Thong bank robbery

2001. 2PM. A cocktail waitress/actress friend called frantic.

ME: What's wrong? What happened?

CARLY: I was just in a bank robbery at the Bank of America on Fairfax!

ME: Like an armed robbery? With guns and masks?

CARLY: Yes!

ME: Jesus. That must have been harrowing. How long was the ordeal?

CARLY: I'm not sure, but it seemed like forever.

ME: I'm sure. I can't imagine being face down and in fear of getting shot.

CARLY: That wasn't even close to the worst part.

ME: What could've been worse than that?

CARLY: I was wearing a miniskirt and a thong and it got hiked all the way up over my ass when we were all ordered to the ground. I really wanted to pull it down to cover mysel, but was afraid they would kill me.

All I could think about was all of the cops and FBI laughing at my bare ass in a pink thong in the surveillance video and laughing at me. That's still all I'm thinking about.

Morphine Suppositories.

1995. West Hollywood, California.

A rock star friend, invited me over to his house to to hang out, catch up and bang on some guitars.

KEITH: Hey, man. Can I get you anything to drink?

ME: Yeah. Do you have any scotch?

KEITH: Naw mate. I have Rye.

ME: Anything else? Vodka? Tequila?

KEITH: Oh. I just remembered, someone gave me some morphine suppositories. They're pretty good.

ME: I don't know man.  I'm just not a lucky person.

KEITH: What does luck have to do with anything?

ME: As much as I love a  narcotic analgesic, I just don't want my parents to read in the newspaper that I was found dead of an overdose with my pants around my ankles, slumped over a sofa with a musician covered in tattoos.  They deserve better than that.

KEITH: I get it mate. Gin?

The Wedding Shoes

BEDTIME STORIES FOR GROWNUPS

The Wedding Shoes
May 2012
Los Angeles, California

I had just wrapped a meeting where I learned I was awarded the job to shoot some print and outdoor ads for the California Milk Advisory board. It was a new installment for the iconic series "Happy Cows come from California". As always, I was excited to work, but also to spend a few days working with animals and their wranglers at Sony Pictures. 

This was a job where I had to share the day with the crew shooting the commercial. Typically the stills guys are treated like 2nd class citizens, but this wasn't unit or BTS photography. It was for lots of print ads and I needed to get good shots.

As I left the meeting, the producer said "You'll be working with Fred Savage".

ME: Wonder Years Fred Savage?

PRODUCER: Yes.

ME: I didn't know he still acted.

PRODUCER: He's directing it. He's a big commercial director and directs for Modern Family.

ME: Cool.

Shoot went well save for unwelcoming cunt of a D.P.

At wrap, we get the obligatory photo together and posted it on Instagram.

Image may contain: 2 people

The next day, I get a call from actor and friend Jason Biggs.

JB: Looking at your Instagram. Are you with Savage, now?

ME: No. Worked with him yesterday.

JB: If you talk to him, would you please tell him to pick up his wife's wedding shoes?

ME: Why are his wife's wedding shoes at your house?

JB: This used to be his house and they left them behind. We've tried to get other people to let him know, but never heard back.

ME: I doubt I'll see him, but if I do, I'll tell him.

A few days later, I'm having lunch at Soho House West Hollywood.

I look up from my meeting and see Savage sitting at a round 6 top. He was gesticulating and seemingly pitching something.

I text Biggs.

(Jokingly) Hey. I'm at lunch and I see Savage is here. Get your dick hard, put it in his wife's wedding shoe and take a picture. I'll text him that in the middle of his meeting.

1 minute later, Jason sends his red penis in this tiny satin wedding shoe. Either that or Jason has a really big penis. (I'm working off the small shoe theory)

I looked up Fred's cell off the call sheet in my phone and text him the photo. It takes a good 30 seconds until he breaks to pick up the phone, looks confused by the number not in his contacts and opens the message.

TEXT: This is from Jason Biggs asking for you to pick up your wife's wedding shoes.

His was was one of the all time great WTF faces I've ever seen.

His eyes dart around the room until he catches my wave from a few tables away. He isn't smiling. On his way out he comes over with a big grin on his face and leans in.

SAVAGE: Tell him we're never picking up the shoes. This has become my favorite game.

Sports & Psychedelics

BEDTIME STORIES FOR GROWNUPS.

"SPORTS & PSYCHEDELICS"

Summer of '84. 2 of my childhood friends Marc & Eli were looking for something to do on a hot sticky Chicago night. We decided to each take an eighth of liberty caps and go to the batting cages. We were quickly disappointed to learn that it was over an hour wait for every cage... except one.

We bought a plastic pitcher of Old Style with our fake ID's and sat at a picnic table covered in green cracked paint.

