After the media blackout at this year’s Academy Awards,
the trail for the Hollywood Unholy turned cold for Christy and
me.
So I decided to take my common-law wife/latter-day bodyguard out
for a drink. We went to this Irish Pub in Santa Monica, which I
heard from a well-placed informant on the “inside,” was
a favorite watering hole for “Phone Booth” and
“Daredevil” hunk Colin Farrell.
“Why Farrell?” Christy asked as we walked in.
“What does he have to do with the likes of Michael Eisner and
Rupert Murdoch?”
“To the naked eye,” I said, motioning to the
bartender, “nothing. But to a pure-bred chaos mathematician
like myself, Farrell could be just the in we’ve been looking
for.”
“He’s hot right now,” Christy said. “He
keeps making these awful movies and Hollywood can’t seem to
get enough of him.”
I had a Black and Tan. Christy was partial to Midori sours.
After a second round, she decided she’d be able to scope the
place out better if she did Pilates on the pub’s pool
table.
“I’ll go grab my yoga mat from your Geo,” she
said, slipping away with the stealth of a ninja minx.
And that was when she showed up. Tall, redheaded and sporting
two of the roundest beach-balls I’d ever seen, and
let’s just say I couldn’t really tell when she put them
down.
“Buy me a drink?” she asked.
I decided to pump her for information.
“Have you seen this man?” I asked her, holding up a
picture I drew with Crayola crayons on wax paper.
“Ooh, Colin,” she said, “Yeah, baby, he and I
are, like, practically totally together.”
The bartender slid her a Cosmo.
“The name’s Angela,” she said drinking it down
in a gulp. “But in a place like this, I like to be called
Lassie Angela.”
“Lassie, eh? Isn’t that a Scottish thing? This is an
Irish pub, missy”
“Scottish, Irish, whatever. This is Los Angeles. Close
enough.”
The Lassie Angela noticed I was admiring her beach balls.
Jumping up and down, she told me proudly they were fake.
“This is Los Angeles,” she said again, “Close
enough. Wanna feel?”
Just then Christy’s purple yoga mat whapped against
Angela’s head in a flash. The red giant toppled and so did
her red wig. Looking up at us she yelled in the deepest bass I had
ever heard (not counting my own, of course).
“So, you thought to tame this wild beast, eh?” I
yelled.
“Get over yourself honey,” she said, “And help
me up. If I’d known you were attached I wouldn’t have
wasted the time.”
Christy wasn’t as forgiving as I was planning. She reached
for Angela by the false eyelashes and pulled.
“Tell us what you know about Farrell. I have ways of
making you talk.”
Christy had Lassie Angela in a headlock and was about to twist
when Lassie Angela finally opened up.
“All right,” Angela said. “We hang out a lot.
That much is true.”
“Why would he spend his time with you?” I asked.
“He could have any four women in Los Angeles at any
time.”
“Put the damn pieces together,” she said.
“You’re never gonna break into the Inner Circle if you
don’t. Do you think it’s a coincidence he always brings
his sister to all his premieres?”
The entire bar went silent.
“I see.”
Christy let her go and Angela scuttled off into the
ladies’ room. All eyes were on us.
“Nothing to see here!” I hollered as I dragged
Christy from the bar. “This was all a, uh, beautiful improv
scene we’re work-shopping, uh, for our audition with The
Groundlings!”
I could tell spies were everywhere. The urge to flee hit hard
and fast. I knew we were going to need some help from the
Underground if we were going to crack this egg. But it wasn’t
until we were already cruising our way down Wilshire Boulevard to
Ocean Avenue that I realized it may have been too late: Lassie
Angela had stolen my wallet.
Cobb is back in town, but will not tell The Bruin of his
whereabouts. If you have info or extra orange crayons (to lure him
back with) e-mail ccobb@media.ucla.edu.