London to Paris
On the Run
Most people seldom realized my mother was insane when talking to her, but I knew.
When I was young, standing around my mother’s knees, I loved listening to her voice and watching people fall under her spell. At the time, I thought everyone loved her as much as I did. She had a smooth throaty voice that was rich yet feminine and it could turn into velvet when she wanted something. It wrapped around you like the warm blanket of an opiate high.
With all the adventures and carpetbaggery in her life; I’m still amazed at how she could keep all the lies together in that racing, manic mind and spin tales so casually when dealing with her newest victim.
Mom told tales of woe that were simple for others to understand- but her specialty was finding people with money and getting it out of them.
My mother was a master illusionist. Most people who got swindled by her would agree later on; she had a way about her.
She was witty, educated and articulate-with a genuine protectiveness for the uneducated and downtrodden.
Her face would captivate you; she had bright blue eyes of a true Irishwoman and the smooth white alabaster skin of her Mother’s Polish roots that had bewitched many a lover during her days in Greenwich Village on Jane Street. Despite being heavy later on in life, she was always considered beautiful because she carried it well.
On the day she jumped bail after several months at Holloway Women’s Prison, she called me from a pay phone at her bail hostel in Oxford. If she stayed for her court date, she said, she’d be locked up for more than a year. She told me to start packing, because she’d be by to pick me up in an hour.
Looking back now, I realize I would have done serious time had I been caught helping her escape, but, I was seventeen and thought I could save her from herself.
Anyway, I knew it was time to get the fuck out of dodge; it was just a matter of time before I caught for performing the traveler’s check scam she taught me. The con had kept me fed while I was on the streets, but it was still considered theft in the eyes of her majesty’s courts and I didn’t want to end up sharing a cell with my mother.
It was around mid-afternoon when I heard her pull up to Amanda’s apartment in a black shiny London taxi. I was rushing around, packing up the last of my shit, when I looked out of the open window, down to the wet street and saw her getting out of the cab. I dropped my cigarette with a shaking hand and stared at her.
The few short months in prison had changed and hardened her, she’d lost weight and her face was ashen. For the first time, she’d been in prison for months, not just the few days that she was used to. I had told her over and over again that the computer age was upon us, but she kept running her old scams and ended up in all the systems. I began to believe her when she told me England was trying to kill us.
“We have to go,” Mom said as she walked in Amanda’s East end apartment in Stoke Newington. She looked around at the bare living room and her eyes settled on me, she was edgy and restless. “Now.” she looked at her watch. She didn’t bother to chat with Amanda; who was by the window, smoking a silk cut.
I looked at Amanda and she understood. She and I were the same age and became friends in a strange way. Our mothers were cellmates together at Holloway.
Mom had begged Amanda’s mother to let me live with her daughter, because it was winter in London and I was sleeping on the streets or at friend’s houses. Her mom showed great compassion and Amanda and I bonded immediately.
We had a lot in common-we liked to get as drunk as we could on Thunderbird, smoke hash and laugh at the absurdity of life.
Amanda had a thick Cockney accent and was of mixed race. She wore matching Addias hoodie tracksuits and always had her hair up in a ponytail. She was Sporty Spice. She had creamy cafe latte skin, with a spattering of freckles across the bride of her nose and her eyes were hazelnut colored with flecks of copper. She should have been a Bennetton model, but she was stuck in the ghetto and didn’t know how to get out.
Amanda had talents and one of them was being a professional when it came to rolling spliffs. She taught me how to roll quick, small ones you could puff on and toss in the bushes if a cop was nearby. Pipes were too much evidence to carry and get busted with. Joints, as we Americans call them. Spliffs in England.
The Brits also have a different way of smoking out. When you smoke weed in a circle of friends in the U.S, you take a hit and pass it. In England, one holds on the joint for a few puffs and smokes 3 or 4 hits while everyone chats. If you pulled that shit in California, you would get your ass kicked for Bogarting the joint. Puff, puff pass, bitch. Everyone needs to get high. Now.
Oh, and they don’t have weed, grass, chronic or any of the green stuff over there. They smoke hash. And if you smoke too much or try to smoke it like grass, you will puke in a few hours.
Reality was something we didn’t like to deal with while our mothers were in prison together, so we got high. And drunk. But high during the day. We knew that if you drank during the day, you were an alcoholic. So we smoked hash.
Amanda would pull out a brown sticky square of hash and flick her lighter over the end corner of it. She would carefully sprinkle the crumbly brown hash over tobacco, which had been ripped out of a Silk Cut cigarette. She rolled it up in a Zig Zag paper and light it. She squinted as the cloud of smoke wafted in her face.
She took a long drag of a joint and held it in as she spoke, “Morgain, I’m just a half caste girl living in the ghetto. ” She blew it out and her eyes watered. “What kind of job can I get? I ain’t got nuffink, mate. No fucking education, no fucking money, not even me Mum.” She shook her head ruefully. She looked up at me, like maybe I had the answer.
I replied, “At least your mum left you a house to live in when she went down in flames, my Mom left me holding a bag of shit. Pass that spliff.”
We’d dissolve into the giggles and insulate ourselves against the harsh world with laughter. The highs from the hash would take us to an innocent place where we could be like children again. She was the only girlfriend I’ve ever had that also had a mom in prison and we could tell each other the truth.
