Every once in a while a certain type of emotional blues creates the perfect head space to organize and or clean. The other day I decided to take the morbid focus off myself by completely cleaning my car inside and out.
Still relatively new to car culture, I don't give a shit about this silver pod that gets me to and from work. The problem was I suddenly realized I was driving a 2002 gas powered dumpster.
At my local car wash, I pull into the vacuum area that in the past I had relegated to people with way too much free time and proceed to yank everything but the seats out onto the pavement.
I'm in the zone now, down on my hands and knees on the ground, vacuuming the floor mats. Suddenly, breaking my concentration is a pigeon bravely eating some saltine crumbs inches in front of the mat. I'm eye to eye with this weird little creature. I move myself a bit towards it and it doesn't move except to glance up at me through these milky white eyes. Finally I yell---GET OUT OF HERE, and lift my arm to scare it off. The next thing I know the fucking bird is stuck to the end of the vacuum that I'm holding.
I quickly start shaking the shit out of the vacuum but it won't come loose. As you probably know there is no OFF switch on these things.
The bird is flapping its wings like crazy. Its making this horrible sound that is part high pitched scream and part out of shape wheezing. Finally with two hands on the nozzle I lift it over my head and with all my might I swing it down to the ground. It comes loose with a thud and just lies there. Fuck.
As feathers and bird dirt drift slowly to the ground I quickly glance around to see if anyone has witnessed this nightmare. I'm cool.
Actually, I'm not. I still feel totally fucked up when I think about it.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
SEX IN THE JUNGLE
I once lived in Time Square, NYC. This was right before it became a huge Disney logo. Back then it was fertile and teaming with all kinds of subculture. There were numerous porn theatres and strip clubs and little diners with one six foot long counter and two greasy short order cooks. Coffee came in one size and one flavor: COFFEE.
There was loud laughter and menace and every raw emotion in between. The Concrete Jungle was not metaphor.
I noticed that many young Latino men had a large lump in their back pockets. Slightly smaller than a tennis ball it was a rather jarring element to their silhouette.
Imagine your favorite Animal Planet or The Discovery Channel narrator voice when you read this next paragraph.
In their back pockets they carry a fresh lime. When these virile young men are in bed with a woman they squirt lime juice on her genitals. If she recoils in any kind of pain they know she has open sores or an infection.
Remember: this was a decade before any public awareness of STD's and the birth of AIDS but I'm guessing this is VERY old knowledge.
My first reaction to this was----Damn. Fucking animals. My immediate second reaction was----Wait, these motherfuckers are smart...law of the jungle smart.
Oh...don't give me any shit about rubbers here. This was pre AIDS and I'm talking about consenting, extremely sensual adults that have an animalistic sexual attraction. The sensualist female knows her safe time of the month and the sensualist male no more wants to wear a rubber than Yo Yo Ma would wear mittens playing the cello.
Meanwhile, forty blocks downtown, some cracker with glasses and a briefcase is banging his secretary or picking up a hooker and then taking some serious jungle cooties back to his wife in Connecticut. Stupid civilized asshole is not going to make it in the jungle.
Let's see your iphones do that motherfuckers.
There was loud laughter and menace and every raw emotion in between. The Concrete Jungle was not metaphor.
I noticed that many young Latino men had a large lump in their back pockets. Slightly smaller than a tennis ball it was a rather jarring element to their silhouette.
Imagine your favorite Animal Planet or The Discovery Channel narrator voice when you read this next paragraph.
In their back pockets they carry a fresh lime. When these virile young men are in bed with a woman they squirt lime juice on her genitals. If she recoils in any kind of pain they know she has open sores or an infection.
Remember: this was a decade before any public awareness of STD's and the birth of AIDS but I'm guessing this is VERY old knowledge.
My first reaction to this was----Damn. Fucking animals. My immediate second reaction was----Wait, these motherfuckers are smart...law of the jungle smart.
Oh...don't give me any shit about rubbers here. This was pre AIDS and I'm talking about consenting, extremely sensual adults that have an animalistic sexual attraction. The sensualist female knows her safe time of the month and the sensualist male no more wants to wear a rubber than Yo Yo Ma would wear mittens playing the cello.