The mushrooms kicked in hard. That moment where the pressure in your skull is released, but just before the fulminating laughter. I narrowed my gaze at this one cage with virtually no wait and watched one person after another attempt and fail at the 100 MPH fastball. I looked at the guys and said.

ME: Guys, I can hit the hundred.

ELI: Dude. If you go into that cage, you're going to DIE.

ME: I'm telling you, I can see it in slow motion. I can count all 108 of those red laces on that ball.

ELI: Please don't go in there. I really don't want to be tripping in an emergency room.

I was doubtless. I went to the counter and bought a few 25 ball tokens. I missed the first ball clean. Chipped the 2nd, then proceeded to pound the next 73 clean like I was peak steroid Barry Bonds. That feeling where it doesn't hurt your hands. Where you hit it so pure, it just goes "Click".

I could hear the murmurs behind me as the crowd grew. By the end, roars and applause.

At the end of 75, I had proven my point and was sweating, tired and my hands were chewed up from batting without gloves. I put the bat down and my friends were screaming laughing and bug eyed. A group of people followed us to the parking lot.

BIG CONTRACTOR LOOKING GUY: (Mike Ditka dialect.) Hey! You're awesome! You should join our city softball team.

ME: Hey thanks, but nah.

GUY: C'mon. Gimme your number! You're one of the best hitters I've ever seen.

ME: Thanks dude, but I don't like team sports.





















x

"Russell Crowe" & the Sex Workers in Mexico

NOT RUSSELL CROWE & THE SEX WORKERS IN MEXICO

Winter 2014. A group of us flew down to a friends home in Costa Careyes, Mexico.

"Careyes" as it's known, is a beautiful little town of colorful & architectural vacation homes owned Hollywood stars, wealthy Americans, European expats and it seems... a few fun loving international criminals. I had visited a handful of times over the past couple years and stayed at a couple different homes.

It's a real community. Everyone knows everyone. So much so that I wouldn't want to live there for that reason. There are no hotels or resorts that I know of. Every night there's a dinner party at a different house and it's the same 30 or so people at each of them. One interesting tidbit about Careyes is that almost everyone owns the same car. A white Chevy Suburban. After a few visits, I finally asked someone why.

As it turns out, the Narcos all drive black Chevy Suburbans. The white ones signify "Civilian". The agreement is that drug traffickers can keep their trade routes, but if anyone in a white Suburban gets fucked with, the deal is off.

This visit was over the Christmas/New Years time of year. A couple of pretty millennial influencers/ sex workers had been invited by someone on this trip. Not to "perform", but more as pool & party decor and tart the place up a bit. We met on the plane ride out. They were perfectly nice, despite snapchatting their every move and talking to their phone screens like psych patients.

On the night of New Years Eve, there was a party with 400 or so guests. The finest tequila, molly and uncut cocaine flowed. I stuck with the booze and was chatting with a French couple when the girls come over to me in their tiny bikinis.

GIRLS: Oh my God Scott. Did you see? Russell Crowe is here.

Behind them in the crowd maybe 30 feet away, I see Gerard Butler. I had met him a few times in L.A. via mutual friends and had already said a quick hello.

ME: Where?

They gesture to Gerry talking to a few people. I'm tipsy and feeling a bit naughty.

ME: Oh good. He made it. Yes. I invited Russell.

GIRLS: Will you introduce us?

ME: Of course, but if there's one thing I know about Russell Crowe, it's that he loves when people compliment his work. Here's what you do. Walk up to him and tell him you loved him in "A Beautiful Mind" & "Master & Commander".

GIRLS: Really? Are you sure he won't just think we're creepy fans?

ME: Definitely not. You're hot girls, he's a down to earth Australian & he will LOVE it.

They walk over. Gerry's smiling and turning on the charm. That smile quickly faded to a "What the Fuck?" head shake.

Pleased with myself, I walk away.

Sorry Gerry.

The 21 year old neighbor Pink Floyd and Mushroom Chocolates

The 21 year old neighbor girl knocked on my door after taking mushrooms for the first time and asked if I knew any good shrooming music. I recommended PInk Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon". She called an hour later and squealed...

HER: This music is AMAZING. Do other people know about it?

ME: Yes.

HER: Do they have other albums?

ME: Yes.

HER: Are they good?

ME: They're actual proof of something greater than us. Proof of the divine.

HER: OK, so to be clear Is the band called "PInk Floyd" or "Dark Side of the Moon?"

ME: Pink Floyd. Do you have any idea how jealous I am of you right now?

HER: Why?

ME: Because you get to experience both psychedelics and PInk Floyd at the same time for the first time.

