March 26, 2012 · 10:54 pm

An Obituary for Juanita Price

First there was the taxman. Then the landlord, then the liver, then the bank. I’ve quit them all. I’ve sought refuge in the confines of a Lower Pacific Heights Victorian with a tabby cat, and a Maltese olive oil heiress who was once called Vicente.

Vera, the heiress, doesn’t like to talk about being Vicente. That was a long time ago. I understand. We all have our (phallic) skeletons in the closet.

Things are nice here. Everything is where you’d expect it to be. There’s plenty of cold-pressed olive oil, and no linoleum. That’s nice. The absence of linoleum puts me at ease.

Not much has happened since I quit it all. There’s not much to report—unless, of course—you count the death of Ms. Juanita Price.

Juanita, as I knew her, wore a vest that was sometimes yellow, and sometimes maroon. She had cornrows that often overgrew their respective rows. She was fond Philadelphia cream cheese with ham and cheese Hotpockets.

The jaundiced man with the square glasses and the square teeth, who I call Chas, but whose name I don’t definitively know, was the first to tell me about Juanita.

“I’m sure you heard about Ms. Price,” he said.

“I’m sure I didn’t.”

“Heard the news myself, just now in the break room. She passed last night in her sleep.”

“I’m sorry to hear that… Who was she again?”

“Ms. Price.”

Nothing.

“Ms. Juanita Price.”

Still, nothing.

“Juanita.”

“Juanita! Really? I can’t believe it.”

“She died in her sleep last night.”

“Well, at least she had that going for her.”

Juanita, who I’ll try to never forget again should her name come up, often called me darling, honey or if she was properly stoned young thang. She never learned my name in the three years we walked passed each other in hallways with alternating marble floors and industrial carpet.

What I’ll remember most about Juanita is that she owned about five pairs of sunglasses with ice blue iridium lenses. The kind I imagine Randy Johnson wore in the early nineties.

I hope tonight, on my behalf, you’ll pour out a little of your vodka soda for Juanita Price. I have to go now. Vera wants me to walk the cat.

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March 6, 2012 · 10:21 pm

Anti-Phone Calls P.S.A.

Phone calls are nice. Everyone likes to get them. Especially now since phone calls are going the way of the letter, the way of carbohydrates, the way of Whitney…

But you can’t always text. You can’t always email. Some things must be dealt with directly and in real-time.

For example, say your grandmother died last week at the age of eighty-two while waiting for her favorite Thai restaurant to deliver her lunch. Naturally, I would learn of this tragedy through a social media update.

Grandma passed waiting for a larb salad 😦 (sent from my Iphone)

It would not be appropriate for me to comment on the thread “So sorry that grandma died hungry…” Nor would it be acceptable for me to send out a heartfelt text like, “Ugh! Sucks about your grandmother! Happy hour soon?”

No, that would have to be a phone call. We would need to converse. We would go on to talk about how she was old and death is normal and at least she ordered-in lunch. I mean, keeling over pad thai in public would’ve been super awkward. Or worse, say she had made a little lunch for herself, she might’ve rotted for days before the neighbors smelled her. Yes, it was convenient that the delivery guy was sick of being stood up and called the cops, determined to get the $14.50 grandma owed. Yes, I bet he felt bad after-the-fact.

Doctors are reliant on phones. It’s a matter of consideration. The following is not considerate.

Dear Lance Armstrong,

We regret to inform you that you have testicular cancer.

Sincerely,

Dr. Kas Omani

No, that doesn’t work. You let a man grope your possibly cancerous balls and at the very least you deserve a phone call. Am I right? It’s an intimate act, the jostling of testicles. No, you weren’t dating but a little courtesy, please. If not lunch… a phone call will suffice.

The tough thing about phone calls is you have to answer them. And really, who answers the phone these days? We’re all in the middle of something. And that ringing, it’s so foreign. It feels as if your pocket is being violated. One beep/buzz for a text/email, but three, maybe even more—that’ s just an invasion of one’s personal space.

How would you like it if I banged on your front door and demanded an immediate response to a question? Once upon a time that might have been a reasonable request, but these days we like to dictate how and when we respond. It could be seconds or it could be hours later. Proceed as you see fit.

So the call comes and you don’t answer the call because it just doesn’t feel right. It’s all a bit odd. Off to voicemail it goes. Voicemail. It’s sort of like a fax machine. Some people still use them. I bet William Shatner has a fax machine in his office. I’m sure Morgan Freeman has a fax machine. They seem like guys that who like having a hard copy. Email + Printer = Just fax it over, bub!

But voicemail isn’t tactile. Voicemail rarely moves us forward. Usually it’s a lateral move, “Call me back.” At best, someone says everything you need to know but when you see how long message is, you delete on principle. Who has 2:30 to listen to someone else ramble?

Worst case, you do call back. “Hi. I just missed a call from you.”

