CA Rain Washes Memories From The Sidewalks of Life...

The rains came. We all know that Mother California needed her rain and now it's raining. I'm happy for her. I'm happy that soon flowers will bloom. Trees will bloom. And hopefully, I will bloom. Some would say "It's about time!" I worship the quicksand they walk on. Bastards. 

How was I to know, smiling at the falling rain on the dumpster, that soon I would be in pain from all things, a holiday Wedgie. It all started with a twisting and turning dream on Christmas Eve.

It was more of a nightmare than a dream. Maybe it was that chocolate cake I ate while I streamed "A Christmas Carol" that awesome flick that never grows old. Maybe it was the Heineken cold one that I washed the cake down with while watching the movie. As the story reached the final "Ghost of Christmas Past" I nodded off. And then, that nightmare. 

I was in Starbucks. Everyone was glued to their laptops. Behind the counter was a fuzzy-thinking clerk that looked like President Biden. Another clerk arrived. He looked like Santa Claus. I think he was homeless. 

There was no place to sit. What else is new? They kept raising the coffee prices. Biden and Santa Claus kept taunting each other with insults that bordered on the obscene. I think Santa had been drinking. He smelled of weed. Then Santa Claus clawed his way over the counter and in front of God and Country, gave me a Wedgie. I'm no stranger to Wedgies. I've had a few. A few too many. 

That first Wedgie in grade school. Some PE Instructors have a funny way of teaching. That first Wedgie in high school. Some Guidance Counselors have a funny way of guiding. High School. Best eight years of my life. That Wedgie in college. Some Coeds need to get a life. That Wedgie in the military. I learned Drafted; meant Shafted. That Wedgie at my wedding. A funny way for a Bride to say 'I love you.'

As Starbucks posted yet another price bump on their Keopectate Latte I slowly awoke from that chocolate-induced coma masquerading as a nightmare, masquerading as a dream. It was over. Like Scrooge in Charles Dickens' story, I vowed to live a more optimistic life. To face 2022 with a positive attitude.

I vowed to lose those Co-Vid pounds I had gained. I vowed to become a more awesome dance lead in my Argentine Tango class. I vowed to be all I could be. But, enough about me. Happy New Year...

No More Wire Coat-Hangers; No More Stinking Badges...

I need to call it like it is. I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a home in the country. I needed a vacation, I needed a break from the maddening LA crowd. Due to Co-Vid, I had to take a Stay-Vacation. Of sorts. As you know "Stay-Cation" means you stay at home. Sort of. Actually, it wasn't my idea. It started with a knock at the door.

Some dude with a badge tells me to pack my bags. His buddies all chime in the same "Pack your bags" command. Like I'm so kind of felon or something. So I've made a mistake or two. Who hasn't? Is nothing sacred?  

To awaken a working man out of his beauty sleep at 2pm is cruel and unusual punishment in my book. And on my devices. For the love of God.

I forgot to pay a couple of parking tickets and now I'm Jeffrey Dahmer?

Turns out these dudes wearing badges are from Fish & Game and are on my case for something I can't even remember. Fish & game? What did I do? Start an illegal forest fire? Did I do No. 2 in the woods? When nature calls, a man's got to do what a man's got to do. I crack a joke. "We don't need no stinking badges."

The famous line from that Humphrey Go-Kart movie "Treasure of the Sierra Madre." No one laughs. Losers. Those Neanderthals wouldn't know a joke if it bit them in the behind. How long do I have to carry this town?

Those ankle bracelets chaffed my legs on that long ride up to the Los Angeles Forest. Some log cabin with "Sheriff Headquarters" stenciled on the door. I'm forced to watch some poorly filmed documentary that was shot back when Hitler was painting houses. Black and white. Grainy. Sound warbling in and out. OMG. This is Hollywood, people. Can't we at least get some shots in focus?

The film is all about Mother Nature and how we shouldn't empty our bowels in the woods. Easy for them to say. No brains prevail here. I could have watched this Online. Saved some time. I have things to do: Shopping at the 99 Cent Store. Community Service obligations. That Waxing I promised myself. 