I’d smoke and smoke, taking deep long hits into my lungs, so it would fill up the aching in my chest. The fuzzy, creeping feeling that spread through my body made me feel safe.
I felt bad that Amanda didn’t have any sisters to share the misery of having a parent in Prison. At least I had my three sisters when Mom got arrested in the States. I thought about them and knew they were worried about me, but there wasn’t anything they could do. They didn’t have money to send me and were trying to stay alive themselves. And, I was too ashamed to tell them that she’d tricked me, again.
Now, Mom was back. I wasn’t sure why I felt so uneasy around her, but I could tell that she was in the dark places of her mind where not even I could reach her. My mother was gone, replaced by a strange, sinister woman with a wild, leaping look in her eyes.
Usually when it was time to run, Mom would laugh and say to us, “Let’s get this show on the road, kid!” or “You go where I go amigo!” but not this time.
I was packing my stuff in the bathroom and I caught my reflection in the mirror as I looked up from the sink. I was very pale and my eyes had a strange glimmer to them as well. They weren’t my eyes, they were like a street cat’s, skittish and not sure who to trust. Mom’s long stay in prison must have changed me too.
I said goodbye to my friend, thanking her for saving my life and from the bitterly cold London streets where I had been wandering, humiliated after I had to leave my posh school and friends in Kensington. I lugged my suitcase down the stairs and we got into the waiting taxi.
As the taxi puttered along to train station, I took a long last look out the window. When we fled from the detectives in the States, Mom told me she was going to turn her life into something good here and get a job as a writer. I had loved this city and all the hope it held for us in the beginning. Then everything had turned dark, like it always did before we had to leave in a hurry.
Waterloo station was coming up and I thought of the long trip before us. Getting out of England was going to be hard. Mom was supposed to be back at the bail hostel by now and it was getting dark. They would start looking for her soon.
Mom and I got out of the cab and headed towards the train station. She was slow and creaky from age and I turned around to wait for her. The wind whipped her grey hair up in tufts, in a comical way, like a picture of fun times from the rollercoaster rides at an amusement park. She smiled at me and I knew I couldn’t leave her. Another round in prison would kill her.
We could start over. Mom would never be able to get a job with all the police and detectives looking for her, but somehow, starting over sounded right.
Going to France would buy us some time to come up with a solution. Maybe the detectives would realize she was mentally ill and needed help, not prison.
She was supposed to be back at the bail hostel in Oxford by dusk, and it was definitely dark now. We still needed another hour on the train south to the ocean. Then we had to get on the ferry in Portsmouth. Somehow, we had to get on the boat without Mom getting caught through their checkpoint and sent back to Holloway Women’s Prison.
When we got to the Waterloo train station, I realized sporting events were finally good for something. The British were invading France for the weekend so see their soccer team. A massive crowd of rose-cheeked men from Liverpool in soccer jerseys were flooding the station, trying to get on the last trains to the ferry. The were jumpy and excited, looking for a fight and a fuck.
These Celtic men were on fire and they were determined to stay as functionally drunk as possible. They carried cases of beer under their arms and most had backpacks filled with more supplies in case they ran out on the nighttime ferry ride over.
For once, the ancient rivalry between these two countries helped women. Well, they helped two Irish American gypsy women evade the law. Thanks, soccer.
As we went into Waterloo Station, I hugged her. Then we went over to the ticket window to buy our tickets to Portsmouth, where the ferry would be waiting.
“A fascinating and unapologetic insider account of a family run wild by a Borderline Mom and a philandering Hollywood Dad, that makes your typical dysfunctional family look like a day at Disneyland.” -Jim Clemente, FBI Profiler (Retired), Writer/Producer.
“Funny and heart breaking. The Travelling Roadshow Of The Countess Maritsa is a strangely relatable story for those of us who grew up in weird families. I loved it.”- Kirsten Vangsness ( “Garcia” on Criminal Minds) Actress.
“Morgain has traveled the world, lived the craziest life and made it out alive and sane… Not many can say the same. It was truly my pleasure to welcome you into my home in Paris. We were young and we had fun, except for the theft :). I always wondered what happened to you and your Mother. I am so happy to know that you grew into such a great woman and a brilliant writer. Thanks for the memories.” - Liskula Cohen
“Morgain is a driven and passionate actress and person. She has a keen awareness of entertainment industry and is working hard at her craft”-Scott David, CSA Casting Director
Erin, Sue (family friend), Katie, Morgain
On The Road- Mt.Shasta 1983
The Travelling Roadshow Of The Countess Maritsa is a memoir written by Morgain McGovern, who grew up in a gypsy-like family of four rebellious sisters headed by their mother, Maureen, a brilliant con-woman on the run.
The book starts when I was seventeen, hiding out in a Parisian hotel room with my fugitive mother, who was wanted by the French authorities, British authorities, Interpol and the FBI.
As I lay in bed watching old “Kojack” reruns in a pill induced haze in our hotel room, I saw my Father’s episode dubbed over in French. The story then melts into our family’s history in “The Bionic Woman” and against the backdrop of his acting career in 1970’s Los Angeles.