And then someone who you don’t recognize pauses. She’s not used to getting phone calls either. She repeats your name. Way off. You repeat your name. She gets closer. You do this dance until you’re dealing with roughly the same amount of syllables. Sean Puffy Combs vs John Duffy Moans.

She moves on, which means you’re on hold. Maybe there’s music. If there is you’re lucky. You can think to yourself how shitty the hold music is or you can blast across your social media one of those tired status updates that reads: Dear (Insert Corporation Here), If you’re gonna keep me on hold for twenty minutes, at least have decency to play something besides Seal’s “Kissed by a rose.”

If you don’t have music the panic sets in. Yes, this is a phone call. It’s grave enough that it could not be emailed or texted. This means someone died. Or it means you’re going to die. Or you’re pregnant. Or you have lung cancer. Or a jury of your peers is going to decide whether you intentionally laundered that money. Or you have gangrene and the only option is to take a hacksaw to your femur.

… And still you wait. Hold, hold on.

You could hang up. Maybe they wouldn’t call back. Of course they’ll call back. It’s their duty. They owe it to you or you owe it to them. Friends don’t call friends. Lawyers call clients. Doctors call patients. Landlords call tenants. Strippers call lawyers. Lawyers call-in favors. Goons slash stripper’s tires. Stripper calls AAA. AAA calls a tow truck company. The guy in the tow truck accidentally runs over the stripper. Witness calls the police. Police call tow truck guy. Tow truck guy calls lawyer. Prosecutor calls disfigured stripper to the stand.

I’d expand, but the music has stopped.

Any minute now I’ll be speaking to someone about something that someone preferred not to write in an age when everyone would prefer to do anything but write.

I practice saying to myself, “For godsakes, man! Cut to the chase!” But I know I won’t say that.

So instead, I’ll wait—take my resting heart rate, think about my blood sugar, recount any activity that could send me up river.

Carry on.

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February 18, 2012 · 9:32 pm

FLYING PIGS

There’s a bar just off of PCH where for $2 a bag you can throw peanut shells on the floor and drink Bud Light with millionaires. In front of this bar is a parking lot with a surf spot named after the drinking hole. In that parking lot I met Max Rose.

Max and I had spent the morning on adjacent peaks, trading mushy three-footers with every surfer from 24th street to Yorba Linda. In the parking lot, we stood side-by-side as the sun warmed our extremities. I drank coffee that was three hours old. Max’s Westfalia was adorned with two For Sale signs. There was a weathered parking ticket on his dashboard.

“It’s not true,” he said. “Despite what they say.” He had feathered brown hair and a beard that was streaked with gray.

“What’s that?”

“Pigs really can fly,” he nodded at a police helicopter as it flew overhead.

I laughed and he figured me for a kindred spirit. The two of us in front of our economical cars, surrounded by new S.U.V.s with stickers about deporting our terrorist, illegal alien, commie, Allah-worshiping commander-in-chief. Maybe we were.

“It’s the sound. I’ll never forget that sound,” he said.

“Oh yeah?”

“Shit yeah. It’s like those guys who went to Nam. They never forget what a military chopper sounds like.” He looked up at the sky. “I still cringe when I hear a flying pig.”

I nodded.

“I’ve been chased.” He stroked his beard. “In Texas too. A doctor’s son had a sports car—two seater that he didn’t want to pay for anymore—so I took his car. I took his Harley too.”

I slipped out of my neoprene suit and he moved closer. There was a tattoo of an indigenous woman on his forearm and whisky on his breath.

“He paid me and a friend of mine a hundred bucks. We took his car out to the middle of nowhere. Mind you, this was the early seventies. Such a thing existed. I was twenty-one, twenty-two years old. ”

We stared out at the Pacific and watched it heave and toss those fortunate enough to afford a morning beating.

“Went to a field next to a lake. This lake—hippies used to skinny dip in it. Nothing around. Just fields. We parked the car and covered it with gasoline. Fifteen pace circle around that sports car—a puddle of gas. Course we were stoned and drunk as hell at the time. I threw a match—biggest fire you’ve ever seen.”

Wildfires in California kill eight people and burn over one million acres every summer, but for the sake of conversation, I nodded. I understood these dramatic parking lot tactics. There are no lies in the parking lot. It’s a fact: the surf was better earlier. It was better before you got here.

“So I start kicking the Harley, trying get that thing started. I’m kicking and kicking it. A crazy old hillbilly walks out with a shot gun and he yells, ‘Everybody okay?’ So I tell him, ‘Just fine.’ Mind you there’s a fucking fire. So I look at my friend and I’m like ‘We gotta get the fuck outta here.’ We didn’t even know there were houses out there. I mean, there weren’t—except a couple. Real spread out. Anyway, I’m kicking and kicking the bike and I end up kicking off the carburetor!” His eyes light up.

