The Dealbreaker

Tinder date #1 ends with her asking me to read her screenplay. Same girl, date #2 asks me to go to an out of town wedding. Time of Death: 5:38PM.

BEVERLY HILLS BMW

I just dropped my car off at Beverly Hills BMW service. I asked the guy some of the weirdest things he's ever found in cars. He said three came back with bullet holes and the customers claimed they had no idea how they got there. Lots of guns in center consoles & trunks too.

The most memorable was a woman whose X5 had the same airbag recall mine is in for. The service technicians found a massive, 10 pound bag of cocaine or heroin in the dash.

Just after they discovered it, the woman called in a panic to cancel the work and that she was going to pick the car up immediately. I asked if they called the police.

The service manager said "Nah. We put it back where we found it and let her pick the car up".

WHEN YOUR PLANS CANCEL, BUT SHE HAS A LEGIT EXCUSE

THE TWO TIMES I MET IVANKA TRUMP

BEDTIME STORIES FOR GROWNUPS

THE TWO TIMES I MET IVANKA TRUMP

The first time I met Ivanka Trump was at New York Fashion Week Late 90's.

I was with a friend who was modeling agent. We were backstage at Marc Jacobs at the Armory. All the biggest supermodels, past & present were there. Mostly wearing nothing but heels, smoking cigarettes and sipping from splits of Veuve Clicquot through black straws so as not to smear their lipstick. I was shooting 3200 speed B&W film through a Contax rangefinder. She motioned for me to come to her.

GIANNA: We have to go see another one of my models for a meeting. She's in another show and has her own private tent.

ME: Who's bigger than these girls? Who gets a private tent here?

GIANNA: Ivanka Trump. She doesn't want to change with photographers around.

ME: Oh ok. Hey. Why do you manage her? Why isn't she repped by Trump Models?

Rolling her eyes and exhaling a plume of silver cigarette smoke.

GIANNA: Please sweetheart.

This was her pure Italian way of telling me that Trump Models was a joke. A Junior Varsity operation.  This was common knowledge, but I was still surprised she wasn't the face of her fathers agency.

We make our way into Ivanka's tent. She's on the phone. She's wearing nothing but a pair of silver heels. She waves and gave us her trademark big veneered smile and points to her phone articulating she'll be right with us.

Now, I know the rules in this sort of situation. Keep your eyes upstairs. Act natural. She looked great. Pre breast augmentation and in great shape.

She was gracious. The meeting was maybe 15 minutes and was mostly about scheduling for the next few days.

The second time I met Ivanka Trump was after a day of golf with my friend Bruce at Bel-Air Country Club.  It was an early tee time and I of course managed to dribble some coffee on my white polo. I'll play with a dirty shirt at a muni dog track, but not here, so I headed to the pro shop to buy a new one.

I was headed home when I got a call from a musician friend of mine who asked what I was up to.

AARON: Where are you?

ME: Coming down Stone Canyon. You?

AARON: Swing by. Having a few friends over for a BBQ.

ME: En route.

I was sweaty, but still looked good in my best golf clothes. Black tailored trousers, white wing tips & black glove. I headed across town & up Beachwood Canyon in Hollywood Hills East.

As I walked into the house, I saw one of the guys in Aaron's band. Next to him is Ivanka.

JAY: Hey Dude. Do you know my girlfriend Ivanka?

ME: (Shaking her hand) Yes. We've met before.

IVANKA (smiling) Yes! Where?

ME: I almost didn't recognize you with your clothes on.

Now I don't know why these things slip out of my mouth. It's like tourette's. I've always been this way.  I tease. I kid, but I care. The look on his face was not amused. Her brow furrowed. But before it went south, I needed to reel this back in.

JAY: You've seen her naked?

ME: As the day she was born.

IVANKA: (Thankfully laughing) Where have you seen me naked?

ME: Backstage. Bryant Park with Gianna.

IVANKA: Oh my god. (to Jay) He's totally seen me naked. (to me) I totally thought you were gay!

ME: I totally thought that you totally thought I was gay.

We all laugh...

She notices the logo on my shirt and homes in.

IVANKA: Are you a member at Bel-Air?

ME: No, but I play there once a month.

IVANKA: What's your handicap?

ME: 11

IVANKA: I'm a 2 from the mens tees.

I'm going to assume most of you don't know what this means, but a 2 handicap means her average score give or take, is 2 shots over par. Most club pro's probably aren't two's. Most club champions probably aren't 2's. To be a 2, you need a lifetime of practice, loads of natural talent and the time to play several times per week. Tiger Woods in his prime was a +4. Only 3 shots a side better than Ivanka Trump? I don't think so.

ME: (irritated) No you're not.

