Last weekend I went to the coolest city on the earth. If your mind went anywhere other than Los Angles, shame on you. I bet you don’t take out egg yolks in your omelets. I bet you wear fur for warmth, not fashion. I bet you don’t even do yoga.

LA, like the People’s Republic of SF, is a world onto its own. Everything–chests, cars, curves–undergoes behemoth mutations. Synthetic and organic life become blurred; pets look like people, and people look like (really good looking) aliens. It’s the worlds’ most cosmopolitan suburb, chock full of girls-next-door and the men-with-gold-chains-who-prey-on-girls-next-door.  And I heard they filmed Entourage there!

I thought that since So-Cal, Nor-Cal distinctions are well-worn, I’d focus on a story that I think illustrates the diabolically warped perspective of LA.

It begins with an EXCLUSIVE email thread a friend forwarded to me.  The author is a girl that claimed to have met, made-out with, and had her toes sucked by Quentin Tarantino. Where we pick up the story, our Tucker Max-esque heroine has arrived at a party and is bored:

“Heading back inside, bored out of mind, I look over and notice Jamie Foxx and Quentin Tarantino have joined the melee.  Joy.  Two more people at this party who could not give a shit about who I am.  I go back to texting in the corner while stuffing my face with a hot dog.

About an hour later I’m making a drink and realize the pasty tall fellow pouring orange juice into my glass is the man himself, QT.

Realizing I kind of have to go for at it this point, in all my nerd glory blurt out: “I’m sure everyone tells you this but I fucking loved Reservoir Dogs.  I watched it when I was 11 for my school newspaper, and it’s badass.”  He starts laughing, thanks me, pleasantries are exchanged about how I was clearly a fucked up 11 year old for watching Reservoir Dogs, and we start what appears it might be a delightful little chat about film.

Until this happens:
Quentin:  Wow so you really loved Reservoir Dogs, huh?  Which of my other films do you like?
(this blatant arrogance is the type of douchebaggery that really gets my gourd about Hollywood, so now my film boner has turned to film hate fuck, and I feel the need to cheekily undermine Quentin.)
Me: Oh wow.  You know, I really didn’t like Kill Bill
Quentin: What? What do you mean? 1 or 2?
Me: Ehh, a little bit of both. I just didn’t care for them.
Quentin: Wow…I don’t think anyone has said that to my face about my seminal films.
Me: Perhaps it’s because you call them your seminal films.  Shouldn’t you wait for someone else to say that?
Quentin: You know, you’ve got a mouth on you.  I like that.

At this point, QT puts an arm around me and I’m acutely aware that Quentin Tarantino has an arm around me.  As are my four friends, who are all looking at me as if I have grown a second head.  To be fair, I am easily the most uncool out of all my friends (I go to Q’s in Brentwood four nights a week), so the fact that anyone even mildly famous wants to speak to me is pretty shocking.  He’s chatting with my friends and I like it’s no big deal, I am pretending like this happens every night of my life, and out of nowhere he leans in for the makeout.

Yes.  True story.  I am pulling a frat move and making out in a crowded kitchen with Quentin Fucking Tarantino.  I cannot stop laughing AS this is happening, mainly because I see my friends X and X literally gag behind Quentin’s head, and I really am doing this for the story at this point.  We make out some more, take a walk, keep making out, get more drinks, lather, rinse, repeat.  Believe me when I say I’m not bragging, because..well…have you looked at a photo of Quentin Tarantino recently?  (Please refer to:

The thread goes on to describe, in graphic detail, Tarantino’s foot fetish. The female in question thought it wise to circulate the stories to a few people she calls “Friendsicles”– people that are included because “I’ve promised I would tell you this story and haven’t yet, you’re besties with someone I used to hook up with, or because my need for attention and adulation has reached such an all time high that I decided to pick 15 of you at random to listen to this story (most likely explanation).”

Thinking that I had a gem on my hands that was on the verge of going viral, I emailed the girl asking if I could post her story. Amateur move–by the time I’d sent that email, Gawker had already published it in its entirety, the girl had been outed as a contestant on game show Wheel of Fortune, and worst of all, had been fired from her job.

I think my email to the woman, which in retrospect seems as naive and dreamy as a Marin sunset, explains why I’d never fit in that fast-paced wonderlust they call Los Angeles:


I know you don’t know me at all, but your email thread has gone viral because it is one of the more hilarious. stories I’ve ever heard. I’d love to take out the names–including Tarantino, if you’d like–and host it on my blog. If you want credit, I’m happy to give it. I’m guessing you don’t, in which case you and your friends would be kept anonymous and pictures removed.