I have no idea what a carburetor is and apparently it showed.

“It’s on the side of the bike. I kicked it right off.”

“Oh, man. Crazy.”

“So I kick off the carburetor and this hillybilly with a shotgun is coming at us and we hear fire engines screaming. I’m like, ‘They’re coming for us.’ And the hillbilly is like, ‘What’s going on out here?’ so I look at the hillbilly and I’m like, ‘Our friend’s down by the fire. We gotta check on him.’ So we ran. All night,” he pointed to the long-since vanished police helicopter, “they chased us. We ran through the woods in the pitch black. I threw up eleven times that night. Eleven.”

“Wow.”

“We had to get back to town. It was getting light. It wasn’t daybreak yet but it was close. We found the road. I say to my friend, ‘They’re looking for two guys so you hide in the bushes. If they get one of us. They get one of us but we gotta get back to town.’ So I stood on the side of the road, knowing that if a pig drove by, it was over. We were going to jail. Texas jail. This was outside of Austin. But what do you know?” He grinned.

I didn’t know.

“Long haired freak comes driving by. He pulls over and is like, ‘Where you headed?’ and I said town. He was just out in the middle of nowhere driving around. Can you believe that? I ran all night and some long haired freak, just going for a drive saves my ass!”

“Wild.”

“Doctor’s son turned himself in. Pussy.”

“Really?”

“He just had to pay for the car. Or his dad did. He was rich. He never turned us in though. He just said he met two guys at the bar and they did everything. Never mentioned our names.”

“So you made it out alive.”

“That time,” he said. We stared out and watched wave after wave as teenagers and baby boomers shoulder-hopped one another.

“I’m Max Rose by the way.” We shook hands.

He looked at me and I looked at him. I didn’t know if he was sizing me up or if long stares just come with functioning lunacy.

“You want some,” he said, throwing back a drink he did not have.

I’m no fool. A man tells you a criminal tale. He tells you his acid flashbacks come in the form of helicopter bladeslap, which are over one’s head about forty-seven times a day in Southern California. You tell the man, yes. Hell yes. But I did not say yes because I am, in fact, a fool.

“I would, but I’ve gotta drive.”

He did a quick survey of the parking lot in front of the surf spot named after the bar with peanut shells on the floor. “Well shit, we all gotta drive.”

And of course, he was right.

He opened the door of his beige Westfalia. It was lined with long boards, newspaper, and a pillow. He generously poured brown liquor into a coffee mug that read: Bienvenidos a Sinaloa!!!” The mug wasn’t exactly sanitary, but the stuff he poured looked strong enough to kill an elephant. I took a pull, passed it back, and he took a pull.

“I wish I didn’t have to go to work,” I said.

“You stay here long enough and you won’t have to.”

We stared over Priuses, late model SUVs, and power-walking moms at the ocean. Waves lapped in off of the jetty. I finished off the crusty mug of whisky

He eyed the empty mug then patted me on the back. “Move along soldier. I can take it from here.”

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January 16, 2012 · 5:33 pm

The Year of the Stray Dog!

My nose is buried in a glass of Carménère. I breathe in the wine, my surroundings. I’m on a street that is likely named El 25 de Mayo or El 9 de Julio. I’m about to say something about either hints of cherry or crushed pepper when a dog walks by me. It’s the eighty-seventh perro callejero that I’ve seen since I landed. So naturally, I ask:

-Is it the year of the dog?

Across the table from me is Santini Martin. He wears a white Carlos Gardel hat like a tourist and reads La Nación like a local. He sips a café cortado between grunts.

-Hmm?

-You know, the Chinese calendar.

-China? This is Chile.

-Right, but…

-How’s the wine?

-Pepper, thyme, not off-settling tannic. Black berries.

-You read or smelled all that?

-Don’t offend me. Top me off.

Jet lag was setting in. My vision was going soft and the dogs were multiply like…

-I think they over soaked the skins. Too tannic for my taste.

-Speaking of oversoaked skins, you should consider sunscreen.

-Consider it considered. Now, what do you know about these dogs?

-They were all once puppies.

-Everyone loves puppies.

-And then they grew up.

-Became a motley crew.

-Now they roam the streets looking for a hot meal, some shade, a glass of vino tinto and a bath.

-Someone should take them in.

-No one could ever love these mutts.

-You’re a cold hearted man.

-I’m a realist.

-Where I come from they love ugly dogs. They eat health conscious meals, exercise regularly and spend their Sunday nights snuggled up watching HBO.

-A dog’s life.

-I think I’ll post flyers in Los Angeles advertising these mutts. Adopting feral dogs is very in. Very progressive. Like human rights used to be.

-That topic has gone a bit soft.

-Haven’t we all.

I swill and swig the last of my Carménère.

-Passion fruit?

-Stick to the dogs, kid.

And so I did.