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.

ORGASMIC MEDITATION

Last year, an actress friend of mine asked if I wanted to join her at her meditation class. Sure. I'm onboard. I like classes in just about anything. Give me something to do. I once even took a cheese class when I was lactose intolerant.

She referred to it as her "OM" meditation class, which I presumed was the vibrational mantra one performs at the beginning and end of a yoga class.

Turns out I was wrong. "OM" in this case is O.M., an acronym for "Orgasmic Meditation".

She instructs me to meet her at 8:30 PM, but not to arrive any earlier. Had she just told me the time, I would have arrived as instructed. Actually, I'm never late and probably would've still arrived 10 or 15 minutes early.

The space on North Fairfax avenue was a storefront. The windows were blacked out with Duvetyne. I'm surveying the space and notice a small gap in the draperie. I peek in, and at first glance it appears to look like a yoga studio, which is what I was expecting.  On closer inspection, I saw there were two person teams, like what I would expect a Lamaze class to look like.

Squinting, I notice that all of the women are either not wearing pants or have their dresses hiked up. Their legs were splayed open. The soles of their feet touching and the men over them were wearing a single latex glove and touching their vaginas with a single outstretched index finger.

My phone rings. It's Sophia,  the actress that introduced me to this actress. She's Latin, Catholic and conservative.

SOPHIA: Hey. What're you up to?

ME: Hey. I'm about to walk into Salma's (No, not her) meditation class. Do you know anything about her... practice?

SOPHIA: She's a hippie. I'm sure it will be nice.

ME: Um, I'm looking through the window and these women are all naked from the waist down and appear to be getting fingerblasted by guys.

SOPHIA: Scott Nathan, what the hell are you talking about?

ME: I'm telling you. This is what I'm looking at with my own two eyes.

SOPHIA: That is DISGUSTING! What kind of sick, degenerate thing is this?

ME: I'll let you know...

The clock strikes 8:30. The door unlocks and a few people walk out to the sidewalk. Out walks Salma looking... dewy.

SALMA: I'm so glad you made it. Come in. I'll introduce you to everyone.

She makes some introductions and asks me to help her assemble some folding chairs into a circle.

The room smelled like a sex shop. Latex, water based lube and (sorry) pussy. 15 or so people form the circle. Most were there before I arrived. A few were newcomers like me.  The women were mostly 40's & 50's. The men were awkward. 20's & 30's. A strange, rather horsey looking blonde woman was staring at me intensely. I looked up a couple of times and finally gave her a pleasant smile back.

I won't go into a lot of detail about the practice, but it's basically edge play. The men, collectively referred to as "The Strokers" are taught to, with the tip of their index finger, gently rub the upper left hand quadrant of the woman's clitoral hood. Only that spot. The women are known as "The Strokees". The explanation is through this high, sub orgasmic vibration benefit both parties and everyone else in the room. This organization has events globally. Sometimes with as many as a thousand people taking part. I try not to judge, but have little interest in further exploring this, nor touching (gloved or not) a sea of middle aged, divorced office manager vaginas. Still, I politely listen.

After the talk, the blonde equine woman with the disquieting stare approaches me. She's wearing a black, ill fitting dress with pet hair all over it. She's unkempt with messy hair and bad skin. She's late 30's.

EQUINE: I couldn't help notice that you were trying to get my attention.

If by trying to talk to get your attention, you mean avoiding eye contact, then yes. 

ME: Um. I thought you were trying to get MY attention, so... Anyway. I'm just here with my friend Salma.

EQUINE LADY: (aggressively) Would you like to sign for our mens introductory class or not? It's $375.00 for 3 hours and you'll get to stroke someone at the end.

I'm uncomfortable and at a loss for words. When people try to aggressively sell me anything, I  shut down.

ME: Um. No thank you.

EQUINE LADY: (Rolling her eyes) Ugh!

She storms off in a clippity cloppity clumsy canter and I can't wait to get the fuck out of this thing.

I didn't know what to say to Salma. My tendency is to joke about anything that makes me uncomfortable.

SALMA: So, what did you think?

ME: It's... interesting, but if you wanted a handjob, all you had to do was ask. Not sure if you know this, but Nathan means "Giver" in Hebrew.

SALMA: Funny, but it's not about sex or orgasms. It's about connecting with people and reaching a higher vibration.

I couldn't care less. I don't even like groups of people who are dressed. I'm just not a groups person.

ME: I'm gonna walk up to Canters and get some average soup. Talk to you soon.

And scene...

The French Fashion Photographer

So this French cat, who smells, not so faintly like unpasteurized Stilton, teenage boys feet and anchovy vagina walks up to me and says...