Meanwhile, forty blocks downtown, some cracker with glasses and a briefcase is banging his secretary or picking up a hooker and then taking some serious jungle cooties back to his wife in Connecticut. Stupid civilized asshole is not going to make it in the jungle.
Let's see your iphones do that motherfuckers.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
YAWN
Things to do when you're bored.
Twice a month, write a letter to Steven Hawking asking him if he could please explain, in the simplest terms, G-string Theory.
On Fridays, ask your co-workers ---How was your weekend?
In a fancy car dealership, walk up to the hottest chick that works there.Then say----What do you charge for a Hummer?
Whenever a delivery guy knocks on your door, bark like a dog as loud as you can. Then scream-----SHUT THE FUCK UP. Finally, answer the door wearing a blood stained pair of sweatpants and a tool belt.
Walk into a toy store and ask loudly----Where are the Erection Sets? I need an ERECTION set. Get extremely impertinent and righteous at the ensuing confusion or embarrassment.
At work, scream suddenly at your nearest co-worker ----WHAT IS IT WITH ALL THE MOUSE CLICKING? ALL YOU DO IS CLICK,CLICK,CLICK OVER AND OVER. IT"S DRIVING ME FUCKING INSANE!!!
Twice a month, write a letter to Steven Hawking asking him if he could please explain, in the simplest terms, G-string Theory.
On Fridays, ask your co-workers ---How was your weekend?
In a fancy car dealership, walk up to the hottest chick that works there.Then say----What do you charge for a Hummer?
Whenever a delivery guy knocks on your door, bark like a dog as loud as you can. Then scream-----SHUT THE FUCK UP. Finally, answer the door wearing a blood stained pair of sweatpants and a tool belt.
Walk into a toy store and ask loudly----Where are the Erection Sets? I need an ERECTION set. Get extremely impertinent and righteous at the ensuing confusion or embarrassment.
At work, scream suddenly at your nearest co-worker ----WHAT IS IT WITH ALL THE MOUSE CLICKING? ALL YOU DO IS CLICK,CLICK,CLICK OVER AND OVER. IT"S DRIVING ME FUCKING INSANE!!!
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
52nd Street Theme or Bird's Dead
I played jazz saxophone professionally for 25 years. I love jazz but at this point in our culture it's the musical equivalent of being a Blacksmith. At best, people are curious about it in the way that you're sometimes curious about things that have absolutely nothing to do with your life.
---Yeah, that's cool, after let's go check out the smoke signal exhibit.
The Golden Age of Jazz for me was between 1945 and 1965. It was an underground art form at that time. I don't know what it is now.
I still play but ONLY if it's local to LA and the gig is something I'm going to thoroughly enjoy.
Here are the details of a job I recently took from an agent in NYC:
1)Three gigs (Thursday, Friday, Saturday nights)
2)All local to LA.
3)It is some kind of Dos Equiis sponsored event.
4)I play jazz behind the Burlesque Dancer Angie Pontani of the Pontani Sisters.
Here's the living nightmare that transpired unadorned. I should add that the money was very good but this did NOT factor into my decision to take the gig.
Thursday night.
THE BOILER ROOM. It's 70 miles away. I barely know how to get to another neighborhood from mine in LA proper let alone get on three highways and head into what people are telling me is the heart of Meth country.
The parking lot is gravel and pickup trucks. I can hear very loud heavy metal music. There are tattoos everywhere...even on some of the faces. Oh...I'm wearing black dress pants, a white shirt, shark-skin jacket and a pink tie. I'm feeling like Boy George at a Klu Klux Klan rally.
It gets worse.
I meet the contact who is a marketing guy for Dos Equiis. I quickly deduce that I'm shilling beer here. I'm a Jagermeister girl. I'm Spud Mckensie the Budweiser dog. I'm the "Jazz Guy" for Dos Equiis playing in front of a big logo while they drink two dollar beers and grab hand fulls of merchandising swag.