EXCHANGING PLEASANTRIES CANINE FOUNDATION est. 2012

Name: Pablo Neruda   Breed: Chilean Malamute   Age: 11   About: Trained duck hunter, adept chef, prone to fleas, likes fast women with loose morals. Loves to dance.

Name: Augusto Pinochet Ugarte   Breed: Breton Doberman Pinscher   Age: Deceased   About: Loves to laugh, talk fascism, violate human rights, line dance and impose curfews.

Name: Jeronimo   Breed: Cat/Chihuahua   Age: 32   About: Vegan, political junkie, hates her dad, loves Tom Brady and Newt Gingrich. Looking forward to becoming a born-again Christian. Her favorite holiday is Easter.

Name: Bernardo O’Higgins   Breed: Cavalier King Charles Spaniel   Age: 64    About: The life of an illegitimate son can be a tough one. Poor health and lack of training hasn’t helped either, but I’ve got high hopes for this guy. He’s got a great attitude and doesn’t shed.

Name: Gabby Mistral    Breed: Poet/Boss   Age: 5.5   About: Haunted by betrayal, sorrow, death, and the perpetual stain that Hot Cheetos leaves on one’s fingers. What she lacks in outright happiness she makes up for with a loud wardrobe.

If you’re interested in adopting any of these perros callejeros/children please follow the instructions below:

  1. Western Union $15,500 USD to P.O. Box 1826 Hollywood, CA 90028 c/o Exchanging Pleasantries.
  2. Fly to Chile.
  3. Roam Vina del Mar, Valparaiso, and Santiago until you find the dog of your dreams.
  4. Cab to the airport.
  5. Bribe customs.
  6. Fly back to wherever you live.
  7. Bribe customs again.
  8. Bathe, spay and/or neuter your pet.
  9. Send a thank you note to the above address.

If you have any questions, please direct them to this guy…

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December 20, 2011 · 9:24 pm

Obstacle Allusions: A Pop-Up Gallery

Lately, I’ve been sowing the seeds for my first post-apocalypse gallery showing. The focus will be walls:

The Great Wall of China

The Berlin Wall

The White Picket Fence

The Barbed Wire Keeping L.A. Residents Away from City Hall

The show will focus on the forth-coming present, which I’ve recently christened: The Future-Present. It’s basically the opposite of everything anyone in pre-apocalyptic times ever did.

GREAT WALL: I’m no history buff, but from what I understand, if you died while building the Great Wall of China, they tossed your corpse in. It was sort of a scattering of ashes, only instead of drizzling cigarette butts into the Pacific, they tossed your rigor mortis ass in a hole and saved on concrete.

I’m a purist. I have a vision. I plan on having a few actors play dead Chinese scattered about my show. (In order to meet the SAG Ultra Low Budget guidelines I’ll most likely have to throw in some transgender Filipinos and a handful of black women) I know, I know, it’s not historically accurate but I’m not trying to be historically accurate. Mostly, I am concerned with being politically correct. Let there be black chicks. Let there be tan and hairless manginas. Maybe I’ll throw in a Hasidim. Who knows?)

ICH BIN EIN BERLINER: I am not afraid of being obvious. When it comes to the Berlin Wall, I shan’t go abstract. In fact, my approach is anti-abstract which I am tentatively calling Tangiblism.

My Tangiblist exhibit will consist of a David Hasselhoff mash-ups blasting from an Ipod hooked up to a Bose sound system that looks like the graffiti-marred wall. The system will also double as an espresso bar. (Standing room only. No wi-fi. ) As an austerity measure, Greeks will not be allowed entrance.

THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF CALABASAS: The white picket fence will play on the classic American relationship between suburban housewives. One will be buckled over the fence. The other will be giving thy neighbor a proper ravishing. The neighbor manning the rear will be adorned with a decadent eight inches of ‘do unto thy neighbor as’… etc. Did you know Calabasas means pumpkin?

CROWN JEWEL OF SKID ROW: My exhibit will be a print-out of directions from the Valley and the Westside to City Hall (which is located in downtown.)

It’s not hard to miss. It’s one of four buildings downtown that hasn’t been lined with transients year-round since the mid-1970s. Maybe that’s because it’s wrapped in barbed wire. It’s conveniently located across the street from the LAPD headquarters, which is somewhat notable as it was built in 2009 for $440 million USD.

At the reception, everyone will be given a chance to speak, to respond, to criticize, to critique…

As long as you can prove one of your ancestors is buried in a wall in China.

I will jot meticulous notes, if you’ve driven David Hasselhoff to an AA meeting.

I will hang on your every word if there are attractive and promiscuous lesbians in your suburban neighborhood who blast their exploits via Instagram.

Lastly, upon my favorite masseuse’s grave, I swear to memorize everything you have to say about #Occupy once you’ve actually seen what you’ve been pontificating about since September.

Until then, I wait with bated breath for the wisdom that you may spew.