IVANKA: (laughing sarcastically) Yes I am.

ME: If you were a two, I would know it.

IVANKA: You know everyone's handicaps?

ME: Not everyone's, but if you were a two, I would know. Everyone would know.

I know I'm being an asshole and maybe a bad guest, but golf is one thing you should never EVER lie about. It's the only pro sport where players call penalties on themselves. It's a game of civility and manners. We take off our hats when we shake hands.  She had to be called out.

She changes the subject.

IVANKA: Have you ever played my families course in Palos Verdes?

ME: Yes I have. A few times.

IVANKA: (honest to God she said this) You know, a lot of people say it's better than Pebble Beach.

Fuck. You. You have got to be shitting me.  The only thing Trump National and Pebble Beach Golf Links have in common is that they're both situated on the Pacific Ocean. Pebble is a legendary U.S. Open course. Trump National is 18 holes on a piece of land big enough for 14. It's in good shape, but it sucks. No architecture. No style and it has never hosted a single PGA Tour event. It's just a really average, narrow resort course.

ME: (smiling) Nobody has ever once said that that.

She's being a pretty good sport considering I just called her a liar to her face.

IVANKA: (laughing) You think I'm a big blowhard don't you? We should play sometime.

ME: Let's play tomorrow.

IVANKA: Sure. Want to play for money?

I'm not a gambler. I didn't have much money to bet or lose at this point in my life, but there was no way I was going to lose to her with 9 shots. I was playing 4x per week. My swing was grooved and short game was surgical. Above all, I saw the bullshit in her eyes.

ME: Sure. Your course. You give me 9 shots. $1,000 a hole?

IVANKA: Give me your number & if I can make it, I'll call you in the morning.

She never called.

And scene...

THE DWARF AUDITION

THE DWARF AUDITION One of my dirty little secrets for the past dozen or so years is that, time permitting I audition and occasionally work as a commercial actor. I've done around 40 spots over the years and had some fun. I consider myself to be a uniquely untalented actor. But in a narrow space (usually playing nerds) I can, on occasion get a good joke or slice of improv off. Given the fact that I mostly work as an advertising photographer and commercial director and the talent pool is so small, these auditions are rarely without an awkward exchange. ACTORS & MODELS: Hey Scott! You're shooting this? I really hope we can work together. ME: Hey no. I'm auditioning. They always look at me like I'm fucking with them until they realize I'm rattling a cup for change and health insurance just like they are. One of the funnier auditions was a same day casting email. It was for a Christmas car commercial. I was driving and quickly scanned the email for the time and the casting studio. I entered the studio and saw a sign that said "Volkswagen - Room 3". I sign in, grab a copy of the sides (script) and sit down and begin to learn the lines. As the area began to fill up, I noticed that everyone else in the waiting area were little people. Dwarves. It's not that unusual for multiple categories to be going at the same time, so I ignored it and went back to the dialogue. I felt some stares, but ignored them. Fuck em. Learn the shit. Book the job. Finally I heard a womans voice under her breath say... BIKER CHICK DWARF: Motherfucker... I look up and 10 or 12 little people were staring at me. The one vibing me was clearly the alpha. She had long dyed black hair. Bitch bangs. Pale skin. She wore tiny black leather pants, a chain wallet, sleeve tattoos, motorcycle boots, a white tank top with a black bra underneath and big breast implants. She's giving me the death stare. Unafraid, I looked her square in the eyes. ME: Um... problem? BIKER CHICK DWARF: (muttering and shaking her head) Oh fuck you... Then one of the little guys walks over to me. He seems cool. LITTLE GUY: Hey man. Sorry about my friend. I know you don't mean anything, but Christmas spots are the one time of the year that all of us little people get to work, and ever since motherfucking Lord of the Rings, they've been taking people your size and CG'ing them down. I didn't even know what to say... ME: Hey. My agent told me to be here, so I'm here. I went in, did the audition. Felt ok. Cut to 8PM that night, my phone rings. AGENT: Hey. Asshole. When you confirm an audition, I expect you to be there and not embarrass me. ME: I was there! Volkswagen. Did they say I didn't go? AGENT: Volkswagen? This was for Hyundai. ME: Fuck. I was wondering why I was the only person that wasn't a dwarf. We both started laughing hysterically. Next day. AGENT: You have a callback for Volkswagen. AND SCENE...

THE CON WOMAN

"THE CON WOMAN"

Four and a half years ago, I received a friend request on Facebook. Normally, I don't accept these from strangers. This woman shared 54 mutual friends and most of them not your traditional friend hoarder types. I accepted, and over the course of several months we would chat at night with no mention or plan to ever meet. Just passing the time & joking around.