Him: Allo Scott. Do you know oo I am?

Me: I do not, but it's nice to meet you.

Him: I am a very famous photographer.

Me: I would think that the best thing about being famous is that you never have to tell anyone you're famous.

Him: Go fuck yourself American asshole. (Storms off)

Me: OK. Good talk.

TINDER APP REVIEW

2012

My first tinder date was with a fine art painter by the name of Amy.  31, athletic, fun & talented. RISD grad. New York Times critics pick and a ginger.

We had a really fun slumber party on the first date. I like this app so far.

My 2nd Tinder date was a 1st Assistant Director named Sabrina. A cute, curvy, freckly brunette. She worked on some of my favorite films and was interesting to talk film making with.  We went out twice in 3 days & had sex on the 2nd date.

The day after my 2nd date with Sabrina, I get a midday text from Amy.

AMY: Have you ever had a threesome before?

ME: Yes.

A ONE minute later, I get the exact same text from Sabrina.

AMY: How many times?

ME: I'm not sure. More than 50. Less than 100? I had an ex was really into them and was constantly wrangling friends.

They both ask if I knew anyone who might be down to play.  Until that moment, I didn't. With nothing whatsoever to lose, I screenshot both of their profiles and send them to each other.  They're both interested. This can't be that easy.

Amy thinks it would be funny for the three of us to meet at a strip club, but deliberately not a nice one.

We all Uber separately to this place in North Hollywood called "The Starlight Lounge" (or something like that).  We order a plastic pitcher of draft beer and get to know each other between trips to the smoking patio.  We're having a great time. Tipping dancers & drinking beer.  This could actually work.

Spontaneously, the three of us start kissing at the table. Our table is just in front of the stage. Our faces are in a triangular configuration.  Suddenly, I feel what I think is water or something being poured over the top of my hat & I flinch backward.

There are two drunk guys "Making it rain" dollar bills over the top of us. The three of us start laughing.  The stripper on the stage is scowling and the cocktail waitresses was visibly pissed.  I order us an Uber black car.

ME: We should leave.

The girls are in agreement. We gather all of the dollars around us, lob them onto the stage and book it out of there.

We spent the next couple of days at my place.

Beginners luck I guess.

Think the app store will accept this as a review?

Kidnapped by Hunter Thompson

Aspen Summer '87-ish

I was a student at the University of Colorado at Boulder and had taken a liking to spending summers there. Colorado is just better than Chicago in the summertime.  My parents had come to visit for a few days and I met them in Aspen for a getaway.

We stayed at the Hotel Jerome. The Jerome is an historic Victorian Hotel  that sits on the corner of Main & Mill in the center of Aspen just below Red Mountain and across the way from Aspen Mountain collectively referred to as Ajax. Four stars, but in that Butch Cassidy kind of way.  It was the best hotel at the time before the luxury chains moved in.  The few times I stayed there, I had always requested a particular standard room just over the front door. It was the only room with a terrace I could smoke on with a great view of the mountain.

My parents and I were getting on each others nerves as is typical for an early 20-something going through a lot of change and experimentation.

We had gotten into it pretty good and I sought refuge at the hotel bar. It was nice and quiet in the afternoon as I sipped glass after glass of Macallan 12 on ice.

90 minutes or so in, the room changed. 2 high fiving fratboy dickheads in shorts and tank tops had taken notice of another patron at the other end of the bar. Hunter S. Thompson.  I recognized him an hour earlier as I'd seen him speak at a campus event at Chautauqua Park at the base of the Flatirons. I just didn't care.  His heyday was before my time, but he always struck me as a poser. A bullshit artist. I respected his hustle, but never his work. I know this will piss some people off and that's alright. As Henry Ford said "There's an ass for every seat".  What struck me as strange was that he wasn't bothered by these moron fans. He seemed to love the attention. Something that made me respect him even less. I mean, is there anything less cool than a fan?

The word fan itself was introduced into English around 1550 and means "marked by excessive enthusiasm and often intense uncritical devotion". Yep. I got more drunk and less patient. They got louder and more irritating as Thompson told barely coherent, drunken rambling stories.  Finally I had enough.

Me: (glaring) AY! Would you shut the fuck up??? You are so full of shit!

Everyone got quiet. I took another sip and realized Thompson was standing right next to me. Smiling. Signature long billed baseball cap, weird, not Hawaiian type of shirt. Nuthugger shorts.

HST: Yeah, but don't tell those knuckleheads.

I just looked at him dead in the eyes. Just taking him in.  He smelled like cigarettes, blended whiskey and day old sweat.

HST: Do you like guns?

Me: No. (long pause) I love guns.

HST: Do you play golf?