————————————————————————————————–

Obstacle Allusions is set to open shortly after the apocalypse. Currently, we’re in the funding stages of this project so we ask that you please donate whatever money you were planning to spend on gas, laser hair removal, imported beer, rhinoplasty, contraceptives, education, coffee, strippers, electricity, Italian flat leaf parsley, terrorism, champagne, manicures, Thai/Swedish hand jobs, and gruyere, to the “Arts”, namely ours.

Please donate soon! If we don’t raise $13.8 trillion by the apocalypse we won’t see a dime of your contributions.

Direct any questions to ExchangingPleasantries@gmail.com

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November 29, 2011 · 2:59 am

Shop til you drop! (Shouldn’t be long now!)

I have a list. That’s comforting. It’s in my hand. Someone else compiled it. I couldn’t have done it myself. It’s not that I’m not capable—it’s just…

I wouldn’t be here without the list. In this town. In this parking structure. In this car. I drain into the structure, single file from the streets with the rest of the cars. There’s a system. Speed up. Slow down. Brake and snake. I’ve found a cozy spot on the fourth level.

I’m looking for a map. I’ve got the list. It’s in my hands. That much I can count on. The rest, well, it’s out of my hands. I ride escalators. First down from the structure and then back up to the appropriate floor. The people inside this place could all appropriately be labeled “Makes Wide Turns” or “Oversized Load.” This is their right.

In America, many rights are subject to circumstance. He who holds the pepper spray, baton, SIG Sauer let’s you know when and where your rights are applicable. But there are some rights that the citizens of this great nation refuse to give up. Certain issues are worth dying for.

Inside the mall, these rights are easy to identify. A woman hands out sausage and cheese products on toothpicks. I watch from the floor above. There are some skinny people here, but they don’t stop. There are many fat people here, but only a few curious men urge their wives, “One second, babe…”

She’s not interested. She’s in the throes of a Mint Chocolaty Chip Frappuccino (non-fat).

You can get as fat as you want here. You can buy as much as you want. You can stockpile calories and cotton, metallic goods and fur. To your heart’s delight! No one can stop you. This is an unalienable right.

Black Friday passed. I missed it. I’ve never been one for violence or crowds. If I skipped the running of the bulls in Pamplona, why would I go to Nordstrom at sunrise?

Then there was Cyber Monday. I don’t really know what that is. The last time I saw the word cyber it was next to the word sex. That was 1994.

Today, I read that one billion dollars of productivity were lost in 2011 due to employees shopping online at work. I want to know what everyone is buying. Send me an email with a detailed list. I’ll add it to my list. We’ll combine lists. Become blood brothers and sisters via commerce.

I watch the offering of sausage and cheese skewers until I remember that I’m here to buy. I’m not here of my own accord. You see, there are certain asterisks attached to relationships, friendships. Even of the familial variety. You and I are obligated to not rock the boat. As long as we buy X number of gifts a year for X number of people they will continue to love us. The love is not inalienable. You have to pay for it. If you don’t they have the right to stop loving you. Like an insurance policy. You get what you pay for, you goddamn communist.

Now it’s my turn. Despite the enormous Christmas tree, the air is thin in here. I inhale deeply but it’s not gratifying. Maybe it’s because I’m on the third floor. I pass shoe stores, Sbarro Pizza and about nine windows that have khaki trench coats on female mannequins. I finally turn into a store that’s on my list

Inside, there are glass cases. Inside the glass cases are earrings, brooches, necklaces, watches. Things, that’s what I would call them. Accessories, that’s what the store calls them. But once they’ve been wrapped everyone calls them presents.

I walk to the first counter. Her lips are pursed.

“Can I help you?”

I hand over my list.

“Okay…”

She eyes it. The list has the names and images of each of the items I am here to gather. She reaches under the collar of her blouse and scratches her clavicle. Or her bra strap. I look away. I wonder how much longer I’ll have to be here.

I start to follow her. She asks me about colors and sizes. I defer to the list. If it’s not there then it’s beyond me. I can only do so much. A man can only do so much.

She picks things up and shows them to me. I’m thinking about something a friend of mine told me. She said, “The Mexican hippie is dead.” She was talking about an era, which I never knew existed. Yet, I mourn the loss.

Pretty soon I’m pointing to my phone. I’m pointing to the time.

“What? Do you have to go or something?”

Or something. Again, I point again to my phone. Today I’m not talking. There’s not enough oxygen. We can’t afford it. This year record shattering amounts of C02 were dispersed into the atmosphere. I’ve used enough oxygen today. Oxygen is not an inalienable right. There will always be plenty of Panda Express. And there’s always more shit to buy. No one will stop you from spending. They’d have to pry that AMEX Black Card from your rigor mortis stricken fingers. Am I right? Are you with me? !? Death before…

She takes my card. I pay it forward. That’s how I like to think of it, but I guess that’s not quite right. I guess you could say, I’ve formally agreed to pay it at a later date. The payment can wait, but people are dependent on what’s inside these bags. This is what makes them happy. No one is excluded. Everyone shops. Here I am shopping. I am shopping, but now I have to leave.