Four or five months in, she messages me just before 10PM midweek.

MARY: Hey. I'm in your neighborhood. Want to meet for a drink?

ME: Sure. I'll meet you at The Pikey on Sunset in 15.

We both sipped Hendricks & Tonic with cucumber and chatted for a couple of hours.

MARY: Let's go to your place & play.

ME: Good idea.

So we did. No sleepover. She had her dog at home & took off at just after 2AM. Fine.

This continued periodically & by periodically I mean, she would rarely text me back but would hit me up when she had the itch. Typically three times per year. Fine. The last time I saw her it was at her place. A rustic home nestled deep in Nichols Canyon in the Hollywood Hills. A-Frame construction, a big stone fireplace, a small kidney shaped dipping pool with a waterfall. The kind of home I'd hope to one day own. During that last slumber party, I'd asked about her business, which from all outward appearances must be pretty good.

Her business, as she described it was a well organized dog walking agency. She claimed a small fleet of suburbans, many clients and many dogs. Knowing half this town's dogs eat better than I do, it seemed plausible. No red flags, but I didn't really care anyway since we weren't what I'd call dating.

5 months had gone by before I'd hear from Mary again. When I did, it was on a Monday afternoon.

MARY: (flustered) I just had a falling out with my landlord and had to move out. Can I come stay with you for a few days?

ME: I'm kind of seeing someone and it wouldn't be appropriate.

The truth was, that despite sleeping with her a handful of times, she was dodgy. She hadn't done anything overtly suspicious, but I just didn't trust her or want a multi day houseguest with a pit bull.

MARY: Scott. I am literally on the street with no money, my suitcase and my dog. I have nowhere to go!

ME: Where are you?

MARY: Chatsworth.

ME: Chatsworth? Are you doing porn?

MARY: Why does everyone keep asking me that?

I once read that 77% of the world's pornography is produced in the San Fernando Valley and half of that in the city of Chatsworth.

ME: Where exactly are you? What intersection?

MARY: De Soto & Devonshire

Typing into Google Maps.

ME: Do you see the Travelodge?

MARY: Yes but I have no money.

I wanted this off my plate and was willing to pay to minimize brain damage.

ME: I just booked you 3 nights there. On me. You don't have to pay me back. Good luck.

Drama avoided. I'd blown $300 bucks faster than that in my life.

I neither expected, nor desired to hear from Mary ever again. If you have to move out at a moments notice, I don't need to hear the rest. Chances are, you aren't what I'm looking for.

My first rule in dating is you must be less fucked up than me in every way. A low bar I know, but It's a start.

To my surprise, 4 days later I got an email PayPal notification that she had reimbursed me for the motel room. Pretty stand up.

30 minutes later, she called.

MARY: Did you get the money?

ME: Yes. Thank you. I said you didn't have to pay me back though.

MARY: I know, but I wanted to. You were there for me when no one else was. I want to do something nice for you.

As I mentioned above, I was now wary of this one...

ME: Totally unnecessary. Just take care of yourself.

MARY: No really I want to. Now that my trust fund came through, I'm all set. I have a patio suite at the Hotel Bel-Air. I'm going to be living here until I find a house to buy.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? How does a woman who couldn't swing a motel in Chatsworth a few days afford a nearly $3000 per night suite at the best hotel in Los Angeles? Seemed like bullshit.

ME: Great hotel. Great spa.

MARY: Come visit. Stay as long as you like. Eat whatever you want. Get some spa treatments. My treat.

I'm thinking this HAS to be bullshit, but I live only 15 minutes from the hotel. I could use a swim, massage and a meal. If it turns out to be B.S. it's no great time investment.

I throw a few things in a duffle & get onto Sunset Blvd and drive west to the lush wooded canyons of Bel-Air. This is my favorite part of Los Angeles. Some people like the beach. I like old growth trees. If you've seen what I look like, you'll know I prefer shade.

I head to reception and to my surprise, they're expecting me, hand me a key and walk me to the suite. She texted that she was out running errands but to enjoy the place. There was a fruit basket and a bottle of Veuve in an ice bucket.

I called the spa. They were able to take me right away. I got a two hour aromatherapy massage and a facial followed by a turkey club by the pool while reading Captick's "Death in the Long Grass". I headed back to the room for a nap only to be awoken a short while later by everyone's favorite alarm clock. A blowjob.

I stayed for 2 more days, then got bored. I missed my cat and it was all too relaxing and I couldn't get any work done. Champagne problems I know. Mary & I were square.

Another few days went by before I heard from her again.

MARY: It was so great having you! Have you spent anytime in Montecito?

ME: Yes. I love Montecito.

