Thursday, June 21, 2007

The 411 on the 911

I'm standing there waiting to cross Hollywood Boulevard. Gardner Street leads up into the Hills where there's great hiking in Runyan Canyon. Even though it's a residential area cars are moving real fast. I position myself so that a telephone poll is between me and traffic as I wait for the light to turn. Bouncing off the hood of a Hummer like a rag doll is not how I want to make my Youtube debut. Not yet.

The universe bends to my twisted will as I hear the loud screeching of brakes. A black Beamer skidding sideways comes to a halt right in front of me up against the curb. A girl jumps out of the car running towards me screaming---Do you have a cell phone!!? I need to use your cell phone!! Please...!!

I see a blur of high heels, miniskirt and a tight T-shirt. She's real hot in the way that pop culture says is real hot. This means that if you're a genuine sensualist she's ice cold.

I stick to the script and deliver my line with a certain amount of genuine feeling.
--- Are you OK? What's the matter?

---Can I use your cell phone? Please. I lost my phone.

Sure---I say. What happened?

---I lost my cell phone. I need to call my cell phone. I think it's in my car somewhere.


OK. I hand her my phone. She dials and then hands it back to me flinging open the passenger door as she roots around under the seat. I'm now looking at, what is aesthetically, a very nice bare ass. I kid you not, I can see where the thong widens tight up against the contoured cleft that is her cunt. Yes, I believe that is the right word.

Breaking my spell she says---Oh thank God. Here it is. She holds up one of those Blackberry jobs so that I can also be relieved. ...'cause you know I really thought we were all going to die.

She then jumps back into her car and takes off.

All true. These are my questions:

1) Is that kind of phone fanaticism native to LA or do people get like that in other parts of the world?
2) How does cell phone dependency get so bad that it eclipses a woman's most primitive instinct to keep her coochie covered? I'm no prude but I do think it's weird when all modesty is lost, particularly if you're sober.
3) If that particular dread were removed from her brain, what would she replace it with?
4) Seeing that I have her phone number, what would be the most diabolical way to use it?

Thank you, you've been a lovely audience. Drive safe.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Le Cinema Part1

Just a few random thoughts on my obsession with movies and the movie industry.

Statistically, in 1958, Hollywood turned out 2,000 films which listed in their credits 230 producers, while in 2003 Hollywood produced 240 films with 1,200 producers listed.

Writers want to say what's never been said. Executives want what they've already heard. The majority of produced screenplays are the genetically impaired results of crossbreeding of those two species.

All movie trailers are lies. The motivation to hook you and get you to see the movie is much more important than telling you what the movie is about. The more quirky or character driven the movie is, the bigger the lie. In this case the marketing department has to extract the lowest common denominator and mould it into mouth watering chocolate no matter what the ingredients of the movie are.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Fear On Board

I take Hoagy for a two mile walk every morning. Hoagy is seventy five pounds of half Pitbull and half Black Lab. I am not being sexual when I say he is a four-legged love pump. I'm his alpha male pack leader and he is exactly like me .

Let me count the ways:
1)He's one sexy beast.
2)He's a hothead.
3)His tough guy exterior is only designed to protect his very soft, vulnerable interior.
4)He's a good listener.
5)People are drawn to his awesomeness.

One day, the Zen of walking Hoagy was completely shattered.

Understand, I thoroughly enjoy these walks. They are as good for me as they are for him. It's not just the obvious exercise. While he is checking every tree trunk for Pee-mail, I can clearly think through things that I am working on. It's nice to ponder how I live in a place that has palm trees and perfect weather. The walks also give me a break from the porn box, I mean, computer.

My neighborhood is populated with many elderly Russians. They often take walks. The antagonist in this story is an elderly Russian man in a powder blue track suit. He is also characterized as having a very odd walk. I'd guess it's some kind of spinal difficulty or maybe the result of a stroke.

Anyway, Hoagy and I are motoring along in our parallel playtime. Russian dude is on us before I can get Hoagy pulled in close to my side. Hoagy wastes no time in telling me (loudly) that this guy with the fucked up walk is bad news.

Russian old man looks at me and says----WACH YUR DUG.

---It's cool man...I'm watching him . Thanks. Sorry about that. We're rattled but we carry on.

The next day the same thing happens. This lopsided Russian old man is leaning into us with a rolled up piece of paper and he's yelling----WACH YUR DUG. Let me add that he is wearing black wrap around sunglasses. I really hate interacting with anybody when I can't see their eyes.

DUDE, I'M WATCHING HIM. Just back the fuck up and give us a little room here. Hoagy is at Defcon 4. ---Sir! A commercial airliner just penetrated the Empire State Building!

WACH YUR DUG. He's still waiving around a rolled up piece of paper in his hand which is only fanning the flames.

LOOK. Just back up a bit...HOAGY! STOP IT. Good boy.