Just a hint for you. You don't want to text Uber any ride requests from jail. Those transportation-wielding Gestapos will cross-index the address and will discover that the call is from a lock-up at Fish & Game. Bastards. I found out the hard way. It was a long walk back down to L.A. You live and you learn.

It was more like being back on Medication than on a relaxing Stay-Vacation. Too short. It was OK, but nothing to email home about. Hope your day is going well.

Mother of God, there's someone knocking on my door. 

But, enough about me...

The Dog Daze of August 21...

Summertime and the living is easy, so says the song. Fish are jumping and the cotton is high.

Your Daddy's rich and your Mother's good-looking, so hush now little baby don't you cry. An awesome nod to Porgy & Bess. 

I read these words to myself every August. Sometimes I read them every couple of hours. I know those Dog Days of Summer are close and getting closer. On top of the usual heat, one has to worry about the Pandemic and all those choices about "To Mask or Not to Mask." 

Sounds like a Shakespearean tragedy. I want to share how I will cope. It won't be easy. It won't be a cakewalk. Trust me. Thousands wouldn't. Just down the street is my salvation. 

It's a small out of the way place that is just big enough to swing a cat, but still big enough for a few of my closest friends. A place to sit. A place to share. A place to commiserate. A place to reboot.

It's down the street next to the 24/7 laundromat and next to the liquor store. Matter of fact, it's in the back of the liquor store. It's inside the beer cooler. It's where Jake, a recently disbarred entertainment lawyer, and close buddy holds court. Usually at night. Always at night. Always when the country club owner, the guy that wears those Trader Joe's Hawaiian shirts, is still telling stories on the 19th hole. It's after hours. Always after hours. It's Heaven.

It's Heaven to have an evening out with the boys. My closest friends:

Bud Light, Sam Adams, Fat Tire, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Blue Moon, Harry Heineken, Hombre Tecate, Stella Artois. My Aussie mate, Foster's.  With these guys, it's always Miller Time. Always time for an icy cold Corona. 

Always a moment to remember especially with that awesome storyteller, an ice-cold Coors, Nectar of the gods. 

That's how I will cope with the August heat. You're most welcome to join us. Always.

But, enough about me...

Living & Streaming: The Summer of 2021...

It's early morning. The summer is almost here. I can hear it in the voices of the birds chirping on the fire escape outside my window. I can hear it in the voices of the homeless rummaging through the dumpster down below. Summer! Yes, life is good. 

Yes, life is good and God is good and I know she has a great summer planned for me. Receding into the distance like the South end of Seabiscuit running North at Santa Anita is Co-Vid and all the accoutrement of Six Foot distancing, Masks du jour, and those nasty glares at the laundromat most Saturdays when my mask slipped down beneath my panting nostrils. Time to move on.

Time to reboot my life. It won't be easy. Not with my 5th book coming out. Not that I'm Shakespeare. Or Stephen King. But when the glow of another book hits Amazon and Barnes & Noble, it's on for young and old. They come out of the woodwork. Like cockroaches. Like poor relations. They think it means Big Bucks. 

The residuals I make off my writing won't give me a down payment at Malibu. Maybe a down payment on an icy Six-Pack of Non-Alcoholic Heineken green. On these hot days, that's all I need. It's all good.

What's all bad is that when the new book arrives, those poor relations think it's Christmas. They think they can show up at all hours and ask for a loan. And then to add insult to injury, they have the consummate bad taste to ask me to give them a ride back to the trailer park. 

By the gods, can't they take the 94 bus down San Fernando Road into Chinatown and save me some time, not to mention some gas money. Do they think I'm Mr. Moneybags or something? 

Do they think I'm Jeff Bezos? Give me a break. I'm a working man. Working like a coolie is the elbow-to-elbow sweatshop called Hollywood. Eking out a living. Waiting to sell a comedy screenplay. Waiting for The Onion to buy one of my Headlines. Waiting for the gravy train. Waiting for my ship to come in. Respect that people!

Respect that, you malcontents that show up on my doorstep at all hours, asking for a couple of bucks! Claiming that we're related. Well, at least summer, finally is here. But, it won't be a cakewalk. 