I sign my name. I crumble up my copy and leave it in what used to be an ashtray. The times they are a’changing… I validate my parking. I walk through crowds of lower backpain, waxed eyebrows, $20,000 deductibles, manicured fingers, rising insurance premiums, exploding waistlines, low credit scores, and unseasonable tans. They’re all smiling. This is fun. Spending money, getting fat, collecting things—it feels good.

Yes, we feel better already.

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November 21, 2011 · 2:47 am

Richard Roe +1

You become acutely aware of your place in the world when you’re the +1.

Your name isn’t on the list. You don’t even have a name. You could be anyone. They’ve could’ve brought someone else.

But there I was, a +1, on the end of the Sunset Strip at a lounge named after a street a few blocks away in Beverly Hills. Oh, those crafty club owners. Nothing drives up the value of your venue like associating it with a wealthy residential street… But I can’t really talk. My name wasn’t even on “the list.”

Outside, as they say, was a meat market. Or more aptly, an Iranian meat market. Persians lined the streets waving money at zombie-like bouncers. Turns out they hit capacity two weeks ago and haven’t let anyone in since. We were free to stand outside as long as we liked though.

Naturally, I was drawn to the longest line where I expected to wait until we decided that the place sucks and left. I moved towards that line only to learn that each of the forty people had informally committed to bottle service. There they were, patiently standing in line, prepared to spend a thousand bucks on a hangover. Clearly, that wasn’t the line for us.

We were guests! I was a plus one! And by god, I refused to mingle with people who have more than my networth between the folds of their wallet. After about a minute we found our man: Tall, black, void of emotion. We assured him our presence was needed inside. He agreed.

We were escorted through the backdoor. We walked through a kitchen. I accidentally mistook the walk-in refrigerator for a bathroom. Eventually, we reached our destination. Smiling young people with bright teeth and clear eyes. Yes, we had arrived. Yes, it was an open bar. Things were starting to make sense. One tequila, two tequila… yes, things were crystal clear.

Did I mention it was a birthday party? The birthday girl: a lanky blonde, marginally famous, a model by trade. She once drank a bottle of sauvignon blanc on my couch. She didn’t remember me. She did however remember the gentleman whose plus one I accounted for. He brought a gift. That suave bastard! Maybe if I had brought a gift she’d remember slaking herself in my domicile. I doubt it.

My friend, let’s call him GENTLEMAN CALLER and the BIRTHDAY GIRL embraced, exchanged pleasantries, etc. Here’s what followed:

GENTLEMAN CALLER: I got you a present.

BIRTHDAY GIRL: You’re so sweet! (Another hug, she looks longingly into his mahogany eyes and finds the meaning of life).

Keep in mind, said present is nowhere in sight. In fact, it’s in the car.

GENTLEMAN CALLER: Guess what it is.

BIRTHDAY GIRL: Give me a hint. (winks)

GENTLEMAN CALLER: It’s something you do everyday

BIRTHDAY GIRL: Drugs!

The gift was a bottle of wine.

No one laughed.

Inside, I smiled. My heart was full.

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November 18, 2011 · 10:44 pm

Dental Hygiene and Scripted Demolition

The consequences are grave. If I write this scene and this thing gets made, I’ll be responsible for masterminding the demolition of the Avalon Theatre in Hollywood.

I will not have worked alone.  I was bankrolled. There were specific instructions. There was a suggestion. In a lot of ways it feels like an act of terror. A cultural genocide.

EXT. AVALON THEATRE – NIGHT

I’m supposed to blow the place up. And everyone inside. The idea of taking human lives doesn’t really bother me. In fact, it’s incredibly human. People do it all the time. And in this particular scenario, I’ll be killing actors. Prosthetic limbs will fly through the air. Severed heads shall roll. The screams will be rehearsed, but the explosion must be real. It would be unacceptable to outsource this to the world of special effects and postproduction. No, if I’m going to do it, it’s gotta be the real thing. Now, it’s time to address the repercussions.

I’ve been a part of good times at the Avalon and it’s adjacent lounge, Bardot. I’ve also been there for many an awful show, but I’ll try to focus on the positive.

Scratch that. I want to talk about that party they do on Saturday nights. It starts at 2:00 a.m. and ends at 7:00 a.m. Naturally, it brings in a wild-jaw crowd who couldn’t care less that they stopped serving because they’ve got enough ecstasy to jump-start a lifetime of paranoid schizophrenia and/or complete mental collapse.  Of course, there’s cocaine. There’s always cocaine.

Anyway, the crowd is a bit bizarre—and dedicated—incredibly so.