WACH YUR DUG. I'm watching him! Relax man. Jesus Christ.

Fucking nut job. I can hear him muttering---wach yur dug--- as we get the hell out of there.

The next few days are a complete drag. I'm on the lookout for this guy constantly. When I see him, I'm crossing traffic to avoid another scene. Hoagy is all keyed up, feeling my tension and I can tell he's a shotgun with a loose trigger.

We don't see him for a few days so I'm totally caught off guard when he steps out from between a doorway right into our path.

WACH YUR DUG he says as he hands me the rolled up piece of paper that he's been carrying. Then he's gone.

WTF? Hoagy is seated, surprisingly calm waiting for me to continue. I'm also calm. Hmmm. I carefully unroll what appears to be a glossy brochure. Along the top it says----Clean pets are lovable pets. There are a few photos of different size bath tubs and then across the middle in large bold type it says---WASH YOUR DOG.

Holy shit.

The call was coming from inside he house.

There it is. This is how terrible shit happens.

Thursday, June 7, 2007

Tongue Fu

When I was eight years old my father took me to a neighborhood carnival. I immediately fixated on one of those huge inflatable structures that are filled with rubber balls and kids bouncing around like they're walking on the moon. To my amazement, even then, my father reluctantly parted with a hard earned quarter and I was on my way to living a dream. This is my first recollection of REALLY wanting something.

Pre-puberty excitement doesn't get any better than this as I crept on all fours up the inflatable ladder. I fought a strong gust of warm air as I parted the flapping tent-like doors and entered. There were kids everywhere screaming and laughing as they leaped high into the air.

I steadied myself and jumped up propelled by the endlessly bouncing surface. There was truly a feeling of weightlessness. I came down in slow motion and my knee connected with my chin which caused me to bite through my tongue. The whole room disappeared in a blinding white flash of excruciating pain as I slumped down into a crevice right near the entrance. Through a blurred haze of twisted carnival music I was vaguely aware of happy children stepping over me.

There's no moral here people. All my life I've continued to fixate immediately on things that were interesting to me, ie: playing jazz, animation, good literature, vaginas etc. I've caused myself to bleed many times along the way. Making dreams real can be very painful sometimes. I started this blog because as of last week I bit off what was left of my tongue and happy people don't have the time to try and understand me. What's up with happy people? I'll tell you what's up with happy people...they're not living their dreams.

Monday, June 4, 2007

Pay Attention or Pay

God is a fucking hothead. He doesn't like it when you don't pay attention. The less you pay attention, the harder the slap. I got whacked real hard in the middle of the night, in the deepest part of my baby brain sleep, when a firetruck screamed the news that I had just moved into an apartment across the street from a fire station. Whoops. Yeah. This motherfucker took ten years off my life as every circuit in my brain was blown. I was more than a bit proud of my elderly constitution that I didn't chocolate fondue in my boxers.

You see, I wasn't paying attention. I should have extrapolated the nagging question: Why are there always Dalmatians crapping on the front lawn? Forgive the Disney gag. Some types of work don't wash off.

The piercing sirens were a bit less menacing with the windows shut. I figured one of those white-noise-machines would smooth it nicely. A little aural Fabreeze if you will.

Does anybody know what a white-noise machine is? Haven't you ever done marital counseling or been in therapy? Oops. T.M.I. If you DO know what one is, just try to buy one.

I head over to Target because they have everything made in the western world under one roof. Everything but a white noise machine. Sure, they have those sleep aids that play waterfall or beach or farm sounds. Fuck that noise. I'll score the soundtrack to my dreams myself, thank you. I just want that "shhhhhhhh" sound to cushion the Four Firetrucks of the Apocalypse. Nobody there knows what a white-noise machine is either. They're not selling my brand of capitalism. On to Best Buy.

I fucking hate Best Buy. I'm not sure exactly why. Maybe it's rubbing my nose in the fact that technology is evolving faster than my ability to learn. Maybe it's all those corporate logos trying to tell me how to fill my free time with their definition of happiness.

I head straight for the information counter. I don't want to fuck around here. Jump cut to me standing in front of the biggest, blackest, baddest looking dude I've ever seen. I like jazz music. WTF? I feel that weird twinge of the liberal white man that says--you're not a racist. I'm not? Then why can't I ask if he can tell me where the white-noise-machine's are?

Now this was the week that the Michael Richards video came out. I watched that numerous times with my jaw on the floor. I was in a very hyper-sensitive state which can be just as bad as dead inside. I imagine my request coming off like--yeah...I need a white noise machine. READ: You know, to block out all the black noise, Holmes.

So what do I do? Do I ask where the Malcolm X box sets are? I played it straight and went for it. A what!?---he said. A white-noise-machine---I explained holding eye contact. No, sorry we don't carry that. Alright then. Thanks.

I found one online. By the time it came, I was accustomed to the firetruck noise. You can get used to anything.