Another summer of dodging restraining orders, avoiding jury duty summons, coping with heatwaves, riding those Southern California earthquakes, and other realities. I know I can make it.

I've done it before. I'll do it again. Hoping the Cartels reconnect. Hoping to meet Miss Right. Or her sister, Miss Right Now. It's all good. My community service is going well. 

But, enough about me... 

Echo Park Hues; Echo Park Blues...

I have the solution. It won't be easy. It's taken some sleepless nights. Some tossing and turning. A few "Ah-Ha" defining moments, that came to me, gridlocked in LA's moan and groan traffic. A solution to our biggest challenge. Not Co-Vid. It's simple. It's profound. I have a way to end the homeless crisis.

We need to eat them. 

I know the road ahead will be a long and winding road with many culinary and non-culinary twists and turns. Stay with me. The idea to cure homelessness came to me when I saw an LA landmark being trashed.

A landmark close to my heart and a landmark close to the heart of every movie fan, here in LA and to every movie fan across the world. This landmark location is our beloved beautiful timeless LA Woman. Our sweetheart. Her name is Echo Park. 

In Chinatown, LA Noir gumshoe J.J. Gittes, played by Jack Nicholson snaps those incriminating photos of Water & Power's Mr. Mulray and his alleged girlfriend, as his private detective buddy, rows the boat across the water at Echo Park. 

I binge-watched Bosch last week. Echo Park played a background role as a Walk & Talk scene rolled before the cameras. It was awesome.  

In so many movies, Echo Park has played and will always play a vital character in LA storytelling. When I saw those self-righteous idiots being run out of Echo Park a few nights ago, I slept easier.  It was REM nirvana. I slept the sleep of the just. It won't be easy. 

It won't be easy to eat the homeless. I hope that with your help and with the advice from some of those Craig's List pre-CoVid food workers we'll be able to make it work. Wake up. Cannibalism isn't new to America. Google that Donner-Pass scenario. You get the picture. It's a sick, twisted and yet, hungry picture. 

As an entree, we need to create a restaurant menu. Like at Clint's Hog's Breath Inn in Carmel. Instead of the "Dirty Harry Burger" maybe we should see something like the breakfast recipe for Irish Scrambled Eggs. "First, steal 12 eggs." You get the picture.

We can do this America. All we need to do; is to work together.      To create together. To eat together. 

Bon Appetit.

But, enough about me...

Potential Unlimited: 2021: Soaring the Heights...

It's come and gone. The celebration of New Year's 2021.

I wasn't out in some sordid back-alley, super-spreader event. Once again, I was holed up in my sleeping bag, cell-phone flashlight in my hand reading a knarled copy of The Police Gazette Annual Edition, 1985. I nodded off and when I opened my eyes, it was 2021.

It's so awesome that it's now 2021. Thank God, in all her glory, that the memory of 2020 is receding faster than the South end of Seabiscuit running North at Santa Anita. 

We ain't out of the woods just yet but the light at the end of the 3rd Street Tunnel is finally in sight. (That's in L.A. for those reading this from behind bars.) That light is the maelstrom of vaccines that are pouring in from the drug companies. Vaccines to die for, so to speak.

I'm ready, willing and Uber ready to get a healing shot in the arm. It'll be nice to have a new healing drug in my system. It gets old when your only drug of choice is a steady stream of Kaopectate.

A New Year has dawned and my goal is quite simple: A needy Trophy-wife girlfriend. An adventurous lady with an insatiable libido and longing for a Threesome: Her. Me. And her American Express Card. 

It's the New Year with the promise of Spring. The promise of new movie roles. The promise of meeting new personalities, many of whom will be early-release felons that share my twisted sense of humor, and have robust and still-active connections with the Cartels. The promise of expunging those unflattering court records in L.A. County. The promise of becoming a great Argentine Tango dance-lead and learning some new moves for 2021. The promise of ordering those always-on-sale wife-beater T-shirts on Amazon.

I want to soar the heights. I want to be all I can be. I want to...

Well, maybe not.

But, enough about me...