Christmas Eve in L.A...

Christmas Eve in L.A. Christmas Eve in Hollywood. Time to go home. As they say in MovieSpeak: Wrapped.

Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty I'm free at last I murmur loudly to my fellow employees. I head home.

Had a few stops to make. Took a couple of side streets. A right turn. A left turn. Siri, speaking with an Aussie voice steers me wrong. Right. Left. Two U-turns. No big deal.

The dance studio. Closing down for Christmas eve. I drop off a check for my Argentine Tango lessons. The clerk at the desk, I've danced with before in a Waltz class. She couldn't hold a dance frame if her life depended on it. No worries. She tucks my check into her push-up bra and gives me a half-smile.

Another turn. Another street. Had to pick up some drugs. Drugs to help me make it through the night. Kaopectate. Enuff said. It was dark and rainy. A dark and rainy December 24^th.

Christmas eve in L.A. Traffic. Clogged freeways. Spotify Algorithms sing a song of Christmas. Christmas Songs. Songs to soothe. To soothe the savage beast. Me. Home now. Parking now.

A homeless dude in handcuffs, dressed in red, with a white beard, wearing some bad-ass black boots gives me a wink and a thumbs-up as he and two LAPD cops walk by. Nothing I haven't seen before. This is L.A.

As I grapple with a small Amazon box that contains my book “Confessions...of a Hollywood Movie Extra” that apparently eluded local Porch Pirates, I hear voices. Again. What are you doing with your life? a little raspy voice keeps whispering in my ear.

I start to stream Love Actually, the Christmas flick that has replaced It's a Wonderful Life as my December 25^th go-to movie. Hard to concentrate. I couldn't shake that VM from earlier this morning. Casting. Wants me for the lead in “Laundromat Gigolo 2.” Is nothing sacred? OMG. I said no today. I said no last week. I'll say no tomorrow.

30 Minutes into Love Actually I hit the pause button. I need to sleep. REM sleep. Out of the question. I toss and turn all night, like ping pong balls in an overheated tumble dryer.

In spite of all the twisting and turning events of the day and in spite of the Christmas music ringing in my ears, I eventually succumb and I dream a dream of Peace on Earth and Good Will to Men.

Then the demons came again.

But, enough about me...

OMG. Sunday morning. I should be going to church. I am going to church. My special church. The movies. A church filled with art. Art that will remind me of my humanity. The ups. The downs. The magic. The movies. AMC Theatres. Burbank. I'm just clearing the stairs to Rocketman.

Suddenly. I see it and it's not pretty. A small version of Godzilla is dancing along the theatre entrance. They've hired some dwarf or midget to crawl into a costume of Godzilla and bump and grind and grope into my fellow mouth-breathing malcontents going to the movies. Characters from a Saturday morning laundromat. Bless their hearts.

Dwarfs. Midgets. “Little People” my derriere. Bastards. They get all the work.

As I negotiate around Leaping Lizards, some iPhone babe is filming his every move as he imitates Godzilla, a revered cinema hero in my life and in the life of most movie fans from San Quentin to San Diego. From Nagasaki to North Hollywood.

Is nothing sacred?

How dare they burlesque Godzilla? Maybe the dude or dudette doing their impression of Godzilla is a college student with tuition to pay.

Or more probably, another early-release felon with bills to pay. I'll let God sort it out.

She's good at that.

Spring-ing Forward: 2019

It's gone now. That REM destroying nightmare. You know the one. The giant frogs are chasing me down Magnolia Blvd.in Burbank. Again.

The movie crews scarfing down burgers & fries & brewskis inside Tinhorn Flats peer through the swinging doors and watch in horror as I'm run over by Frogs R Us. The slimy frogs set fire to my SAG card. I wake up in a cold sweat. The same scenario. Every night. It's over. I hope.

I'm out of breath as I wake up mornings in my just-big-enough-to-swing-a-cat humble apartment. My commode and abode. Close to the studios. Still pitching our comedy screenplays around town. Still doing the Hollywood Hustle.

That Indie film lead in Laundromat Gigolo was a non-starter. Still working funeral gigs to help pay the bills. Still keeping Hope alive. I'm still here. Still here. Sounds like lyrics by Stephen Sondheim. Still waters run deep. Still dancing too.

Figure the Salsa moves are good Cardio moves too. Dancing with Hot Babes works for me. Eye-Candy City. Most classes. No worries. Guess I'm becoming a dancer. Wake up every morning with sore legs. My new heroes: Bob Fosse. Michael Kidd. Jerome Robbins.

Started my dance lessons years ago. Argentine Tango. Waltz. Delta Blues. Day Room. San Quentin. Good times.

Looking forward to Tarantino's beyond awesome new flick Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.

Enough about me. What's up with you?