Some of my earliest memories were stories of trashed movie trailers and tales of adventure with his wild actor friends: John Quade (Clint Eastwood films), Roscoe Lee Brown, Julius Harris, Jack Nicholson, Dennis Hopper and Warren Beatty.
But after one too many affairs on movie sets and theatre tours, Mom left her womanizing husband & took her four little girls (and a furry menagerie of our animals) on the road in a Winnebago.
Mom might have had a Samsonite case full of pills and borderline personality disorder, but she had a sharp knack for crime.
In the “Mad Men” era of the mid sixties, New York Herald Tribune journalist Maureen Smith met Don McGovern, a Broadway actor and stage manager (1963-66) of Lincoln Center in the East Village-who also moonlighted as a Mafia henchman.
He taught her everything he learned about crime, and while running a nightclub for a famous mob family in the meat market district, Dad got knifed in an argument with a “made” man- his boss- and the couple knew it was time to hit the road and drive to a new life in California.
At first, it was an ideal family life, having four little girls and living on our ranch in trendy Agoura. Mom’s sisters lived nearby in Los Angeles and provided some stability and guidance. We visited our father’s movie sets and went to studio parties with the glitterati, but the sepia toned memories and happiness were soon fleeting.
My father’s roles (Easy Rider, The Bionic Woman, Killer Bees, the Last Detail, Sleeper, Kojack and others) gave him the acclaim he needed, but alcoholism and the lure of other women soon engulfed him. One of his favorite stories was when he and his best friend Mike Whitney (Twiggy’s ex-husband) got drunk at our house in Laurel Canyon and then decided to cement over Ali McGraw’s footprints at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, as they didn’t think she deserved the honor.
About the time Dad & Mike Whitney
cemented over Ali MacGraw‘s footprints at
Graumanns’ Chinese Theatre
Caravanning across America, we lived in gorgeous houses in affluent areas then when luck ran out, we crashed in run-down motels across the country & abroad. Rarely staying in one town for more than six months, Mom raised us with artistic ideals, to seek truth and beauty, kindness and compassion.
Mom’s regular form of income was fraud, of all kinds, but she really came alive when she got on the phone- wheeling and dealing, putting deals together with rich people. Some of them were spectacular. She was gifted at real estate and quit claims-because she had the knack of knowing what land was about to be valuable, get the rights to buy it somehow and sell it to whoever really wanted it at a much higher price. She did this with no actual money of her own and it was dazzling. When it was working in her favor, her mind was her greatest asset.
Mom loved big, rambling farmhouses out in the country and my sisters and I would pick wildflowers and plant gardens at whatever new house we lived in, putting down roots in the ground, as if it were some sort of magic spell to make us stay in one place. As I planted, I knew we wouldn’t be there the next spring to see hollyhocks come up-but I left my mark on the earth, I had been there.
Wherever we moved, Mom would invite strange people to live with us.
She’d find them at the DMV or pick up people spare-changing for food outside of the local grocery store. We were a family like Robin Hood, doing the right thing and helping these strange drifters that Mom had found. She told us that it was the kind thing to do, people should help each other. But as I got older, I realized they were her henchmen.
They would live in our guesthouse, attic or basement and fixed things around the property. As time went by, Mom’s choice of house guests would get scruffier and lower on the moral ladder. Drug addicts, dealers, low-lifes, crackers, swamp trash, anti-socials, squatters, whores, trailer trash, junkies, whatever she could find-the dumber, the better. The more affluent ones had their van or trailer they’d been living in towed to our newest property.
They would lights cars on fire, burn things down, return stolen items back to a pricey store (for cash or store credit), stage a robbery or whatever else she could think of to collect the insurance money.
Sometimes, they would get high, drunk or just completely misunderstand Mom’s directions and fuck things up so badly that we’d have to move sooner than anticipated. Most of her vagabond victims would only be around for a few months and the smart ones moved on to roam after they collected their share.
She’d order one of them to roll a dying car with a shot transmission off of a cliff or flood the basement of whatever house we were renting. We would gather up all of our clothes we were sick of, broken electronics (and anything else we didn’t want or feel like packing) and throw it into the dark, smelly lake that used to be our playroom. She told us that the basement had flooded overnight and while it was an unfortunate accident, we could get new stuff this way.
When my oldest sister Meagan was about ten, she got electrocuted when she flipped on the basement light before Mom could warn her. She looked down and realized she was standing in deep, electrified water on the top step but her puffy rubber-soled moon boots saved her from death.
Before we’d leave town and move on to our next new life, our basements morphed into something that looked like the end scene of the movie Titanic, with a shaved head Barbie doll floating face down in the black water, dismembered and abandoned to a watery death.
But when Mom was really upset or nervous, she would set things on fire. Torching rental houses was her signature way of letting the world know that she was angry, horrifying hysterical landlords who wanted their three-month’s of back rent.
My sisters and I would wave goodbye from the back of the station wagon with our cats and dogs to the bad town that wasn’t right for us. We knew other people led normal lives but Mom told us the new town was going to be better. This town was bad luck.
In some classrooms we’d be popular and never want to leave, in others, we’d be pariahs and didn’t bother with doing our homework. We knew it was only a matter of time before we were on the road again.