Me: Yeah.

HST: Let's get out of here.

I was 4 or 5 whisky's in & wanted to see where this went. Hunter settled his bill and the bartender placed a silver Tattainger champagne bucket full of ice on the bar. Hunter carried it outside like it was a normal thing to do. We walked to his car, an immense convertible land yacht. The ice bucket was between us and a bottle of Chivas Regal was unsheathed from a brown paper bag and jammed into the ice.

Hammered we headed at high speed out of town. Past McLean flats road and out toward the airport. We were leaving Aspen. Where were we going?

We end up at his house in Woody Creek. It was dated, rustic but cool. Stone fireplace. A taxidermied owl. Bric a brac everywhere. We chatted for awhile. It didn't take long, but I liked the guy. He was funny. Much of our banter felt like well rehearsed, time tested one liners.  I didn't hold it against him. It's kind of my move too.  One moment of note was our mutual love of English Motorcycles. Him BSA. Me Norton. I hadn't yet owned a Norton, but my father had a couple of them new and it wouldn't be long before I had my first.  Dad called his Commandos "The one ways", meaning he could ride it as far and as hard as he wanted. The moment he turned around to come home, it would die and mom would have to pick him up.

Somewhere along the way he handed me a drink of some sort. A concoction that tasted like bitter Hawaiian Punch.

Me: You said something about guns. What have you got?

He waves to follow him. We're outside. There's an old barn and a cliff.

He comes out with an old shotgun. Nothing fancy. A working man's pump gun. A farm gun. An old Winchester with a corncob forend like the police used to have mounted in their front seats. I expected him to have something cooler. Maybe an old Parker side by side with Damascus barrels. In his other hand, he had an old copper Ping 9 iron. I told him I was left handed and couldn't use it. He shook me off. I decided to swing lefty, toe down. Worked fine.

This game had a name, but it's name escapes me. I wasn't feeling well at all. Dizzy & nauseuous. I can't remember if I'd had anything to eat. Whatever the case, I powered through and we took turns hitting the ball while the other person shot it with the shotgun. One of the best games ever. Respect. Now I really didn't feel well. I turned and threw up in the scrub.

Me: Hey Hunter. I'm not feeling well. Can you run me back to the hotel? I drank too much and am really dizzy.

HST: Eh, no big deal. Just a little mescaline. No big deal.

Me: What?!!! You dosed me with Mescaline?

HST: Uh yeah. You're welcome.

Me: Mother. Fucker. Fuck.You! No! I have an 8PM dinner with my parents!

HST: Yeah, you're not going to make that or anything else for at least the next 8-12 hours. He continued to hit balls off the cliff.

There were no cell phones or pagers in those days and I thought it best to call my parents before the sky caught fire or wolves began circling me.

Me: Hey mom. Listen, I ran into a friend and I think I'm going to stay here tonight.

Mom: (Furious in shrill, nasal Chicago dialect) What the hell are you talking about? Get back here! We're only here for a few days!

Not knowing what to do, I hung up.

The rest of the evening is a bit hazy. People came and went. His girlfriend was nice. I stared at that owl on the shelf a lot. Someone gave me a ride back before sunrise.

And scene...

x

Jobs

A couple years ago, I dated this hedge fund manager. It seemed too good to be true. She ticked all of my boxes, or so it seemed. Smart, funny, beautiful Ivy Leaguer & had an aircraft that could fly nonstop from L.A. to western Europe. No bath tub, but we all have to make sacrifices in this life. She kept a room year round at Claridges, one of my favorite hotels.

She'd say things like "Baby, I don't ever want you to work. You make the funny. I'll make the money."

In fairly short order, I realized that while she had no problem spending millions of Euros on horses, she'd never ever pick up a single
dinner check (or anything else for that matter). She also always ordered like it was her last night on Death Row. I was getting grumpy & broke with this false advertising.

I should mention that I asked her to delay sex, thinking, we should get to know each other first. "What's the rush?" sex is always great and has never been a problem in the past. This was a mistake. Don't ever do that. 

The day finally came,  and while sex wasn't awful, but it wasn't particularly memorable either. I just wasn't sensing much enthusiasm. That said, there's always room for improvement. We continued to try over the next few weeks.

For those of you who don't know, Nathan in Hebrew means "Giver" and give I did.

In a vain attempt to defibrulate our soggy, Wonder Bread sex life, I serviced her so long & so masterfully (her words), she was practically stuck to the ceiling when I finished. Exhausted, I rolled over onto my back hoping for a little reciprocity (which hadn't yet happened in a dozen sleepovers), when she said...

Olivia: Uh, sweetheart. Just so you know. I don't do anything with the word "Job" in it.

