.02.

I stared up at the massive, dark skyline. Adam finished his cigarette and flicked it out across the busy Avenue. We turned to head inside. The large doorman stood with arms folded across his chest while we presented him our ID's. He wore a scowl which made you think you'd already done something terribly wrong.

The scowl melted into a warming smile, as his voice boomed, "How are we, Gentlemen? Welcome."

He ushered us inside, and we began snaking our way through the dangerously crowded idiots' breeding ground.

We took up a position within comfortable ordering distance of the bar and tolerable viewing distance from the large screen televisions at the far end of the bar beaming forth the USC game (Cal, not Cocks), and ordered a round of drinks.

After enjoying the game and our beers for several minutes, and after a trip to the luxurious bathroom each, we took note of two females beginning to draw a rather, how you say, dull crowd.

As they were standing and sitting directly next to us, or rather, to be more specific, directly next to Adam, we enjoyed our front row seats to the mating dance. Whatever price we paid for this show, which I believe was the price of two beers each ($10 plus tip), was well worth it, as there was no shortage of clichés, horrible "dancing," and the unbuttoning of one's shirt in an effort to heighten the throw of one's machismo.

Finally, my partner in perversion could no longer contain himself and let out an unstoppable laugh. The female directly beside him, named Christine, as we would soon find out, took notice of his overt delight in the spectacle, and pulled him to the side, asking, "Are you with these guys?"

To which Adam replied, "No. I don't even know them."

Now, let me tell you a little something about Adam Shatarsky. He is one of the most brilliant actors I know. But the man does not think before he speaks. I do not say this to be mean, but merely to point out a fact. He, himself, will admit to this fault, if one could even call it that in today's society.

I tell you this so that you will understand, at least to the degree that he and I understood after discussing this occasion at great length after the fact, that when he said "No. I don't even know them," he did so in a perfect lower-class, East End, British dialect.

"Oh my," Christine replied, "Where are you from?"
"From London."

A few days later Adam confided in me, "Right then she should have known I was full of it. Nobody's from London." Adam certainly wasn’t from London. He’d never been anywhere near London. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Gin, he probably wouldn’t even know the place existed.

"Wow. What are you doing here?" She queried.
"Shootin' a film that my mate wrote," he replied gesturing to me, who at the time was completely unaware of these happenings due to the noise level inside the bar.

"Oh. Where's he from?"
"He's from London, too."