I'm standing with my horn, waiting to go on, in a hallway between the bathrooms and storage. A huge guy comes out of the can, looks me up and down and says---Do you play saxophone?
As I'm leaving the bartender says to me---You play better than Bill Clinton. Think about this. This is the only saxophone reference he could come up with.
It gets worse.
Friday night.
ELEMENT. It's in Hollywood, five minutes from my house. My mood is shattered by the loudest most evil Hip Hop music I've ever heard. I'm frisked with a metal detector and then have to take my horn out of the case for inspection. Every girl is a Paris Hilton clone right down to the dead reptile eyes.
At 10:30, Angie and I wait for the cue to go on at around 11:00. Peeking through the curtain I see smoke machines filling the stage and a laser show. The music they're playing is unbearable and so loud I can't think. How the fuck am I going to go out there in the deafening silence of that room and play (without a mic) something kinda "jazzy"?
12:00. We still haven't gone on.
12:30 the agent from NYC steps backstage. He's wearing a porkpie hat and two toned shoes. I'm just about to grab him by the shirt collar when I see a camera crew following him around. Apparently he is being filmed for a new reality TV show about an agent and his roster of wacky entertainer people (Broadway Danny Rose meets Survivor?) I manage to separate myself and him from the film crew to renegotiate my fee for this weekend nightmare. It wasn't hard. He knew he had fucked up bad.
1:00 and we still haven't gone on. It turns out the cops or the tobacco, alcohol and firearms whatever have shown up and are busting underage drinkers. The club owner is also getting fined. Said club owner apparently doesn't want to turn off the music for our little "act" for fear that everyone will think the club is closing on account of the legal disturbance. The show must NOT go on. So, dead man walking, I get a reprieve. We're still going to get paid but I'm dead inside anyway.
Saturday night.
VEGAS. That's the club name in Costa Mesa which is about 80 miles down the coast. It's a spring break crowd. Everybody looks like they're from Jersey but with a lot of plastic surgery. Yes, we go on. I get the fuck out of there and suffer a very lonely drive home.
That's show biz.
If you have a soul DO NOT DRINK DOS EQUIIS. Thank you, you've been a lovely audience.
---Yeah, that's cool, after let's go check out the smoke signal exhibit.
The Golden Age of Jazz for me was between 1945 and 1965. It was an underground art form at that time. I don't know what it is now.
I still play but ONLY if it's local to LA and the gig is something I'm going to thoroughly enjoy.
Here are the details of a job I recently took from an agent in NYC:
1)Three gigs (Thursday, Friday, Saturday nights)
2)All local to LA.
3)It is some kind of Dos Equiis sponsored event.
4)I play jazz behind the Burlesque Dancer Angie Pontani of the Pontani Sisters.
Here's the living nightmare that transpired unadorned. I should add that the money was very good but this did NOT factor into my decision to take the gig.
Thursday night.
THE BOILER ROOM. It's 70 miles away. I barely know how to get to another neighborhood from mine in LA proper let alone get on three highways and head into what people are telling me is the heart of Meth country.
The parking lot is gravel and pickup trucks. I can hear very loud heavy metal music. There are tattoos everywhere...even on some of the faces. Oh...I'm wearing black dress pants, a white shirt, shark-skin jacket and a pink tie. I'm feeling like Boy George at a Klu Klux Klan rally.
It gets worse.
I meet the contact who is a marketing guy for Dos Equiis. I quickly deduce that I'm shilling beer here. I'm a Jagermeister girl. I'm Spud Mckensie the Budweiser dog. I'm the "Jazz Guy" for Dos Equiis playing in front of a big logo while they drink two dollar beers and grab hand fulls of merchandising swag.
I'm standing with my horn, waiting to go on, in a hallway between the bathrooms and storage. A huge guy comes out of the can, looks me up and down and says---Do you play saxophone?
As I'm leaving the bartender says to me---You play better than Bill Clinton. Think about this. This is the only saxophone reference he could come up with.
It gets worse.
Friday night.