Outraged, I looked at my watch & said...

Me: Time of Death 11:39PM

Olivia: Do you mean to tell me, you wouldn't date someone who doesn't give head?

Me: I mean to tell you I wouldn't be FRIENDS with someone who doesn't give head.

And scene...

Kidnapped in Kiev

KIDNAPPED IN KIEV

A few years back, a friend of mine I went to college in Boulder with called me.
He'd call me every few months from his UES penthouse and kvetch how bored he was since getting forced out of Goldman Sachs with a $72 million dollar severance package. Poor bastard.

ALEXEI: Scotty, I want to show you where I grew up.

Me: Kiev? Yeah. Let's go sometime.

ALEXEI: Fuck sometime. Let's go Thursday.

Me: Dude, I can't just buy a last minute plane ticket to Ukraine.

ALEXEI: Shut up. Take down my credit card # & I'll see you there.

I arrive to our hotel, fucked from Jetlag in the middle of the night and walk to the front desk and hand the attendant my passport. I can never sleep on planes. Not even in a lie flat lit up on Scotch & Ambien

Welcome to Kyiv! I am Nikolai.

ME: Hey Nikolai

NIKOLAI: Amerikanski yes?

ME: Yeah.

NIKOLAI: What you want do while in Kyiv?

ME: Nikolai. Everything.

NIKOLAI: You want shoot cow with Soviet Bazooka?

ME: (laughing. I love this guy already) That's your opener?

NIKOLAI: Shtua?

ME: Nothing. While it would make an amazing YouTube video, I'm going to have to say nyet to that one.

NIKOLAI: You want shoot real Kalashnikov AK-47?

Is this guy my soulmate?

ME: Nikolai. I'm American. I have more guns personally than you have in this entire city.

NIKOLAI: Hokay. You want go to nice club tonight? VIP?

ME: Yeah. Sounds good. We'll be down at 9:30

NIKOLAI: Hokay. I will hyeav car ready. Do NOT take Taxi in Kyiv.

I tell Alexei when he arrives. We have the Presidential suite. It's so big, I couldn't throw a football across the living room. That'll do pig.

Waiting for us outside is the most gangster car the world has ever seen. It's a pearl white Maybach with gold rims, grille & door handles. Heavy bulletproof doors, limo tint and privacy curtains.

It's a short ride to the club behind the Opera House. The requisite suited thugs with the velvet rope are out front.

We walk in and it's an immediate letdown. A styrofoamy looking fake Etruscan statue spitting water under greenish fluorescent lighting. That and a sushi bar that seats 3. It looks more like a Warsaw Post Office than a cool club.

ME: (still grumpy from travel) Nikolai. What the fuck is this place?

NIKOLAI: Hokay. First floor Sushi. 2nd floor streep club. 3rd floor Casino. 4th floor streep club. 5 floor streep club. And comrade. Everything on table on 5th floor.

ME: Everything on table?

NIKOLAI: EVERYTHING on table.

It took me a couple of beats to process that one.

ME: Oh.. OK.

The rest of the place was actually pretty nice. We proceed to the 5th floor. Our personal goon seats us at center booth and we order a bottle of vodka and a caviar presentation. Y'know... when in Rome.

They bring out a lineup of girls, maybe 15 of them. I've spent half of my professional adult life looking at beautiful women in a casting room and on set. These were among the most arrestingly beautiful women I've ever seen. There were 2 basic types there. The classic Siberian. Porcelain skin. Ice blue eyes. White blonde hair & full, bee stung lips.

The other type was the classic Ukrainian brunette. Think Milla Jovovich on her 18th birthday. Asian features, few curves. Obvious fingerprints of Gengis Kahn's 37 year rapefest.

Anyway, we are just hammered and slogging through a kilo of likely counterfeit Beluga Caviar.

Finally my friend says to me...

ALEXEI: Hey. Would you judge me if ONE time in my life, I wanted to be with a woman other than my wife?

They had been together since they were teenagers.

ME: I am free of judgement. Do whatever you like, but if you're going to cheat, I implore you to make it memorable. In fact, I won't support it otherwise.

ALEXEI: Memorable how?

ME: 3 of them at a time. Minimum. Live like a Czar.

ALEXEI: What could I possibly do with 3 girls at once?

Without skipping a beat, I start rattling off a half dozen generic porn scenarios. He's incredulous.

ALEXEI: I’ve never thought of any of those things. I'll do two. You're good at talking to women. Will you set it up?

ME: Dude. I don't speak Russian or Ukrainian. You do.

ALEXEI: Cmon. Please?

I look down at his wallet on the table and ask...

ME: I'll try. May I?

