts for the homeless than I.
But these were some angry bastards! You'd think that instead of donating what spare dollars I had that I'd instead mugged them! I promise you, there's a certain dude who's always in the same light blue shirt/dark gray sweats who's constantly (CONSTANTLY) yelling at the top of his lungs -- enough to halt traffic on Wilshire Blvd. as confused drivers wonder if some kind of crime's being committed.
Actually, my colleagues and I have seriously pondered outfitting him in a [John M's firm] t-shirt... not only because giving clothes to the needy is always a good thing to do, but also because he also get's so much attention. And what kind of brand representation beats a screaming homeless guy wandering in the middle of the street causing traffic jams? Sure, Staples may have a state-of-the-art sports arena with their name tacked on, but screw them because we've got a loud crazy man yelling at unsuspecting housewives on their way to Whole Foods in the left-turn median.
And of course, predictably, I had the good fortune of running into him on my improvised workout jog... alongside a whole other cast of characters that, while I'm sure are wonderful people with beautiful souls who only need society to stop pretending they're invisible, cut a pretty threatening figure. Especially when they're screaming at you. Life's funny isn't it?
If any good came of this fiasco tonight, it only underscored my desire to do something that effects positive change, in lieu of selfishly turning a blind eye to people in real need.
In the meantime, I know another way that lets me change things for the better -- something that's far more immediate. I can switch gyms.
...while informing everyone else who, like me, didn't get the memo: WESTWOOD LA FITNESS IS CLOSED THROUGH 11/21.
------------------------
*Long, post-coital-esque sigh of satisfaction* There. I feel better now.
------------------------
LA Fitness? More like "LA F-you, valued member." Nothing says "we appreciate your patronage" more than when your gym decides to close down for a week and doesn't care to inform you. Oh, ok, I'll just go back up to my office in these awesome basketball cutoffs and this Hanes wife-beater. "Uh, excuse me Mr. Client? Why are we superior to all the other finance firms out there, you ask? Because we're mother****ing cholo bankers, holmes!" *gang sign* (specifically an 'X'... to represent the supply and demand curves)
Ugh.
So rather than just throw away an entire half hours worth of psyching myself up to go to the gym, I decided to jog around Westwood... which takes on an entiiiiiirely different persona after dark. By day, it's an upscale retail area home to roaming groups of young professionals and Cal extension campus-ers who can't quite figure out the complicated formula that underpins blue man=walk/red hand=don't walk. At night though, it's home to packs of loud, crazy people.
Please don't misunderstand my lack of political correctness. No one tugs at my heartstrings more than the homeless, and on my long-term list of life goals in between "date a moneyed divorceé who's just using you" and "have *someone else* write an article about you on Wikipedia" is "get rich and use proceeds to fund a foundation that examines the social causes driving homelessness in efforts to eradicate it." Seriously. There aren't many who have a softer spot in their hearts for the homeless than I.
But these were some angry bastards! You'd think that instead of donating what spare dollars I had that I'd instead mugged them! I promise you, there's a certain dude who's always in the same light blue shirt/dark gray sweats who's constantly (CONSTANTLY) yelling at the top of his lungs -- enough to halt traffic on Wilshire Blvd. as confused drivers wonder if some kind of crime's being committed.
Actually, my colleagues and I have seriously pondered outfitting him in a [John M's firm] t-shirt... not only because giving clothes to the needy is always a good thing to do, but also because he also get's so much attention. And what kind of brand representation beats a screaming homeless guy wandering in the middle of the street causing traffic jams? Sure, Staples may have a state-of-the-art sports arena with their name tacked on, but screw them because we've got a loud crazy man yelling at unsuspecting housewives on their way to Whole Foods in the left-turn median.
And of course, predictably, I had the good fortune of running into him on my improvised workout jog... alongside a whole other cast of characters that, while I'm sure are wonderful people with beautiful souls who only need society to stop pretending they're invisible, cut a pretty threatening figure. Especially when they're screaming at you. Life's funny isn't it?
If any good came of this fiasco tonight, it only underscored my desire to do something that effects positive change, in lieu of selfishly turning a blind eye to people in real need.
