Scott Speedman Shook My Hand & I Forgot My Name

I had never seen Felicity until last year and once I started I was hooked. Ben reminded me of my fiancee before he became my ex-fiancee. For a few weeks, every night after work I would watching Ben and Felicity and their roller coaster relationship and in some crazy way it helped me deal with the unraveling of my personal life.

In the end my Ben left me feeling broken and ten years older. Thirty, single and having a pre-mid life crisis, I decided to move from New York to sunny California with this idea that happiness and love were only a plane ride away. I'm still working on both.

 I love everything about LA including the traffic (yes really!) except for the men. I wish I was kidding when I say that the men of LA (99.99% of them) are douche bags and flakes, but I'm not and they are. The problem with LA is that every minute a prettier, thinner, younger version of you is descending on the golden state with dreams of making it big as an actress or model, but eventually settling on just finding a rich man to marry. So for someone like me; size 4, attractive, red hair, who likes to eat and drink (sometimes even alone at a restaurant on a Saturday, which I learned is unheard of here), isn't impressed by expensive toys, doesn't want a sugar daddy and who is brutally honest, I will probably be single forever in this city. I've accepted this and become use to being a ghost at bars. Men rarely approach me when I'm out, apparently I give off a bitch vibe. 

But, then last week for a moment I wasn't a ghost in the crowded, pretentious bar. I was somebody. That was the night I met Scott Speedman. I saw him enter the restaurant with what looked like a motorcycle helmet (I have a thing for motorcycle riders) in his hand (later realizing it was a jacket) and immediately said to my friend and the rest of the bar "That is not who I think that is. Oh my god. I'm having a moment." I repeated this a few times even after my friend told me that Scott was standing right behind me. A moment later he sat down next to my friend and then I said to him, "I'm probably going to embarrass myself here, but I love you." (I was on my second drink) To which he said "That's not a bad thing." and then he put his hand out and said "I'm Scott." As I shook his hand I remember smiling and staring into his eyes for longer than I think he was comfortable with thinking to myself (OMG! I think we are having a moment) or maybe he was just waiting for me to say my name, which a minute later I remembered. 

He asked how long the restaurant had been open. I said, "It's a fairly new place. Great until about 9:30 when it becomes douche bag central and then we start counting plaid shirts." He laughed and said, "Well it's a good thing I'm not wearing one." My friend and I resumed are very important conversation about the nicknames for the bartenders we have crushes on. He seemed quite amused by our ridiculous chat. Because really what does one talk about when Scott Speedman is eves dropping on your conversation that would sound remotely intelligent, yet not completely stupid? He asked us a few questions about the menu, but seemed preoccupied with looking for his dinner date who arrived a little while later (which after Google stalking a little bit, I think was his ex-girlfriend.) As he left to go to his table he said "It was very nice to meet you." See there still are a few gentlemen left in LA, they're just all not single and some are even movie stars.

The bar was filled with gorgeous model types as it is every night and yet he chose to seat with us. Sometimes being normal and the girl next door beauty pays off even though I didn't get his number. He's just a normal, nice guy who everyone thinks of as Ben. 

Scott, Thanks for making me feel like the popular girl and being the envy of all the way more gorgeous women sitting at the bar that night. For a moment I felt like the most beautiful, most popular, most desirable woman; even though I know I'm not your type. Maybe, one day our paths will cross again. You know where to find us. 

Kate

Bar Marmont

LA is a city where anything is possible if you look and act the part. This is a city of models, actors and agents, after all. You never know who you might be talking to.

My first night in LA, my bff Summer (you might remember her from the Love Bites blog. She’s back in LA now) took me out to Bar Marmont which is a short walk from the infamous Chateau Marmont on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood. The mantra of Bar Marmont is “I am young, I am cool and damn it, people want to be me!” which is a pretty spot on description of the place. On the weekends you never know who you might see or meet.  

Every time I go here I always end up with hilarious stories, but never a second date. That night was no exception. At 1am, I started a conversation with a divorced, 42 year old, good-looking guy who had a teenager daughter. 

Why is it that men will tell you almost all of their baggage in five minutes if you are seating next to them at a bar, but on a proper date or during daytime hours they reveal nothing? Perhaps because they think they have a chance at getting lucky.

And why do women think that their honesty deserves a reward? Lonely and drunk at 1am perhaps.

Turned out the guy was a helicopter stunt man who worked on a bunch of Tom Cruise movies.  We exchanged numbers and a few nights late I went to a poker party he was hosting at a friend’s house in the valley. I should have known better when he told me it was 420 friendly. Turned out it was all drug friendly. I’m not any drug friendly.

In between bartending, setting up lines of cocaine on the kitchen counter and keeping an eye on the surveillance cameras recording activity around the house, because the poker party was totally illegal, he told me he was a drug dealer at night. Just in case I hadn’t figured that out already. Needless to say I left after an hour and never heard from him again.

Date #1, Fail