ALEXEI: Take whatever you need.

I open his wallet to discover a very thick stack of 500 Euro notes.

ME: They make 500 Euro notes?

He laughs.

ME: OK. In your opinion, who are the two most beautiful women in this entire place?

Without pause... He points.

ALEXEI: Easy. Those two.

One green eyed brunette. Hair just past her shoulders. Good curling iron work. One ice blonde. The former curvy and petite. The latter, like a runway model. Tall, slim, small breasted. Ripped abs. Small hips. Greyhound.

Barely able to walk I approach them.

ME: Hello ladies!

Girls: Hyeloo!

ME: (Flashing 2 500 notes.) Um, would the two of you be willing to have sex with each other and my friend over there if I gave you each one of these?

Their eyes widen and then enthusiastically nod yes.

Still fried from Jetlag, I decide I'll hang back and keep drinking until I get tired. I send them back and ask them to send the hotel car back to wait for me. 45 minutes later, I’m bored & leave. Alex had booked a regular room in case one of us needed the big suite to themselves. Not wanting to interrupt their party, I went back to the regular room. Another 30 minutes had gone by and I started getting worried. Did he get kidnapped? Robbed? Do I knock on the door? Do I text him?

Just then, my phone rings and it's a FaceTime call from Alexei. I answer immediately.

He's on his back and he's holding the phone straight up in the air from bed smiling so broadly, he looks Chinese. On either side of him are the girls wearing fluffy white hotel robes and smoking the Cuban cigars I bought at Duty Free.

ME: Dude. Are you ok???

ALEXEI: Scotty!!!

ME: Dude. Are you ok?

ALEXEI: OK? Scotty! This is the single greatest moment of my entire LIFE!

ME: (laughing & sarcastically) What about the birth of your first child?

ALEXEI: That was pretty amazing. This is SO much better!!!

ME: Glad I could help.

ALEXEI: Come to the room.

ME: Eh. I don't want to rain on your parade.,

ALEXEI: I already fucked them twice. Come over!

I return to the big suite. It looks like a band trashed it. It stunk of spilled liquor and cigar smoke. Pretty much the whole room service menu had been ordered. A half eaten cheeseburger, a deceased shrimp cocktail, half an omelette and an empty bottle of Cristal upside down in the bucket.

They come out of the bedroom and we hung out & partied for a couple of hours. The sun is beginning to rise, I'm getting both sober and hungry.

ME: I'm going downstairs to hit the Sunday Brunch. Anyone?

ALEXEI: Should we ask the girls?

ME: Sure. Bring em.

They chat in Russian, get dressed and we head for the elevator.

As we enter the restaurant. It looks like any western high end hotel brunch.
A guy carving a roast beef, the penguin ice sculpture with peeled shrimp and oysters. The sushi guy... The usual.

I look at the girls. They look stunned. Frozen. Freaked out.

ME: Hey. Yulia. You ok?

Yulia: (Strong Russka accent) Soooo. How does thees work?

ME: I don't understand. How does what work?

Yulia: We take food and you pay for what we eat?

ME: Oh. No no. It's all you can eat.

YULIA: No. It ees impossible.

ME: What's impossible?

YULIA: I can eat as much sushi as I like? Have as many shrimp as I like?. Drink as much champagne as I like?

ME: Baby. Eat a fishing boat.

We sit down, then grab plates and head to the buffet. They are stacking their plates to an embarrassing height.

ME: (gesturing) You know. You can come back as many times as you like.

They looked embarrassed. I feel like a dick, but I'm trying to help.

JENYA: Oh. Hokay. Sank you.

We're eating, drinking and having a good time. As we're nearing the end of the meal, Jenya asks.

JENYA: Sooo You want historical tour of City? We are students at University.

ME: Oh yes! I would love that. I love history. Alexei?

They take us all over town. Explain the history of the city. The era when it was called Kievan rus. The Capitol of all of Russia. The war. Stalinist architecture, History of the Churches. Fascinating stuff. Smartest sex workers ever?

ALEXEI: Scotty. Let's take them shopping at the mall.

ME: Yeah. Sure. Your money.

We go to the mall and Alexei hooks them up. He buys them both iPads. Then buys Yulia a Louis Vuitton dog carrier (She's blonde, has a Chihuahua and is a huge Paris Hilton fan. We call her Paris for the rest of the day). Jenya goes for a classic Navy Chanel quilted bag. Timeless, solid choices. We part ways.

DAY 2.

We're sightseeing & covering a lot of ground. We hired an actual tour guide to take us around. It was a hot sunny day. We walked and took a lot of Taxis. I told Alexei what Nikolai said about never taking Taxis. He scoffed and said "YOU DON"T TAKE TAXIS. I DO".