ELEMENT. It's in Hollywood, five minutes from my house. My mood is shattered by the loudest most evil Hip Hop music I've ever heard. I'm frisked with a metal detector and then have to take my horn out of the case for inspection. Every girl is a Paris Hilton clone right down to the dead reptile eyes.
At 10:30, Angie and I wait for the cue to go on at around 11:00. Peeking through the curtain I see smoke machines filling the stage and a laser show. The music they're playing is unbearable and so loud I can't think. How the fuck am I going to go out there in the deafening silence of that room and play (without a mic) something kinda "jazzy"?
12:00. We still haven't gone on.
12:30 the agent from NYC steps backstage. He's wearing a porkpie hat and two toned shoes. I'm just about to grab him by the shirt collar when I see a camera crew following him around. Apparently he is being filmed for a new reality TV show about an agent and his roster of wacky entertainer people (Broadway Danny Rose meets Survivor?) I manage to separate myself and him from the film crew to renegotiate my fee for this weekend nightmare. It wasn't hard. He knew he had fucked up bad.
1:00 and we still haven't gone on. It turns out the cops or the tobacco, alcohol and firearms whatever have shown up and are busting underage drinkers. The club owner is also getting fined. Said club owner apparently doesn't want to turn off the music for our little "act" for fear that everyone will think the club is closing on account of the legal disturbance. The show must NOT go on. So, dead man walking, I get a reprieve. We're still going to get paid but I'm dead inside anyway.
Saturday night.
VEGAS. That's the club name in Costa Mesa which is about 80 miles down the coast. It's a spring break crowd. Everybody looks like they're from Jersey but with a lot of plastic surgery. Yes, we go on. I get the fuck out of there and suffer a very lonely drive home.
That's show biz.
If you have a soul DO NOT DRINK DOS EQUIIS. Thank you, you've been a lovely audience.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
More Life
Things that make me uncomfortable or a little sad inside:
1) When someone initiates one of those five move hand shakes and I never know the choreography.
2) Walking into Barns and Noble I often mistakenly take the greeter person for a regular (non-greeter) person. As I come through the doors I hear a genuine hello. I turn and stop in front of them and say----Hi (Pause. Wait for my memory to pull up a name for this unknown face). This is when it hits me. The goodbye is so awkward at this point I'm sure Security is notified.
3) Having the EXACT same small talk conversation over and over and over with the waitress at the diner I frequent because there's no motivation to take it to the next level.
4) When Christian posts in his blog that he got into nine more film festivals, followed by a photograph of a rainbow.
5) People that do not make eye contact.
6) The ten billionth time my parents on the east coast say----You're still working? What time is it there? They then tell me the eastern standard time.
7) The piano playing of Bill Evans makes me sad inside but in the best and most beautiful way.
1) When someone initiates one of those five move hand shakes and I never know the choreography.
2) Walking into Barns and Noble I often mistakenly take the greeter person for a regular (non-greeter) person. As I come through the doors I hear a genuine hello. I turn and stop in front of them and say----Hi (Pause. Wait for my memory to pull up a name for this unknown face). This is when it hits me. The goodbye is so awkward at this point I'm sure Security is notified.
3) Having the EXACT same small talk conversation over and over and over with the waitress at the diner I frequent because there's no motivation to take it to the next level.
4) When Christian posts in his blog that he got into nine more film festivals, followed by a photograph of a rainbow.
5) People that do not make eye contact.
6) The ten billionth time my parents on the east coast say----You're still working? What time is it there? They then tell me the eastern standard time.
7) The piano playing of Bill Evans makes me sad inside but in the best and most beautiful way.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Holy Crap?
There's an elementary school one block away from me. On Sundays I take Hoagy over there to play in this huge grassy lawn near the parking lot. There are no other dogs around so I don't have to worry about Hoagy tearing Michael Eisner's poodle in half. (I see me and Hoagy homeless after the trial, begging on the street. Hoagy saying---What the fuck happened man? Where's my bed?)
I've noticed an intriguing pattern. Between 9:00-11:00, when we finally stumble over there, cars begin to fill up the parking lot and then people file into the school. A whole lot of people. Let me add, these are very attractive people. I'm talking fucking hot women. Hundreds of hot women in summer dresses and high heels, women in baby doll dresses and sandals. Women in tight jeans, tee-shirt and sneakers.