After our eighth or ninth school, my sisters and I began to create cover stories to tell our newfound friends. Growing up in chaos created a defiant kind of camaraderie for us. The secrets of our sisterhood banded us together to kept us sane.We began to realize what our Mom was, but we didn’t have the word for it. I told friends that my mom was freelance writer with a gypsy streak. We knew that soon she’d find a real job as a writer, eventually.
The magic box of pills that also doubled as a seat for me in the front of the van.
With warrants and detectives trailing us, the bills were paid with insurance fraud, clever scams and bad checks.We wanted to believe our mother- that the next move was permanent and we would settle down, but we all knew better.
Our father called occasionally, and told us he never wanted to be a parent, just an artist in a garret.
Mom’s brilliant mind would come through and save us every once in awhile.
When I was in the 3rd grade, she auditioned and became a contestant on a trivia game show called “Sale Of The Century”. She gave the other contestants a beating, and after a long week of tapings, she won $75,000 in cash, plus a bunch of prizes and a trip up to Monterrey, California.
Her winnings on the show changed our nomadic lives. For the first time, we went to a school for two years in a row and even though we still took road trips in our custom van up to Oregon, Washington and Idaho; we had a home to go back to in Los Angeles. We had food in the refrigerator and the cops didn’t come by to arrest Mom every few months. It was peaceful.
Things got bad again once the money ran out. We ended up living in a motel on Sepulveda Boulevard for three months until Mom could think of something. I’ve driven by that motel recently and families are still living there.
Three years later, we were living in a motel in Upstate New York when Mom found out that the game show was hosting a “Return Of The Champions” and wanted her to be a contestant on the show to defend her game show queen title-in Australia.
The show was a huge hit in Australia and the producers were willing to fly her and one other person to Melbourne and put her up in a hotel for at least a week or so. She convinced them to pay for Me and Erin to go, since we were both under fifteen. Mom had warrants out and detectives looking for her in New York-so a trip to Australia to escape certain jail time in New York was an opportunity that Mom couldn’t refuse.
When we got to Melbourne, There were about thirty other “champions” from various “Sale Of The Century” shows around the world, mostly Britons, Americans and Australians. I’ve never seen people who loved to drink so much (and for free) in a hotel bar.
All the contestants were shuttled to the studio every day, and the producers would randomly pick the contestants who would be on the show for the day. Everyone would come back by five or six for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres in the lounge. Mom finally had a 9 to 5 job.
Erin and I would take the trolley all around Melbourne and explore. It was brilliant.
It was in the lounge where Mom picked off her prey. Mom liked pills more than the drink, so she would wait it out while the other contestants got drunk and mingled. In 1989, there was no Internet. It was hard to tell if a credit card was stolen and they were run by hand machines and carbon copies. The stores would only phone in a suspiciously large purchase, so it would be weeks before English banks would know anything was up.
Mom’s day to finally be a contestant on the show came-and she didn’t do well at all. She was very sick on the day of the taping and only made about $1700. It was time to go back home to the states.
We tried to look on the bright side, even though she didn’t bring in the kind of money we needed, at least we had gotten a free trip to Australia. We tried to reassure her, the cops from New York were probably looking for somebody else by now.
For a last hurrah, Mom rented a car and drove us to see the fairy penguins march up the beach at dusk, back to burrow in their sand cave homes, all nestled in and warm with their furry families in the cliffs overlooking the Tasmanian sea.
We started to drive the car north, through the Snowy River Forest and then up to ninety mile beach where massive waves and a blue wall of water could come up slowly or quickly, and if you weren’t paying attention, you’d get soaked sitting 100 feet from the faded water lines. We were on our way to Sydney-we were going to fly back to the States from there.
After we got back to New York, we crashed at Katie and Meagan’s apartment. My sisters and I couldn’t joke about this anymore, we all started to unravel. We needed a Mom and she was wanted by the police all over New York for various thefts and fraud.
Mom checked herself into fancy mental hospital because she said that the cops can’t arrest you if you’re a patient. The four of us were on our own until she could figure something out. She was there for a few weeks when the cops found her and it was a matter of time before they figured out a loophole in the mental patient protection law. Mom checked herself out and announced that we were moving to Hilton Head Island, in South Carolina. Tomorrow.
Rich people from Ohio, New York and Connecticut usually go to the Carolinas for a vacation and expect to find golf, warm weather and Margaritaville. They’d have someone safe watch their kids at the hotel so they could go out and party.
Mom was waiting for them like a grandma spider nanny in a beautiful hotel. After the kids came back from swimming, tennis or golf lessons, Mom would put them to bed and help herself to whatever cash or jewelry she didn’t think the parents would miss. Most of the time, they hadn’t realized they’d been robbed until they got back to their northern homeland and sobered up.
Mom had a way of making sure she only robbed super rich people who on their last day of vacation and were leaving early for the next flight back home.
“I was a boutique thief, I never robbed anyone who’d be left with nothing”, she told me recently. “Morgain, there is no honor among thieves, I’ve never seen it. But I never stole from someone who’d be left with nothing. I stole from the rich.”
Detectives were searching the house on a regular basis and Mom got arrested for grand theft, robbery and insurance fraud. Meanwhile, New York State had several warrants out for her and was trying to extradite her back.