In the meantime, I know another way that lets me change things for the better -- something that's far more immediate. I can switch gyms.
...while informing everyone else who, like me, didn't get the memo: WESTWOOD LA FITNESS IS CLOSED THROUGH 11/21.
------------------------
*Long, post-coital-esque sigh of satisfaction* There. I feel better now.
1 Previous Review: Hide »
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9/29/2008
Is this a gay elephant gangbang?
No, that would be quieter. Welcome to LA Fitness - Westwood!
Now I'm no stranger to a gym. If you count that closet with a yoga mat and an AbRocker, *cough* USC Lyon Center *cough*, LA Fitness is my seventh since the advent of the iPod. And yet, it's only here that seemingly every male has those ubiquitous white cords in their ears. And it's only here where, because everyone is oblivious to anything or anyone else sonically, every single guy lets out these loud "OHHHHHH *pause* AHHHHHH!!!!!" moans and the end of their set, entirely unaware that they're doing this at the top of their lungs. Yes, I know this is common practice as you work your muscles to full exhaustion; I do a muted version of it myself. But seriously. Maybe it's the water, maybe it's the Westside me-first mentality, I don't know... but people seriously SCREAM "OHHHHHH *pause* AHHHHH!!!" as loud as I imagine they possibly can here with no inhibitions.
Each time this happens, I'm sure a flock of birds evacuates a nearby tree.
And it doesn't bother anyone, save for me, because I'm the only schmuck in the weight room without earphones. Oh, did I mention the weight room is downstairs and therefore is a veritable dungeon? Yeah, that's right - the lack of ventilation makes it extra hot and sweaty. So ostensibly, if I want to get in your basic chest and tri's workout, I have to enter a hot, dank room full of hardly-clothed, sweaty men all making o-faces to go with the cacophony of o-sounds that only I'm so lucky to be aware of. Can't a straight guy just do some bench presses without feeling as though he's accidentally walked on to the set of a Corbin Fisher shoot?
I can think of few lewd acts that are worse than the sonic gang-raping my tympanic membrane "receives" each time I workout nowadays. The bathroom stalls at Rage are more kid-friendly than this.
And don't even get me started on the sales tactics. Poor used car salesmen -- I feel sorry for them having so unfairly become the butt of pushy/shifty person jokes when it is clearly gym reps who are worse. Knowing this, I went in with a plan - to not pay any more than $30/month and $100 to sign up. So I sat down with a guy who told me they're having a special where sign up is $145 and $45/month and how this is just all flavors stupendous. Right. *does the jerk off motion*.
John M: "Umm, I think I've seen reps out on Westwood Blvd who've been advertising a rate far less than that."
Gym rep #1: "You know, we've been doing that, but we just ran out of those coupon specials last week."
John M: "No, I saw him today."
Gym rep #1: "Ahhh... yeah... *pulls at collar* he must've been mistaken, because this is really the best deal we can do. *wipes sweat off brow*"
John M: (incredulously) Really. Tell you what. I'm going to use this guest pass, and in the meantime why don't you see if you can find any more of those coupons. I bet one's just lying around somewhere. Because I'm not doing 145/45 and if worse comes to worst, I can walk." Equinox costs $145 to sign up and this isn't Equinox.
So I worked out and when I came back *magically* he was able to lower my rate -- $100 to sign up, and $30/month. Hells yes bitches! Forget Spacey because I should've been cast in The Negotiator. So I gladly signed the paperwork convinced I had gotten the best deal possible.
The next day while walking back from lunch on Westwood Blvd, I saw some LA Fitness reps.
John M: "Hey guys, just out of curiosity... how much would it be to join?"
Gym rep #2: "It's different for everybody. You really have to sit down with us. Let's chat--"
John M: "No really, I'm late for a meeting and you can have my contact info - I just want a ballpark amount.
Gym rep #2: "Too hard to say, let me call you--"
John M: "Seriously. Ballpark."
Gym rep #2 (reluctantly): "Mmmm, ballpark? *drawn out sigh* I'd have to say $90 to sign up, and $25/month, though you could probably talk them down. And that's for a statewide membership too. Don't walk-in and sign up though otherwise they'll hook you with higher rates.