For the recession price of $30 a head you can mingle in the venue among white men with dreads, Bulgarians who haven’t slept since the fall of the Berlin Wall,  and chicks who are wearing more from the knee down than the knee up. There are also a lot of guys who are grinding their teeth and trying to befriend you for reason, which are unclear.

If you’re having a good time[1], you’ll be amazed at how much you have in common with these people: you both were alive in the 90s, sometimes you eat, and your favorite part about Burning Man is all the chicks are total sluts. Oh yeah, and the psilocybin.  Fast friends. All this transpires while something that sounds like a failed root canal plays on the sound system.

By now, I’m sure you see where I’m coming from. Why would I want to end such a terrific gathering of like-minded people?

Talk about being proactive, none of these guys are going to live long enough to collect the social security that they’re pay into. Here we are, in or between or in the aftermath of a recession and these guys are fueling an economy that they’ll never live long enough to see fully recover. But they’re not thinking about that. They’re thinking about Joseph’s.

There are only two things that I’m afraid of: Gypsies and Joseph’s. I can only pray that they never collaborate.

I claim to know a thing or two about afterhours, but Joseph’s is a different beast. It isn’t a bender that casually drifts into the predawn hours. It isn’t the culmination of too many drinks and a few bad decisions. No, Joseph’s is a lifestyle choice. Joseph’s is reserved for the gnarliest. What I do, looks like churning butter with the Amish to the crowd that frequents Joseph’s.

They’ve got a saying, “Nobody said doing copious amounts of drugs after an evening of drinking too much and bobbing to Romanian house music was going to be easy. Nobody said it was going to be fun.”

Or more aptly: “He who licks the knife will eventually cut his tongue.” – Eugene Hutz

I’ve walked by Joseph’s at 10 a.m., 11 a.m. as late as two o’clock on Sunday[2] and every time I’m frightened by the rancid techno playing in broad daylight. I’m frightened by the emaciated white girls who can smoke a cigarette to its filter in sixty seconds. I’m scared of all the black dudes with bleached hair smiling ear-to-ear. I’m scared of the Bulgarians who are still wearing leather jackets even though it’s ninety-five degrees outside. And what do everyone of these partygoers have in common? Fucked up teeth.

I’m deathly afraid of hygienically unsound teeth.

Can you imagine what it looks like inside? Can you imagine what they’re all doing? And if they’ve been partying since last night, when was the last time they brushed their teeth…?

After being given the task to blow up the Avalon these were the challenges, which I faced. Great mental anguish was endured. It’s not the history that I worry about. It’s the cultural loss that Hollywood will suffer. If I blow up the Avalon, where will Los Angeles go to make horrible decisions between 2:00 and 7:00 a.m.? Who will sustain this crowd until Joseph’s opens? Thai Town doesn’t go until 7:00. Glass noodles must be made! The Thai have shit to do on Sundays. Plus at any given time, there are more people consuming drugs in the Avalon’s numerous bathrooms than there are people hanging in all of the Thai Towns afterhours spots combined.

And by the way, is it technically afterhours if you’re only halfway through at 7:00 a.m.? It seems like a bit of an understatement.

At least now you understand my dilemma. This is why I’ve decided to switch my scripted explosion to the Kodak Theater. Because honestly, who gives a fuck about that place?

Tourists and the Academy.

[1] Read: indulging/over-indulged

[2] No doubt, headed to the Farmer’s Market a block away for dozen of their finest kumquats.

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November 11, 2011 · 11:31 pm

Financing Scripted Sex With Amber Heard

Big day.

First email: a link to a documentary on the horrors of the sex slave trade in Bulgaria. This came courtesy of my progenitor[1]. I may have cried for Slavic hookers everywhere.

Second email: Amber Heard accepted my friend request on Facebook. Very big news. As an actress she reminds me of a tan, sultry, ridiculous attractive, nowhere near as talented version of (insert name of unattractive yet talented actress).

Naturally, I’m off to deconstruct the deeper meaning of the morning’s first emails. I quickly lose interest. Instead of analyzing and interpreting their latent significance, I decide to check out Amber Heard’s Facebook pictures.

Surprisingly, her pictures are markedly similar to every other girl I know. In fact, she looks like about 31,458 girls who I “studied” journalism with at the illustrious Arizona State University.

I’m in the depths of some profile picture, which is a passive political statement on same sex marriage when it hits me. I’m struck with pangs of guilt. She’s vaguely Eastern European looking, not particularly Slavic, but Croatians can have a pretty diverse look… Naturally, I have to wonder:

What if Amber Heard is a victim of the sex slave trade? Sold to CAA by some Yugoslavian fleshmonger during the Bosnian War? What if, I say!

Recently, I forfeited USD to see The Rum Diary[2]. Which can only mean one thing: I may have directly contributed to the Eastern European sex slave economy. South Slavic pimps get rich on my dime while someone’s daughter shakes that ass for the 99%.