My sisters were done. They decided to move back to upstate New York and break free from Mom, but I couldn’t. For years, we had been raised on a roller coaster ride of torched houses, cross country road trips, international hotel rooms, run down motels, a gunfight, foreign authorities, Australian game shows, addiction and madness.
After Mom posted bail on Hilton Head, my sisters had already left and I was alone with her. Mom presented me with a new plan. We were going to start a new life in England. I knew how sick she was, but to this day, I still don’t know why I couldn’t leave her.In England, I started going to a posh school in Kensington and started hanging out with my friends. I tried to stay away from home as much as possible. While I was at school, Mom had started doing some very bad things and ended up in Holloway Women’s Prison, in London. The detectives confiscated my passport and I was trapped in London, homeless for the rest of the winter.
After Mom escaped from her bail hostel in Oxford, we left England in the night. From there, our journey took us to Spain, France and back to the United States-which escalated into a FBI manhunt and America’s Most Wanted.
As the Internet age came upon her, Mom was caught just before her segment on “America’s Most Wanted” aired, and she was sent to Federal prison for several years. One detective in Fort Bend, Texas thought she was affiliated with the notorious “Irish Travelers” band of gypsies, but nothing has ever been proven.
For years, we were raised on a roller coaster ride of torched houses, cross country road trips, international hotel rooms, run down motels, a gunfight, foreign authorities, Australian game shows, drug and alcohol abuse, a Parisian dungeon, French nuns, a house chicken and madness.
From Melbourne, Australia, (while our mother was on a popular game show there and robbing the other contestants) to the streets of London, clubbing in Paris with the famous and then on to the South of France, this story reflects the facets of a rare American life. It has its own kind of glamour and bittersweet triumph that will fascinate pop culture fans.
I settled in Los Angeles and started living my life. With funny stories of friends (Chelsea Handler) who became famous and people I’ve met along the way, this story has twists that could rival a Tarantino film.
Chelsea Handler & Morgain McGovern. Santa Monica, California
Here’s a link to the debauchery…Chelsea gets booted from the Frying Pan bathroom-
New York Post Page Six
The Travelling Roadshow of the Countess Maritsa a story about the American dream unraveling.
It’s a tale of a brilliant but mentally ill mother, who resorts to criminal activity to support her four children. But along the way, she tried to provide them with invaluable tools of truth and beauty.
It’s about the transformation of four young women who grew up on the road, got sucked into the abyss of madness with their mother and then found their way out to freedom.
Plenty Of Fools
“In this country, you gotta make the money first. Then when you get the money, you get the power. Then when you get the power, then you get the women.” Tony Montana
Online dating is somewhat like walking into a new school when you’re in the 7th grade, and it’s lunchtime. Find a place to sit in the Cafeteria, by yourself. Wait for a bit while everyone stares at you. Try not to cry or run. Show no fear, they smell fear.
If you’ve never had to go online and date, consider yourself sheltered and very blessed to have someone you love romantically in your life. Don’t ever break up. Because I promise, meeting new men from a computer profile picture and then in person (to potentially date and have sex with) is totally awkward and new to humans, socially.
This is the first time in history when men and women had a catalog at their fingertips to scroll for potential mates and see what kind of arrangement on this electronic pick-a-mate automat can get you. It’s worse than arranged marriage, because you’re in charge and if you screw up, there’s nobody else to blame.
My sister met her husband in the 90’s. These were the good old days of dating services, where you actually went into a center and went through books of pictures and people. You were there because you were serious enough about dating that you were willing to drive to an office and look at profiles of guys. The center took pictures of you, so you looked like your picture. Photoshop wasn’t available to the public yet. These men were serious about finding a girlfriend.
My sister’s future husband was a chemical engineer and she was a writer for a newspaper and worked the midnight shift. They crossed paths because of a dating service and they make each other very happy. They are both cute, smart, funny and of the same attractiveness. They suit each other. They never would have met, they were in totally different fields and have been married for sixteen years and have beautiful little hippie children. True love is possible, if you are ready to date your own kind. Water seeks its own level.
I’ve been on a lot of dates in the last few months. I can get in and out in under 45 minutes now. After about a year and a half of online dating sites and seeing what’s out there, I’ve realized that most people are delusional. I think people should date in their attractiveness, education & class range. Some disagree, but people seek what they know. If you are wealthy in Los Angeles, the rules change a little in your favor, but caveat emptor. You get what you pay for.
Internet dating is now a beat-up low cost party bus at 3am. It’s a hybrid of Craigslist, Facebook and a bad meat market dance club circa 1996. The fat/unattractive guys want hot chicks. The hot guys want the other hot guys. The really hot straight guys are already gone and making out with three girls. The hot girls want a sponsor. The normal girls want a normal guy, but normal guys have been raised on the beer myth and don’t want normal women. They say they do, but they don’t. They want a hot chick who’s not going to use them as an ATM machine. Good luck, homie. This is L.A.
What is the beer myth? The beer myth is the mantra that Carl’s Jr., Maxim Magazine, Budweiser and most advertising companies have been promoting since advertising began.
“Average men deserve a beautiful woman. If you drink our beer, buy our clothes, car or eat our five dollar burgers, you will get one. If you buy it, they will come.”
