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Despite being fat, bald, and fuzzy, I’m actually pretty good at talking to girls. I have no shame, which helps.

A warning: This story has nothing at all to do with cars. If all you care about is reading car news on this site, check out some other posts, but if you want some insight into the real life trials and tribulations of Matt Farah, this is one story you don’t want to miss. My two biggest influences in my life are standup comedian Jim Norton, who, as part of the Opie and Anthony show on XM, taught me that you can say absolutely horrible, offensive things in public, and still somehow make it socially acceptable, and Tucker Max, who taught me that you can take that kind of behavior and use it to talk to women successfully, then turn those experiences into stories with brutal honesty that will land you on the New York Times Bestseller List. Well, here’s a brutally honest story about how I had the chance to hook up with a supermodel, and blew it…. badly.

Last night, Tom and I went out for drinks on the Redondo Beach pier with our friend Michelle from Cardomain. We were at a bar called Old Tom’s, which is a cool “lighthouse” style bar with a 360 degree view of the Redondo Harbor. We expected it to be crazy, since last night was the start of Labor Day weekend, but the bar was surprisingly uneventful. We ordered several rounds of Mai Tais, simply because if you order a Mai Tai it comes with a souvenir glass, and Tom decided we needed more glasses. We already have 12 of them in our cabinet. We now have 16. Two older women at the bar come up to me with a guy, and say I look familliar. I think they may be fans or something, but they ask if I’m Dave Navarro from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Obviously, I’m not, and even Dave Navarro, on the most coke he’s ever blown in his life, wouldn’t touch either of these women, so I walk away without even responding.

We leave the bar, somewhat bored, and on the way off the pier we walk past a small concert venue called Brixton. The Marquee says “Vitalogy,” a Pearl Jam tribute band. Many of you who watch the show have noticed the large tattoo on my left forearm, which is the Pearl Jam “Stickman” logo. That’s right, I have a band tattoo. I also have a tramp stamp, but that’s another story. I decide we must see this band, and get in line. The promoter sees my tattoo and comps our tickets. This is going well. We go to the bar right as Vitalogy comes on, and I have to say, they are excellent. But the bar is crowded, and I don’t want to have to go back to it again, so I order 8 Heinekens for me and Tom. Do you know how hard it is to drink a Heineken while standing up and holding 3 other open Henekens? They should give out certificates or something if you can pull that off while dancing to your favorite music in a crowded room.

This is when it gets good.

I see this smoking hot cougar about 20 feet away, make eye contact as I’m clapping 4 beer bottles against each other over my head. She laughs as one of the bottles overflows down my arm. Hey, I’ll take a laugh any way I can get it. I continue enjoying the music, glancing over every once in a while and smiling. Her face looks so familliar, but I can’t really place it. I’m sure the Mai Tai’s and Heinekens were helping with that.

Could have been worse though, Tom, who drank the same as me but weighs 150 lbs, decided he wanted to start a mosh pit. No one else in the crowd shared his enthusiasm, and the simultaneous piercing glare of 10-15 people at Tom nearly knocking over an entire liquor cabniet’s worth of drinks was enough to make me nearly fall over and spill what was left of my Heinekens.

As I’m putting empty bottles into my back pocket, I feel a tap on my right shoulder. I turn to look both ways, nothing, but the same woman was now a few feet behind me. Five minutes later, it happens again. Still apparently nothing. The third time I get tapped, I turn around to see this woman doubled over, laughing her ass off. Suddenly, I realize who this woman is: former supermodel Rachel Hunter, and ex-wife of Rod Stewart.

Now, despite being fat, bald, and fuzzy, I’m really good at talking to girls. I have no shame, which helps, so I will walk up to any woman I find attractive and just start talking to them. One of my best skills is storytelling, so I have an entire section of my brain stored up of great stories to tell people. However, I never, ever get approached by any girl that I would find even remotely attractive. To ugly girls, I’m fucking Spartacus, but when it comes to actual, attractive girls, I have to do all the legwork.

Now, finding Rachel Hunter playing the “tap on the shoulder” game with me threw me way off guard. I know the woman is 40 years old, but she’s still got it, I mean just smoking hot. And she’s at a PEARL JAM COVER BAND SHOW! She may as well be in my bedroom already. I know every word to every song. She’s impressed. We go to the bar and get another beer, finish it over chit chat, and go outside for a cigarette (don’t smoke kids, it’s bad for you. I, on the other hand, will probably die in a fiery car crash long before cigarettes will kill me).

Outside in the light, she tells her friends how bad she got me inside, and how I spilled beer down my arm, she even saw Tom’s attempted mosh pit. She thinks it’s all hilarious. I tell her how I thought the guy she was standing with (her friend’s husband) was her man, and how strange it was that he was 5’6″ and she was easily 6’3″ in high-heeled boots. She laughs and tells me she likes tall guys. I smile. (The irony of this statement will be seen later in the story)

Through this whole conversation, I never actually asked her name. As we finish our shared cigarette, we have the following conversation, which happened verbatim.

Me: I can’t believe I’ve waited so long to ask this, but what’s your name anyway? I’m Matt.

Her: Pleasure to meet you, Matt. I’m Angie.

Me: Oh, Angie. Nice. I gotta say, I thought I had a celebrity sighting there for a second.

Her: Oh yeah? Who did you think I was?

Me: Well, you’re a dead fucking ringer for Rachel Hunter.

Her: That’s funny, Rachel is a good friend of mine.

At this point, I’m actually quite confused.

Her: Yeah, my name is Angie Everhart.

Me: Fuck. My. Life.

Angie Everhart in 1998

…and today.

At this point, if you don’t know who Angie Everhart is, you should click here. The 120,000 images on Google Image Search should help. When you return to this article after 15 minutes or so of “man time,” we’ll continue the story.

My face turns beet, fucking red. In the late 90′s and early 2000′s, Angie Everhart was in every swimsuit catalog, Playboy twice, and was considered to be among the top 5 hottest women in the modeling industry. I even owned the February 2000 issue of Playboy in which Angie appeared on the cover, until I found, you know, internet porn. She used to date Prince Andrew, Sylvester Stallone, Howard Stern, and even Joe Pesci. I guess you don’t have to be tall if you were in My Cousin Vinny.

Angie sees my face, and hears my reaction, and immediately her and her friends start cracking up, not with me, but at me. Then, she feels bad for me, as a wave of full-on shame and embarrassment washes over me. I can actually feel the redness in my face pulsing through my normally thick skin. I am rendered, for perhaps the first time ever, totally speechless.

Angie: It’s OK, sweetie. You’re a funny guy. Don’t feel too bad.

This doesn’t help. I feel really bad. Not for her, mind you. I confused one 90′s supermodel for another, equally hot one. I feel bad for myself that I’ve just had this opportunity dropped right into my lap and I’ve completely blown it.

She left shortly after that, as one of her friends was apparently too wasted to be let back inside. She smiled, thanked me for the  drink and walked away. I didn’t see her again after that.

When I got home last night, my first thought was that I have to write this down and share it with people, because this is just the kind of ridiculous stuff that happens to me. But the story didn’t have an ending. She just walked away and I went back to drinking. I don’t remember much of the night after that, but the ending to the story came when I woke up this morning, and looked at my screen on my laptop.

You just can’t make this shit up. Welcome to my life.

This entry was posted on Saturday, September 4th, 2010 at 2:23 pm and is filed under Editorials, News. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.