"...and God bless us, everyone."

He's on his way. Yes, he's on his way. No, not the guy from the North Pole. Not the guy with the reindeer. The guy from God knows where. I know it's him.

He dresses in red. He has a large black belt. Not like in Tae Know Do. Like in overweight. Like in Grossly Obese. OK. Judge not, lest ye be judged says the Good Book. Nobody is perfect, and that includes me. 

I guess he lives around here. He's old. And Old Town Pasadena is a three-minute walk from here. Restaurants. Shopping. Police on bicycles. Police with dogs. I usually keep a stash of doggy treats in my back pockets just in case, I'm ever stopped for jay-walking. It's happened once or twice. OK, more than once or twice. 

Being frisked in public by yapping German Shepards is not my idea of Nirvana, especially during this festive season. Makes me feel like I'm in some type of Quentin Tarantino W.W.II B-movie.  

Not much is happening for Christmas. Will stream my fave holiday flicks: "A Christmas Story" and "Love, Actually." After breakfast at The Mission and lunch at The Shelter, and late in the evening, after the Demons come, I'll probably eventually pass out from my usual holiday fare, those crinkly gas-station packages of Twinkies I bought back when Dexter was still in Season Two, washed down by a couple of cold ones. Coors Light. 

I'll say hi if I run into my buddy that dresses in red. The guy with the large black belt. I think he works and might actually live in that shelter down by the LA river.

I hope all your before-Christmas dreams have come true. I hope all your after-Christmas misdemeanors and felonies have been expunged.  Once again. There is a God. And She's always looking out for us.

Happy Holidays. 

Big plans for 2023: A new Headshot. More auditions. More dance classes. Meeting the second Miss Right. 

But, enough about me... 

That Special Day is almost here...

That special day is almost upon us. No, not November 8th. No, not Voting Day. The special day falls on a Monday this year. It's Halloween.

Halloween. The only day I can appear normal. No big deal. You are who you are. A chronic rash. Acne that lingered for decades. Nobody's perfect. Times were tough.

Growing up in that trailer park. Later, living in that van down by the river. Nasty neighbors. Inbreeding, I suspected. Scenes from Deliverance. Nightmares. Nights. Most days. Times were tough.

Junior High School was no picnic. I was kept back a year or two. I was the first in my class to shave. I was proud of that. I walked tall. 

High School. Best seven years of my life. 

Then the military. Yes, I served.  People depended on me. I had bills to pay. OK, so I was on the other side. Nobody's perfect. Times were tough.   

Now living moments from Hollywood. Moments from when my ship comes in. Ready for my new Headshot. Ready now for my Close Up. OK, so maybe I need a small Hollywood Nick & Tuck. Don't we all. 

Nowadays, things are looking up. I don't mind being a character actor. I am who I am.     

Hope to see you at the next SAG meeting in Studio City. Hope to see you on the voting line. Vote Early; Vote Often.

But, enough about me...

The Whales and Wedgies of August 2022...

I can hear them downstairs. I can hear the splashing. And more splashing. This is Summer 2022 in LA, and that's what people do. They beat the heat by swimming. Hey, this is L.A.  I'd like to join them in the water. Maybe I will. Nice to finally have a pool to swim in.

In the last apartment, the only way to cool off was to run through the automatic sprinkler in the guy next door's backyard. He worked nights, and I spent quite a few moments chasing my water bliss, letting that H2O wash over me.  Things are looking up now here in Pasadena. Good to be here. No more Midnight Dances with Water to cool off. But I'll wait.

Wait until late tonight, once the hot California sun goes down and the families have gone to bed. Don't want them to see me in my current condition. Some people would call it Fat. I'll call it slightly Overweight. Embalmers, I know, would call it, Morbidly Obese. I'm blaming it all on Co-Vid. Being cooped up like a scalded dog in a cage was no picnic. I ate too much. We all ate too much. Now it's time.

Time for action. Tonight's the night. I'll do a few laps and begin my journey back to my fighting weight, you know when I was married. I'll wear those faded Mick Jagger Union-Jack Speedos, and my only worries will be The Whales and Wedgies of August. I'm sorry.

Sorry to refer to those twin sisters that live behind the laundromat downstairs as two Whales. But, every time they jump in the pool, it's a 6 Point 5 on the Richter Scale. Forgive me. Instant Tsunami.   