Somewhere, deep down, men feel defrauded. Where is this hot chick they were promised? She was supposed to show up at the drive through after he bought the burger, she wasn’t in the beer aisle or at the car dealership when he bought the Audi.
He sees her everywhere, on bill boards, organic food ads, surf shops, swimsuit covers, at the mall and in magazines. The cute, quirky, approachable one? She’s a model, dude. Then he sees are normal women who haven’t been photoshopped. That’s not normal to him. They are too ugly for beer myth man.
Then, beer myth man looks in the mirror and realizes that he’s not rich enough for a model. So, the struggle to make money is on. There is a reason why the movie Scarface is so popular with men. Women quote a lot of movies, but mostly men quote Scarface. They understand him.
Los Angeles is full of couples who don’t suit each other. At all. If you are dating a beautiful woman here and you are not cute or about the same attractiveness, chances are that you are offering her something in exchange for her beauty. Same goes for you too, Cougars.
I saw an elderly woman with a Jennifer Anniston tan and a big hunk of a diamond ring hanging all over a gorgeous young guy at Trader Joe’s. She was buying them groceries and lot of booze. Morals and decency aren’t big in this town. Grandma had highlights and her hand on this young boy’s ass.
Look around you. I was a waitress from the time I was fourteen until I was thirty four. I’ve seen a lot of couples come and go in the restaurants & bars all over the United States. Humans date to their own attractiveness. It’s biology. Anybody who tells you otherwise is lying to you or to themselves.
If you see an old, short, hard-eyed, vicious looking man in a nice suit with a really pretty girl, it’s normal in this town, but I never could get used to it. It’s weird to see a young girl with an older guy. Pretty girls in small towns don’t go out with old men, they go out with their cute boyfriends from college.
Why would a 23 year old go out with a crusty lawyer whose ex-wife hates him? It’s not because he’s fantastic in the sack or suave or whatever else he wants to tell himself. She is dating him because she thinks his money will provide safety. Pretty women aren’t gold diggers because they’re heartless bitches, pretty women date rich guys because they provide safety and a nice life. Money equals safety. The dickhead lawyer isn’t a bad guy for wanting a beautiful woman, he’s dating her because he bought the beer myth. He got tricked too. He thinks beauty will bring him happiness and the approval of other men.
Internet dating makes you ask yourself questions you hadn’t thought of before. Do you want to date a guy with kids? Do you even want kids? Do you really? If you’re in your mid to late thirties, guys assume you will want to have them soon. How old are you willing to go? Are you willing to blow a 55 year old man? Are you into interracial dating? What about guys from different parts of the world who now live in L.A? Do you want to date guys from Eastern Europe?
You know that women always end up moving to where the dude is from. Do you really want to move in with his whole family in Croatia? Can you find Croatia on a map? It makes you realize how many people are in the world. There are a lot of people in the world. A lot.
Today I got an email from a guy who really likes my profile & wants to meet me. I think he forgot we already went out on a date a year ago. On our date at a trendy restaurant on Abbot Kinney, over Paella, he told me he used to make out “and more!” with his cousin. He didn’t see anything wrong with fucking his first cousin, occasionally. He was from Florida.
I think it’s a good policy to not make out or fuck anybody you’d consider family. For me, family is off limits, you have to see these people at weddings and funerals. My uncle gave me and my sisters a solid piece of advice when he told us, “Don’t date anybody at work and anybody who lives in your apartment complex.” Solid. Advice.
After posting on Facebook about this, a guy friend of mine said it wouldn’t really matter if it was a second or third cousin. Our society has forced men to consider their 2nd or 3rd cousins instead of having to face the world of Internet dating.
The problem is that on online dating sites are free, except for Match.com and a lot of guys sign up on the sly, even when they have a girlfriend, or wife. They have nothing to lose. Some guys have no picture up, but tell you that they’ll email you a picture privately. This means they are married or have a serious girlfriend and don’t want their girlfriend’s friends to see them online. Do not date any guy that doesn’t have a picture up already. It means he is a cheater or is hiding his face from public for a reason. It won’t end well, I promise.
I have been invited to three ways, four ways, and been asked out on dates with with wife’s blessing. Apparently some wives let their husbands “play”. Right.
After reading a profile from a somewhat cute assistant director ramble on about he only wants to date thin women and only thin women (he was very serious about this, no fatties, nobody size 10 or over) I realized what the problem is. The reason why dating is so hard in L.A is because nobody wants to settle. People want to trade up. Nobody wants to date someone who’s struggling with the normality of life too. When is the prince/princess coming? The guys are afraid of missing out on the hot chick that is going to show up. Because she’s coming soon, the commercials said so.
An excerpt from “The Travelling Roadshow Of The Countess Maritsa”
Copyright 2011, Morgain McGovern
Claudia Miele was the kind of person who would buy six packs for homeless people hanging out in front of the 7-11 on Santa Monica Boulevard and throw in a pack of smokes for good measure.
I would wait for her in the car and watch her as she came out of the store, irritated that she was spending her hard earned money on shiftless, able-bodied men who should be working during the day instead of drinking themselves to death. She would joke with the rotten-toothed hoboes as she handed them the precious packages, like some kind of alcohol faerie who came back to them from a long forgotten dream.