They even wave. At me. The nice guy playing with his sweet dog. I even wave back. Sometimes Hoagy runs over and they pet him. Good boy.
So why the hell are all these people piling into the school. A used furniture auction? Casting call? Singles Bingo?
Nope, it's REALTY L.A.
What the fuck is that? It's a non denominational way of worshipping Jesus Christ.
That's church (for those in the back row).
Sure, I know Church exists. Millions of people go to church. BUT there is something really odd about seeing them going in, up close, most of them carrying Bibles of some sort. ----Well, we all sit around and our leader tells us stories about magic stuff.
These are some sexy women though. They even had a live band once that wasn't terrible.
Then one Sunday...I smelled pancakes. Fucking pancakes, no shit.
You fuckers.
Church plus hot chicks plus pancakes equals moral crisis. I didn't know what to do. It wouldn't hurt if I just took a peak, stuck my head in for a minute, would it?
To be continued.
I've noticed an intriguing pattern. Between 9:00-11:00, when we finally stumble over there, cars begin to fill up the parking lot and then people file into the school. A whole lot of people. Let me add, these are very attractive people. I'm talking fucking hot women. Hundreds of hot women in summer dresses and high heels, women in baby doll dresses and sandals. Women in tight jeans, tee-shirt and sneakers.
They even wave. At me. The nice guy playing with his sweet dog. I even wave back. Sometimes Hoagy runs over and they pet him. Good boy.
So why the hell are all these people piling into the school. A used furniture auction? Casting call? Singles Bingo?
Nope, it's REALTY L.A.
What the fuck is that? It's a non denominational way of worshipping Jesus Christ.
That's church (for those in the back row).
Sure, I know Church exists. Millions of people go to church. BUT there is something really odd about seeing them going in, up close, most of them carrying Bibles of some sort. ----Well, we all sit around and our leader tells us stories about magic stuff.
These are some sexy women though. They even had a live band once that wasn't terrible.
Then one Sunday...I smelled pancakes. Fucking pancakes, no shit.
You fuckers.
Church plus hot chicks plus pancakes equals moral crisis. I didn't know what to do. It wouldn't hurt if I just took a peak, stuck my head in for a minute, would it?
To be continued.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
LA via NYC missive #437
One of the first things I noticed about Los Angeles was the bums. They have an actual LA bum "look". I'll see a guy rummaging through a dumpster and I can tell, "That's a West Coast bum. That bum is West Coast".
In any other city in the world, the homeless eventually deteriorate to the same basic way of looking: colorless, nondescript clothing, a slightly large, bear like overcoat, dirty, matted overgrown beard and hair. In LA you see the remnants of real style pre-deterioration.
You'll see a dirty barefooted guy sitting on the ground begging and he's dressed like one of the Beatles (Ed Sullivan period). A guy will be sitting on a bench at the beach with that "stay away from me I'm a psycho" vibe. There's hardly a trace of humanity left in his poor soul yet he'll be in a rotted orange Zoot Suit with a moldy green carnation in the lapel. You see cowboy bums, hipster bums, Ray Charles, Phyllis Diller and Jimmy Hendrix bums.
All the road kill of a Mack truck called Hollywood.
In any other city in the world, the homeless eventually deteriorate to the same basic way of looking: colorless, nondescript clothing, a slightly large, bear like overcoat, dirty, matted overgrown beard and hair. In LA you see the remnants of real style pre-deterioration.
You'll see a dirty barefooted guy sitting on the ground begging and he's dressed like one of the Beatles (Ed Sullivan period). A guy will be sitting on a bench at the beach with that "stay away from me I'm a psycho" vibe. There's hardly a trace of humanity left in his poor soul yet he'll be in a rotted orange Zoot Suit with a moldy green carnation in the lapel. You see cowboy bums, hipster bums, Ray Charles, Phyllis Diller and Jimmy Hendrix bums.
All the road kill of a Mack truck called Hollywood.
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