... cut to 5 minutes later when John M is seen angrily throwing things about his office.
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Epilogue: Bradley S read this and immediately PM'd: "TAKE ME!!!" Yes, I realize this is a double-entendre. No, Bradley did not mean the interpretation other than (literally) take him to the gym.
So far as I know.
1 List
1. Mongols
"ZZZzzzzz. ZZZzzzz."…
2. Sak's Teriyaki
Dear Sak's Counter Girl,…
3. California Chicken Cafe
See Full List »
A recap of my Monday…
1 Event
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Mike Q.'s Birthday Extravaganza, aka UYE Fail… (CANCELED)
December 12 9:00 PM
Here's the crazy part: I don't mind. I know, I know. You're thinking "But John M, you're nuts. You not minding doesn't mean a thing." ...And to that I have no good rebuttal. It's pretty accurate. But hear me out nonetheless.
1. It's not LA Fitness.
In Westwood, there are two (large) gyms. One has an airy weightroom of spotless, state of the art equipment, which offers panomaric views of the Santa Monica Mountains from its third floor perch. The other is in a cramped, dank basement that not only smells like the Hippo Safari exhibit at the zoo, it sounds like said exhibit during mating season. I'll let you decipher which is which.
2. It has a pool
In West LA, there are two gyms with a pool -- Equinox and the Sports Club/LA. I know I just compared Equinox dues to a major criminal offense, but considering that every time I drive by the Sports Club/LA there are Bentley's valeted outside (I believe initiation at SC/LA is $500 with member dues upwards of $200), suddenly $135 a month sounds significantly more palatable.
3. Towel Service
Like I even need to go into how Peter Perspiration using the incline press right before you do can fuck your gym mojo.
4. Locker Rooms
The locker rooms/bathrooms are stocked with more things than my bathroom at home. This is key if you ever 1) workout in the morning before going to work, or 2) workout at night before going out as you can always brush your teeth, shave... even get your shoes shined. Yeah, you heard me. You can get your shoes shined. Hell, they'll even wash your clothes for you. This is key for lazy people like yours truly.
5. The Motivation
I already mentioned this before, but it's $135 a month. Know what that means? "Ugh, this day has KILLED me. Going to the gym sounds awful right now. I would rather stick a fork in my eyeballs than put myself through a workout after today" (five minutes pass) "Fuck, am I REALLY paying $135 a month?! What the hell is wrong with me?! Jesus, I need to get to the gym pronto!" I mean really, is there any better incentive than foregone cash money? (This is how you justify the expense to yourself if you're cheap. What's more valuable? A $135/mo gym membership that you utilize every day for fear of not extracting maximum value? Or a $35/mo. gym membership that you can easily brush off because, hey, it's only $35?)
6. Cleanliness
I swear to you, I haven't yet gone three consecutive sessions without a cleaning person literally vacuuming around my incline bench while I do leg raises. At first I thought this was annoying. Then I was kinda turned on. So that was cool.
7. The fact that I could go on
I haven't yet mentioned how the greeters learn your name, the fact that the locker room looks like the lounge at the W, how they digitally track which machines people are using the most so that they order more of them, how they have an online Calendaring program which syncs with Outlook and can download what your favorite classes are into your Calendar as well as track your previous workouts... really, I could keep going, but I'm trying to be brief here. And I've obviously failed.
Little negotiation tip: Haggle with them at the end of the month. Anyone in sales, be it people selling gym memberships to cars to cruise packages has a quota to hit. If you go in there on the last day and they're down on their target numbers (which in this economy is almost guaranteed), you can play some hardball. I went in acting like I was willing to walk if they didn't give me two months free and, sure enough, they did. That's why that SVU episode didn't air until recently.
And I know -- you don't REALLY need all this awesome stuff to be able to workout. The ancient Greeks strength trained by carrying boulders across fields and they did ok. I get that. But for those times when you find yourself looking for every reason NOT to work out, why not join someplace where that search comes up empty. "Oh nooo, I don't want to go to Equinox and be TOO comfortable/enjoy myself TOO much while working out." Plus, did I mention it's not LA Fitness?