They would stare at her when she laughed with them, hypnotized by her. The scruffy guys would glance at each other, not really believing their incredible luck and beauty of this woman who’d been so kind to them. When she tossed a few packs of Marlboro lights into the bag and handed it over, they were overcome with silent awe, as if they’d been visited by the holy spirit.
She was tall, with cascading chestnut hair that tumbled past her shoulders and fell midway between her shoulder blades down her back. She wasn’t what you would consider a typical California girl, she was first generation Tuscan-American and her European looks were suited more to the streets of Florence than of Santa Monica. Her light green eyes were flecked with specks of gold, almost iridescent-like a piece of tiger’s eye stone on a woman’s bracelet. Both of her parents had immigrated to the United States from Tuscany in the mid-1960’s, and raised Claudia in Orange County. They taught her how to be a fantastic cook and the importance of healthy food.
I met Claudia when I was waitressing at Rosti, on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica. She was a waitress and assistant manager there, but she never lorded it over me, like the other servers did when they got a promotion. We came to be friends one Saturday morning when we were both scheduled to open the restaurant.
That was the morning I was was late for work and trying to outrun the fumes from my hangover. The stale wine smell was still on my tongue and I needed to slam some coffee. It was just another day really, when I rushed in and saw that Claudia was already there, setting up the restaurant.
I don’t even think she realized I was ten minutes late. She was over by the side cabinets in the hallway, checking the levels of the salt and peppers and had lined them up like little soldiers with silver tops, getting ready for the day’s battle. She kept fidgeting with them, polishing the shakers over and over again, and counting all the sugars and splenda’s to make sure they were all equally alike and aligned.
I threw my bag under the cupboard, tied on my apron and made myself some coffee. Another wave of nausea hit me and I thought about the one hitter in my car. I needed to make stealth mission and go to my car and take a hit of weed. I didn’t know Claudia very well, but I didn’t think she’d tell on me to upper management if she smelled it. She seemed cool.
The creamy tendrils in my coffee cup shook a little as I walked over to help her fill up the rest of the sugar caddies. In the morning, it was hard for me to grab anything and it took a while for my hands to get strength back. The waves of nausea I could take care of with a bongload, but I didn’t know any tricks to keep my hands from trembling. I was twenty-three but felt like an old woman who’d spent the night at the Elks Lodge, drinking well Manhattans.
Over at the side bar, she had made an assembly line with big plastic buckets of blue, yellow and pink artificial sweeteners. The powdery dust of the Splenda mist wafted up into my nose and burned a sweet napalm path into my lungs as I walked over. I hated the smell and knew that once it got into the back of my throat, it would stay there all day. Sugar caddie sidework sucked and the chemical smells made my head pound harder.
We worked quietly, with only the clank and clatter of the cooks gearing up their station to break the quiet. We had to hurry, the lunch rush that would slam us in about an hour and we still had a shitload to do before we opened the restaurant. Plus, there was always an old person who’d shuffle in at 10:30 and try to get served early. Most Merkels get up at the crack of dawn and think 10:30 am is lunchtime.
After we filled a few caddies, Claudia turned to me and said, “I just found out that I have stage 3 breast cancer, they’re going to cut off my breast on Monday.”
I said the first thing that popped into my head, which usually isn’t practical or helpful, “You can’t have cancer, that’s for old people.” I said. “You’re only twenty-eight.”
She cracked a faint smile. “That’s what I thought.” She said, and let out a deep breath like she’d been holding it in all morning.
We talked for a little while about her treatment and who was going to cover her shifts and what she was going to do. It had already spread to her rib bone over her heart; literally eating its way through her body.
She said, “ I only came into work because I couldn’t stand staring at the four walls at home, they were closing in on me.”
I looked at her and said, “Yeah, I guess it’s better to stay busy dealing with these entitled bastards, then you won’t think about it so much. ”
We went back to work and I tried to shake off the feeling of fear and sadness that shook me, but I couldn’t.
Most of our lunch rush consisted of ridiculous Santa Monica bitches that came in with their Yoga pants on and massive SUV baby strollers, after fanatically working out all morning. For some reason, they were terrified of getting fat and losing their asshole husbands who’d come in later and try to hit on the pretty waitresses.
Our restaurant was tiny and without fail; at the height of the rush, one of them would park a massive stroller the aisle, blocking the way for anyone trying to get through, completely oblivious to their idiocy. Then they’d put their baby in a highchair on the end of a table, in the blocked aisle, right in the line of fire of a server carrying a scalding bowl of soup or plate of gnocchi with steaming sauce. Most of them came from wealthy entertainment families and seemed bewildered by life. I was surprised that any of them actually made it through the day without getting shot.
Before this fateful day, I used to invite Claudia to go out with us for a beer after work, but she never did. Chelsea, Michelle, Alison, Chicken and my roommate Stephanie were all good friends and liked to drink like I did. But Claudia never took up the invitation.
She told me that she sometimes had her son on the weekends-a cute little grinning seven-year-old boy with bright green eyes. I’d seen him when he came in with his grandparents, visiting the restaurant. Most of the time she just said she was beat and going home.
But, she did smoke cigarettes and she and I would go outside on our breaks and talked about life and how things always are never what you expect them to be. “It’s like, everyone is walking around with these huge gaping holes in their chests, and we’re all pretending we’re okay.” I would tell her my theories on life and she’d listen. She got it.