With nowhere to run, I seek solace in literature. I stumble upon a conversation between Richard Tull and Gwynn Barry. They’re talking about pornography. Barry, the wildly successful novelist disagrees with it.

Tull: Pornography

Barry: I would never watch that stuff

Tull: Because?

Barry: … Well, for one thing it objectifies women. It turns them into objects.

Tull: It’d be a handy way for you to check on changing sexual styles. Whither fellatio, and so on. Actually you can never see anything because there’s always some wine bottle or flower bowl in the way. It turns women into objects. Such as silicone.

Barry: What’s the matter with you?[3]

No one wants to be Richard Tull.

No one likes him. No one wants to identify with him. Yet here I am. Here I am, financing women like Amber Heard to be hustled from the Balkans and subjected to scripted intercourse with pirates twice her age and Aaron Eckhart’s freshly waxed chest.

It’s just not fair. It’s not fair to Amber and it’s not fair to me. I’ve been duped. No one would believe me. It wouldn’t hold up in a court of law.

Any day now, I expect to be shackled then publicly tarred and feathered at Hollywood and Wilcox. Shortly thereafter, I’ll be guillotined at the jail where Lindsey Lohan has thrice stayed long enough to be photographed.

But not me. There will be no pictures. Just a slow, painful, and public death. A death fit for the man who financed Amber Heard’s kidnapping and encouraged her sale her into scripted orgasms. I’ll remain taciturn.

I regret it. I really do.

Amber, if you’re reading this, I will totally understand if you decide to defriend me. But you have to admit, we had a good run. You were great. You really were.

[1] What does it all mean? Do my forebears know something I don’t? Am I genetically predisposed to frequenting hookers? Or turning tricks? Or sympathizing with those who do?

[2] My first mistake. I know.

[3] The Information, Martin Amis

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October 27, 2011 · 1:35 am

Man vs Machine: Driving

Long drives and the radio starts putting words in my mouth. My jaw pops open and I verbalize my desire to be saved. I salivate at the thought of salvation. I need to properly praise my lord and savior. God occupies the stretch between cities. Faith lives between like-minded ears. It’s easy to be like-minded. Out here, I wear a helmet to reduce the impact.

I scan the I-5 North looking for that new burger with the onion rings and the lettuce that’s so crisp you can hear it crunch through the airwaves.

A teenager croons over the loss of innocence with a Nashville packaged twang and I believe every word. I look out to see if anyone else is hearing this. No cars, but I’m passing a prison. Someone in there is hearing this and they know exactly what she means. She wishes things could go back to the way they were. She’s convincing. She’s endearing. She’s probably fourteen. Somewhere there’s a proud mother rolling in cash. On the road of life, there are passengers and there are pimps.

In between signs, I track my progress by the color of the hills. Flat land isn’t ideal. Not for the type of driving I do. It’s easy to drift. I’ll open a book or pay utility bills. I’ll pull out my phone and catch up current tragedies. I’ll drift over the line and bump along for a minute or two feeling like Pacman. I accrue a tremendous amount of points while playing against myself—my worthiest opponent out here. I rarely lose.

Semi-trucks rule these roads. They get caught in the slow moving current of the road and keep pace like ambling ice caps. Only there is no end for these drivers. Just stages. As soon as they complete a leg, kick their feet up and grab a beer–the phone vibrates. Another baton is passed and they must keep going.

It’s important not to break your stride. I’m limited to a single tank of gas. If I run out of gas in Salinas; Salinas it is. I won’t go on. The same goes for Barstow, Truckee, Ghila Bend or Castro Valley. The car says when. I’m merely a passenger. Well, I’m actually the driver, but I play second fiddle. I steer when I have to, but there are limits. We all have breaking points. Mine are rather fragile. Flat tire, rain, traffic, and gasoline shortages have all stopped me before. It doesn’t take much.

It’s for the best. If you ever see me out there, you’ll understand why. I’m doing everything, but driving. Like I said, I leave that to the car. I just steer. But even that is a tedious task.

The Google Driverless Car hasn’t crashed yet[1]. I have. More than once. The Google Driverless Car doesn’t get sleepy. It doesn’t text. It doesn’t get drunk. It doesn’t get bored. It doesn’t run red lights when it’s late or roll through stop signs when no one else is around. Rather prudish, I think, I’m not sure we’d hit it off.

The radio just told me that. Now do you see what I mean about the radio putting words in my mouth?

Of course, I haven’t seen this Driverless Car for myself. Usually, I keep eyes peeled for the aesthetically pleasing; be it plein air or portrait. There’s a lot to look at. As for the road, it could use a facelift. Somebody look into that.

Man 0  Machine  1

[1] There was that crash in Mountain View, but humans were to blame. If Google doesn’t count it, I won’t either.

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