A friend of mine who is an advertising executive saw my Facebook and where I am and offers to tee up a meeting at their local outpost in Kiev. It was nice of him, but it turned out to be kind of a bust. The vast majority of this offices work was taking art work from the states or Western Europe and slapping Ukrainian translations of slogans. They offered me a job, but it would have been a month out and break even at best. Kind of like shooting celebrities.

I'm walking back to the hotel. Uphill. Hot day.

Kiev from what I could tell was all about altitude. All the good shit was on their Mulholland Drive. As you descended down the hill, it looked less desirable. At the bottom of the hill was the Dnieper River and that area looked like shit. Kind of like Hollywood Boulevard, but a different, more desolate kind of shit.

The ad agency was a bit downhill from the hotel, but not so much so. Either way, I was hot, hungover and tired and decided to take a Taxi. It was less than a 10 minute drive.

I get in the car and tell him the hotel. He turns around, sizes me up and the first words out of his mouth were...

CAB DRIVER: Real Rolex?

ME: Oh. This? No! Fake. Canal Street. New York City.

This guy is not buying it. At all. Like he even knows what the fuck Canal Street is.

He continues driving. After a few minutes I notice we're going down the hill. Maybe he's taking a shortcut???

ME: Hey. Comrade go back up.

Cab Driver: Turns and points at me. SIT!

ME: Stop the fucking car!

He starts driving faster down the hill. Coasting through stop signs and lights.

Finally, we're on the banks of the Dniepr. Shithole, graffiti. Perfect place to dump a body.

Then he gets on the freeway headed out of town. We're in a Lada. A piece of shit Soviet tin can of a car. It was based on a Fiat 124, but wasn't half the car the Fiat was (which was a huge Italian pile of shit).

We're going faster & faster and the car feels like it's going to fall apart at speed. Now I'm panicking. Will he just take my watch & my phone and ditch me? Will it be ransom? Will he sell me to the mob? Kill me? I’m not a worrier, but I’m fucking worried.

I need a plan and I need it fast. I'm looking around to try and make eye contact with anyone. Then, out the windshield, I notice a police car ahead and immediately think "There's no way this guy is going to pass a police car speeding". But alas, he does. The moment we pass the cop car, I roll down my window. Throw the floor mats out the window, followed by the stack of magazines and books on the rear window ledge. The cop immediately pulls us over. Thank God!

I'm freaking out.

ME: Officer. This motherfucker tried to kidnap me!!!

Cop listens, but doesn't seem to care. He's examining the guys driver’s license who looks impatient. Cab driver won’t even look at me.

ME: To cop. Excuse me. Sir?

He walks away. Ignored again.

Finally, the driver's patience had run out and bizarrely, he snatches his license back from the cops hand and starts walking back to his car. Cop body slams him and cuffs him. Everything is in slow motion. The driver is sitting on the curb cuffed. Cop still talking on his radio.

I'm still boiling over with adrenaline.

ME: Um officer. This man tried to kidnap me.

Cop: Amerikanski?

ME: Da

Cop: Why you take Taxi in Kyiv?

ME: I know. My hotel told me not to, but..

Cop. You are stupid idiot.

ME: (taking it). I know. Can you please give me a ride back to the hotel?

Cop: Nyet. You are imbecile. You walk back. Learn lesson.

Is this guy for real?

ME: Can you please call my hotel and tell them where I am so they can pick me up?

Cop: Nyet. You walk back. You are stupid man.

The guy gets arrested and they leave me on the side of the highway. I didn't have a local sim card so I start taking the heel and toe express back down the highway and up the mountain. It’s 4 miles easy up a steep hill. Over 80 degrees and I’m hungover and dehydrated.

After 45 minutes. I need water and rest. I see a restaurant with a mural of Che Guevara on the side. It's a cigar bar. I buy a cigar in the hope of getting some help.

ME: (to waitress) Wifi? (pronounced weefee everywhere but here)

Her english is minimal. She logs me onto the wifi. I write a note in Google translate and explain what happened. She calls the hotel for me from the bar phone. It's Nikolai. I explain briefly what happened.

NICOLAI: Mr. Scott. I TELL you not take Taxi in Kyiv. You are stupid idiot!

If ONE more person calls me that today...

ME: I know! Can you please come pick me up?

NIKOLAI. Your friend very worried. I connect.

ME: Wait! No!

ALEXEI: Scotty, where the fuck have you been?

ME: I took a taxi and got briefly kidnapped. No big deal.

ALEXEI: Idiot. I told you not to...

ME: Dude. DON'T. I'll see you soon.

And scene..