“But it’s nothing a six-pack can’t fix.” I said, half-kidding.
She looked down and shook her head as she laughed and smoked her cigarette.
After she told me she had cancer, we became closer and I started going over to her beachfront home. It was a beautiful, million-dollar glass and creamy toned high-rise apartment over looking the entire coast and pier. She told me her parents were in real estate and did well in the 1970’s Las Vegas boom.
“Holy shit!” I said when I walked in, “Do you need a roommate? This place is like something out of Architectural Digest.” It was breathtaking.
Claudia had come of age in the Mission Viejo mid-80’s surf culture, partying with shaggy haired boys, smoking weed, skateboarding, listening to rock n roll, and making out with pouty rebel boys who would later grow into Orange County Republicans.
“It’s Cleaverland down there,” she’d tell me, “ It’s not like LA at all. Little kids play soccer and moms are moms.”
She had been a young mom and owned her house when she lived there, before her divorce. I was fascinated by this culture. She said families would hang out with their neighbors, took camping trips together, and on Sundays, worshipped at a big super church.
I grew up moving around a lot and didn’t have this kind of childhood experience. I didn’t learn how to cook until I started watching the chefs at the restaurants where I worked and then Claudia came along. She taught me the tricks and delicacies of garlic and how not to over season things, the importance of bringing out the full flavor of ripe tomatoes and pasta textures, and don’t ever, ever overcook vegetables. My mother had borderline personality disorder, so her cooking sprees were sporadic. Mom would take us through the drive through at McDonald’s almost every day, because it was easier and cheaper than cooking for four kids.
Claudia was horrified and amused when I showed her how I cooked. I threw in some spaghetti in a pot of lukewarm tap water and waited for it to heat up and get soggy.
“It cooks faster this way.” I explained to her.
“Morgain, the Tuscans have been cooking for a long time and that’s not how it’s done.” She tried to be patient with me. “Here, I’ll show you the directions on the box.” She tried to hide a smile as she helped me learn.
After she got too sick to work, we’d just sit in front of the huge floor to ceiling window that overlooked the beach and smoke bong loads, watching the huge waves crash against the shoreline.
One night at her place, I asked her why she never wanted to get high with me before she got cancer and she said, “Because I’m an alcoholic and I was sober for 3 years. When I found out I had cancer, I started drinking and smoking pot again.”
I had never met anyone that didn’t drink before, or had willingly stopped.
I said, “You’re not an alcoholic. You’re just young and like to party! But I hear what you’re saying. I have to stop hanging out with all of those girls. I’ve done pharmaceutical grade Ecstasy twice in my life, and both times Chelsea was involved.
“The last time I went out I thought ‘I”m going to die if I keep hanging out with them.”
She laughed and looked me in the eye and said, “ Morgain, I’m an alcoholic. And so are you.”
I said, “How did you know?”
She said, “Because you came into the restaurant hung-over every shift, smelling like booze, you smoke pot everyday and you drink like I do. We can spot each other. ” She took another rip off the bong.
I looked at her. “Yeah, I’m 23. That’s what people do.”
She laughed at me. “Morgain, I know your story. Normal people don’t drink like we do. You know the people that have one drink? Or maybe half a beer and then go home? They’re not alcoholics. You and I are the ones that like to do shots and close the bars down. Normal people don’t smoke pot everyday to cope with life. We’re alcoholics. ”
I bent forward and took another hit off the bong. I knew for a fact that there was such a thing as one drink.
I tried to talk some sense into her, “ You were just in some weird cult and now you’re free!” I hugged her, “It was just a phase. Maybe you grew out of it. I will too.” I was glad she didn’t push it.
She looked at me and said, “Someday, not now, but someday, you’ll want to stop. Then you’ll get sober. I’m going to go back to meetings soon, just not right now.” She took another bong load and blew out a hit. “This is the only thing that takes the nausea away. Everything I eat or drink tastes like dirty pool water.”
I tried to make her laugh “They should patent the chemo side affects for dieters. Cheer up! Think of how skinny you’ll get!” I poured her some more wine.
She said, “For the last five years, I’ve wanted a boob job and a tummy tuck. Now I’m getting one.” She lit another cigarette and looked out over the ocean. I knew she was thinking about her little boy.
Then we told each other stories until deep into the early hours of the morning.
As the night wore one, we stared at the sparkling lights of the Santa Monica pier and started talking about our mistakes and what we’d do over if we could. We talked about her getting better and all of the fun things she was going to do with her little boy when she beat this thing.
As the weeks went by, I watched her long glossy hair fall out in big clumps. One night, she asked me shave the rest of the patches off, with a little pink plastic razor. She didn’t want to ask her Mom or sister to do it, because it would break all of their hearts.
After this, we’d sit on chaise loungers on her balcony, talking to each other about beauty. “It’s almost worse when you’re used to being pretty and you lose your hair.” She said, “Especially in California, when the standards are so high. I cry every time I see a Victoria’s Secret commercial, because I used to have hair like that.” She would catch a look at herself in the mirror and give me a rueful smile.
I thought about how all the stupid little problems in my life had melted away and now I just had one big problem. My friend’s cancer kept spreading.