It's not a pretty sight...

It's not a pretty sight. I'm sitting in my birthday suit. Well almost. I'm wearing those Speedos. The one with the faded Union Jack flag. Mick Jagger probably wore these decades before I did. How they ended up in a thrift store in Hollyweird is anyone's guess. Another L.A. Heat Wave. Another Labor Day long weekend. Another day to dodge the pandemic bullet.

Dodging the bullet in L.A. What else is new? Slumlords. Grand Jury Subpoenas. I've dodged them all. In this heat, I'm doing what I gotta do with my new best friend. We're snuggling up real close.

Wish I could say my new best friend is that lady I met in Tango class in South Pasadena. My new best friend coughs and hacks like a senior citizen at 5am. My new best friend is that R2-D2 sized AC floor unit I bought off Craigs List for sixty bucks and change way back when. Back when Hitler was painting houses. It's still pumping out those BTUs. Still cool. Still Miles Davis cool. So far, so good. 

My AC unit and I are getting closer each time the temperature rises. I'm hydrating as well. I'm surviving and actually thriving, primarily on light catering. Bud Light. After a cold brewski or two, I start to forget all about the heat. I do have a Plan B. 

It's down the street next to the 24/7 laundromat. It's that 'Circus' liquor store and my buddy, Jake, a disbarred entertainment lawyer works there most nights. If my AC gives up the ghost during this heatwave, Plan B will go into effect.

My Plan B could stand for Brewski. Jake will pretend I'm a customer and let me walk through the icy cold beer locker. Domestic. Imports. Heineken. Fat Tires. Brewski heaven. We did this caper last summer and the owner, that country club guy, never knew the difference. 

Nothing planned for Labor Day. Not really. Keeping cool. Hand washing my cleanest pair of dirty jeans. Maybe hand-washing my Speedos.  Maybe buy some new masks. 

But, enough about me...

Another Hollywood Player Has Passed...

My heart is broken. Hearts across Los Angeles are broken. Hearts across Hollywood will never be the same.

Life will never be the same I'm sorry to say. When you've worked with someone special for a number of years on a number of shows it's tough to know you'll never see them again.

We were first introduced on my first feature movie "Dead Women in Lingerie." Broadway's Jerry Orbach, the father from Dirty Dancing was the star. I played an LAPD rookie, dressed in Hill Street Blues, standing by the dumpster. It was my first gig as Background, aka an Extra. At this time of industry-wide grieving, please forgive me, but I carried that movie.

Inches away from the dumpster, a new friend was waiting to enrich my life. Thank you, movie gods. Little did I know that many shoots and many missed Oscar nominations in the future, my new friend would be dead. As dead as my in-minus-numbers ancient SAT score. As dead as last week's 400th unrequited text to Jennifer Lawrence, pledging my future love and devotion. As dead as Julius Caesar. 

Now, passed, I'll always remember the good times. We were a team. On more sets than you've had hot lunches. Seabiscuit. The Grifters.Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. 24. Grey's Anatomy. Mad Men. Scandal. Jersey Boys. Bosch. Curb Your Enthusiasm. Indiana Jones-Crystal Skull. Vice. Sharknado. The heartbreaking list goes on and on. 

The virus caused the death of my near and dear lifelong movie-loving friend: Craft Service. 

'Crafty' as she was known was most generous. Sometimes in your face. But always there. Always there. Flaunting her womanly wares for Cast & Crew. Hot coffee. LAPD-style 4am Call Time donuts. You name it. Cheese sandwiches with tomato soup on those winter all-nighters in Downtown LA with the team from Snow Business, making it look like Christmas in Chi-Town.

We all have good days. We all have bad days. But she always wore a smile. Always there for all of us: Directors. Producers. DP's. Actors. Wardrobe. Crew. Hair. Make-Up. Background. Teamsters.      The Whole Enchilada. 

I heard through the grapevine that the spirit of Crafty is slowing returning. Returning as those most-welcome Call Sheet emails have begun arriving again, as the virus slowly but surely, heads South.

As Crafty's spirit reinvents herself, in this LA LA Land of reinvention, I'm stopping for 4am Java at Starbuck's. Stashing a few Cliff power bars in the pockets of the costumes and business suits I wear in front of the cameras.

Wardrobe. Hair. Make-up. Thanks for making me look good. Look after yourself. Mask. Social Distance. Washing hands. I'll join you. 

But, enough about me...

 

I'm sick. I mean really sick...

I'm sick. More than sick. Sick of it all.  No, not the virus. Not the mask-wearing.  I'm sick to death...of carrying this town. 

Why do I have to answer every email? Every text? I'm starting on my 5th book. 

Now people are asking me to teach writing. Get a life, people. 

I'm carrying this town and waiting. Waiting on two of my speaking line roles to wiggle out of post-production and get to the big screen. Talk about development hell. Thanks to that freaking virus, I'm in post-production hell. 

Can't wait. Can't wait till they see me on the Big Screen. Ex-professors. Ex-wardens. Ex-parole officers. Ex-1st ADs. Ex-Lovers and other strangers.

I pray to God every day. I know she's listening. I ask for her guidance. Help me cope. Help me cope with the Cretins in Hollywood.  Divine Ma'am, Why do I have to carry this town?

I'm sorry. I 'm sorry. 

Sorry that my good looks (a debatable proposition) questionable talents both on and off the dance floor and my never-say-die hustle have catapulted me to fame and most likely shame, as a Hollywood icon. 

Okay, maybe being a Hollywood background movie extra ain't your cup of Green Tea. Still, it's almost a living. 

Fellow actors,  disgruntled directors, and recently disbarred entertainment lawyers, I'm still walking tall and an occasional muffled communication from a small, disgustingly oily but loyal fan base keeps me going (usually from within prison walls on stolen devices)and is enough to keep me living the dream.

And back to auditioning, once this virus thing is dead and buried. Whatever.

A lot of people out there are jealous of my performances. 

I've worked with the Best: Cruise. Walken. Pitt. Clooney.

So have they. Me. How long do I have to carry this town? 

But, enough about me...

There's not much time left...

There's not much time left. Not much time left to do what I gotta do.  What I gotta do, is what I shoulda done, way back when. Woulda. Coulda. Shouda. Time to man up. May God help me. I know she'll be there for me. It's time. Time for my...plastic surgery.

The virus crisis is on. I know that's important. But this is more important. This is my career. This is Hollywood. This is my life. This is my face. My face is my fortune. 

I have fans. They buy tickets. The little people. Fans. Not those dwarfs that live down the street. My fans. I don't want to disappoint either one of them. Enuff said. A couple of inches. A couple of pounds. A little Nick. A little Tuck. I owe it to myself. Forgive my candor. I owe it to the world. 

I've gone the extra mile here in the City of Actors & Angels. I've worked in the mud and rain on War of the Worlds. I've danced in a Tuxedo for 17 hours going into Golden Time on Atlas Shrugged at the Biltmore Hotel. I've worked Non-Union. Some would call Non-Human.

I was used. I was abused. Even with a SAG card, times were tough and getting tougher. Acting is no cake-walk. Lately, I've been doing more acting out, than acting. But, now it's time to shine.

Now it's time to go under the knife. Wish me well. I'll Uber over to that private doctor in Chinatown. He doesn't speak the King's English, but I heard he's good with a knife. Disbarred by Sacramento, but nobody's perfect. Hopefully, I'll see you on the other side. A new face; a new career. But, enough about me...

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?