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?