Montecito, if you're unfamiliar is a stunning seaside enclave on the south end of Santa Barbara. It is geographic valium. Idyllic. It is so devoid of stress that not only is there parking everywhere, they don't even have parking meters. All the restaurants are great and none of them are chains. No one ever asks you for change and unlike Malibu, they had the forethought to not build a freeway on the fucking beach. If I had ceaseless money & nothing whatsoever to do, it's about as good as you can do in Southern California.

MARY: Do you think I should buy here? My attorney said I can spend up to $10,000,000 on a home.

I'm still kind of rolling my eyes, but whatever...

ME: I think it's a great place to live.

MARY: Do you want to come house shopping with me?

ME: Nah. I can't. I have too much work to do here. Editing photos.

MARY: Have you been to Bacara resort?

ME: Yes. Many times. Golf. Weddings.

MARY: How about this? I'll get you your own suite. You can stay as long as you like & focus on your work. If you have time to see me for a breakfast or a dinner, I'll be here.

ME: You don't have to do all of this.

MARY: Scott. I have an almost unspendable amount of money & I want to do nice things for you.

I told her I'll let her know if I can make it.

My next call was to my friends who live in Montecito explaining the situation and if, for whatever reason it didn't work out could I stay with them that night so I wouldn't have to drive to Santa Barbara & back. They said of course & that I was always welcome.

So off I went. North on the Ventura Freeway. Past Montecito proper and Downtown Santa Barbara to the less desirable Goleta to the quite desirable Bacara Resort & Spa. Like the Bel-Air, it was "Welcome Mr Nathan" and I was driven in a golf car to my massive suite in the front row. Footsteps from the glittering Pacific. Increasingly more comfortable with being spoiled, I open the chocolate covered almonds and a mini bottle of Jameson's and take a walk on the beach. I text Mary that I had arrived & checked in, but hadn't heard back in a few hours. Fine. Even better.

I stayed there for a couple of weeks to the tune of god knows how much. Long enough to be almost tired of being fussed over. I didn't want another massage and had eaten almost everything on their restaurant and room service menus. I ordered a bottle of Yamazaki 18. A Japanese whisky that supposedly rivaled all but Scotland's very best. I then downloaded the SpeedWeed app and had a couple of joints delivered. Because why not? I'd had enough. I was going to head home tomorrow. I called my Montecito friends and invited them and their kids to come have a pool day. We had smoothies, swam and got crispy in the sun. At sunset, I took some Yamazaki & ice in a paper coffee cup with a plastic lid from the room and one of the conical pre roll joints from the delivery girl and we walked to the pier.

I woke up early the next morning. Around 8. I rang the front desk and asked them to wash my car and have it ready by 10:30. Plan was to be back in L.A. by lunchtime.

I was happy to be home. The next evening, my friend Charlotte from Montecito calls.

CHARLOTTE: Where are you?

ME: Back in L.A. Had enough of robe life.

CHARLOTTE: Did you hear about Mary?

ME: Hear what? I haven't spoken to her since the night before I left.

CHARLOTTE: Dude. She was just tackled by a phalanx of FBI agents at the bar at the Four Seasons Biltmore. They arrested her and took her dog away.

ME: You're full of shit. For what?

CHARLOTTE: Google this name.

I did as she instructed and sure enough, there were dozens of articles about Mary. One was a listicle of the most notorious con women in American history. This list included women dating back to the 1800's. Mary had been in & out of prison since 1994.

Holy shit. Now I'm in a full blown panic. I'm thinking about this whole trip. They know who I am. My car was at their valet. I gave a copy of my driver license on check in. I'm expecting the feds at my door any minute. I set Google alerts with her name and the arrest and wait. When the articles began to pour in, I called my lawyer and told him this whole story.

ME: Phil. Do I need to get ahead of this? Should I call the FBI agent that did the news conference?

PHIL: Scott. The FBI are not your friends. If you call the FBI on yourself, I'm going to come to your house and kick you in the balls. Don't call anyone. You didn't do anything. If they arrest you, don't say a word. If they call, we'll meet them together. And remember, every syllable you utter to law enforcement without me severely handicaps your ability to do anything. I didn't sleep well for a week.

My friend Gwen produces a national network news show on crime and I told her about it. She sent a camera crew down to Marys arraignment, then texted me a photo of her in a royal blue inmate uniform. Mary had a black eye and a split lip.

Gwen is southern lady and then texted "Looks like someone had some sass mouth at the jailhouse" (With the obligatory laughing crying emoji of course.)

I never heard from Mary, the cops or the FBI. Mary was sentenced to 6 years in prison for identity theft and a slew of other crimes. She was released early a few months ago. Thankfully, I haven't heard from her.

I now run background checks on every date. I don't care who you know.