As if stressing out about taking a private late-night swim and having Twin Whales show up, there's that never-ending challenge of a rash of swim-suit Wedgies that have plagued me since before Bill Gates gave his first Ted Talk.  

But, enough about me. How's your summer going?

Summer 2022: Taking my Lumps at the Pumps...

I took a hard look in the mirror this morning. It wasn't a pretty sight. It was life-changing. It was simple. It was easy. I need more money in my life. Not entirely my fault.

OK, the Cartels are slow-paying. Again. OK, those gigolo gigs have been going South lately, like the rear-end of Seabiscuit heading North at Santa Anita. OK, those Sunday-at-dawn cellophane-wrapped 134 off-ramp flower sales at Forest Lawn have been lately, wilting.  

Without more money coming in, I'll have to make a command decision: Do I keep ordering that low-rent Viagra from Canada or do I pay His Majesty, my Landlord, on time? 

Forgive me. Last night I sat down in the shower. On that ancient Ikea yellow stool. Mother California's citrus and salad crops are caught in a drought and I just sat in my faded Union-Jack Speedos and let gallons of precious crop-growing H2O pour over me. Gallons. 

I looked into the deep and dark recesses of my tortured soul and found the answer to all my financial woes.  I found the real answer. I found Nirvana. Why I'm living on the financial edge.

The price of gas is now $6.48 per gallon. That's where all my legal and illegal cash income is going to! To the local gas station. 

To the same place where a working man has to pay $10 for a crinkly pack of breakfast Twinkies. To the same place where nobody speaks English as a first language. To the same place where the public restrooms have been welded shut since Ronald Reagan was president of SAG. 

I'm praying for a President Biden-led full-throttle wider opening of those OPEC pipelines to ease my pain at the pump.  

I'm praying the employment resume I emailed for that all-night kitchen-hand side gig at that Woman's Prison in Tehachapi finds a sympathetic eye and ear. 

But, enough about me.

How's your summer going?

Moving Apartments in LA Ain't No Picnic...

 It's over. Well almost. I'm still stepping over the cardboard boxes. Still raking the pizza cardboards and brewski bottles into the corner. Getting to know the neighbors. Well some of them. Don't think I want to know those dudes down the street living on the edge of that Homeless Encampment. But, I'm here. Still here. 

Years back it was simple. As an actor, to keep overheads low, I shared a two-bedroom in Glendale fairly close to The Studios. My roommate, Larry, was heading back to Oklahoma. He said he was heading home. I suspect it was a bit more complicated. I never asked. He never said.  I suspected Extradition. Whatever. I needed new digs.

Craigslist to the rescue. It wasn't the Taj Mahal. It wasn't Shakespeare. It was off-street parking and in Burbank, closer than ever to The Studios. I had to share a kitchen. And a bath. No worries. You gotta do whatcha gotta do. The rent was about a third of what people were paying just a mile away, and really close to Warner Bros. It was Ok. I thought. Then the dry-rot slowly crept in. It wasn't pretty.

I don't mind living close to Serial Killers or an occasional Socio-Path. To each his own. Live and let live. This is L.A! I suspect the flotsam that passed through my shared kitchen and mostly never-flushed bathroom were only borderline. Borderline Felons. Hey, I'm an actor.

I had to keep my eye on the Prize. A SAG card. An Oscar. A trophy wife. An ocean view at Malibu. So far I have a SAG card. Oscar is an almost-there mirage. The trophy wife never returned my texts. Sitting on the beach in Malibu is not a problem. The Metro 180 bus stops in Hollywood and after a short snooze, you reach Malibu. 

Yes, I survived. In spite of Mr. America the bodybuilder that never said hello. In spite of Mr. Feces a guy who had chronic bowel problems at Midnight. In spite of Miss America, an Armenian woman who banged on the door during my 6am four-minute shower, begging to use the restroom. It was a good six-year run. Then my latest Slumlord asked me to leave. Wanted to make some major renovations. No worries. Craigslist to the rescue once again. I thought. It wasn't pretty.

Three phony apartment no-shows. Combed through a myriad of rent-a-room websites. Finally, I lucked out. A guy that does stand-up. Now in my new digs in Pasadena. Close to my day job. Close to my Argentine Dance Studio. There is a God. She was looking after me once again. 

But, enough about me...