2024: 26 Grueling Miles to Glory...

Yes, I did it. I did the 26 Miles. It was an ordeal. A nightmare. But, I did it.

It was hard to sleep the night before. Those weird dreams started again. You know, the dreams where nobody knows or wants to know your name. And you are naked. It's dark. Just after Midnight. In a word, bleak. 

You manage to find some clown clothes in a Hollywood dumpster. You run down an alley and find an abandoned old car that someone forgot to lock. You crawl in the back seat. Suddenly, you realize you're in a Film Noir 40's cable black and white movie and things are grime and getting grimmer. Then you wake up and realize that today's the day.

The day when you are going to go 26 miles. Not for money. Not for glory. Just because you can. I guess I broke training, but I did a quick breakfast at Philippe's in Chinatown.

Carb up is what they say. An obscene Cheddar-Cheese omelette and Sourdough toast. A couple of cups of Java. As I left, I dropped a couple of scarred quarters on the scarred counter and picked up two grease rings some would call plain donuts. Fuel for those last few miles.

The Main Event was ready. Was I? Was I fit enough? Could I go the extra mile? Or should we say any extra miles?

Yes, I don't normally drive 26 miles but I did. 

It was a heck of a ride. Pasadena to Culver City and back. The 110 South and then the 10 West. Sunday traffic was lighter than light. On the way back to my man cave, I stopped at a 7-11 and snagged a pizza that tasted like cardboard from a long abandoned land-fill Monopoly game, but it calmed my gut, as I knew it would.

But enough about me...

All I want for Christmas is...

It's exciting. The man dressed in red, the man with that white beard, is on his way. On his way, back to prison. Such a relief. Good riddance guy. Maybe I was dreaming. Whatever.  

I just know that when I awakened from my not-long-enough REM sleep this morning, I heard some Christmas songs via Spotify and I knew for sure that the holidays were on their way. It's what the season is all about. 

Christmas is all about corny songs, too-long religious services, too much sugary food, and most holidays, my brother-in-law, and his alcohol-fueled antics. But let's cut to the chase. Christmas is really about presents.

This year I'm sending out gift suggestions with a capital G. OK, let's be candid, my G is all about Greed.

As Michael Douglas lectured us in Wall Street "Greed is Good."  I'll be remembering that awesome flick this Christmas if I can get those thrift-store binoculars to stay in focus. This December 25th, I'll be waiting for the guy in the apartment across the way to stream my favorite flick. Wall Street. 

My neighbor thinks Michael Douglas walks on water. With the curtains wide open, I'll be able to see the movie like a house on fire. 

It'll be like a scene from Rear Window, that 50's Hitchcock movie with Grace Kelly providing the eye candy. I know my neighbor is a big Michael Douglas fan, so it should be an awesome Christmas.

I might have to send a few gifts out myself, so I hope to pick up a few bucks by caroling in Pasadena. Just to fatten up the sound I'll have to invite some of the local shelter people, once again, to join in the singing as we walk house to house and apartment to apartment.

I'll be doing lead vocals, so I know we ain't gonna win any Grammy but we should be able to pick up a few bucks and hopefully a Zelle or two or three.  

I hope to be able to download some Taylor Swift tracks, as a present to myself. What a voice. What a talent. Hopefully, soon she'll grow tired of watching football games. I wonder what she thinks of Pasadena?  

Let's stay in touch over the holidays. Good luck with that parole hearing next week. Try to borrow a decent suit and tie and try to crack a smile once in a while.  

But, enough about me.

Happy Holidays Dog...

The Rain in Spain Stays Mainly in Pasadena...

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm devoting a moment or two to what the authorities say is something that I do best. I'm sleeping. For a precious number of minutes, the demons are gone. REM time is my best time.

My rationale for catching a quick nap, is that after working all week,and putting up with all the urban chaos that is Los Angeles: Dog Days Heat. Rising gas prices. Galloping Inflation, forcing me to dial back on my life-long subscription to The Police Gazette, and as I'm putting my working-man ration of gas into my car, coping with the relentless harassment by the Homeless, asking me for money.

Most of them look healthier than I am and they're asking me for money?

Can't they get a job like everyone else? Maybe I need a vacation or a dial-up on my medication? It's getting scary. All the Homeless are starting to look like my brother-in-law. 

His alter-egos usually appear in the shadows and are usually lecturing me on how to get a better job, how to live a more meaningful life, and offering to text me their Zelle number.

I figured with the specter of Hurricane Hilary heading into LA, I could avoid worries about the rain and the wind by catching a few Zzzs. I was wrong. Again.

As I was enjoying my unconscious staycation, I was rattled awake by the earthquake in Ventura County. As if all the Monsoon rain and wind wasn't enough, now an earthquake. Welcome to LA! I'm still happy.

Happy and smiling again, like a Death Row inmate granted a Midnight parole. 

Happy because a dear lady I know finally has an abundance of rain for her home garden. 

Mother California now has some rain to help grow her flowers and trees and home-garden plants.

No worries. All in all, it's been a great Sunday.

But, enough about me...

 

 

Memorial Day 23: I Forgot to Remember to Forget...

Sometimes at Midnight when I toss and turn, the demons come. And I'm not talking about those cretins that live in the apartment above me. 

I don't need to give those losers free publicity by mentioning them here. I'll let the man upstairs take care of those idiots. 

I'm not talking about God. The man upstairs is supposed to live next door to those guys, but he tells everyone, that he lives "Upstairs" but I suspect he lives on the roof. Whatever. I guess you gotta do what you gotta do. But, it's Memorial Day so let's not even talk about those pathetic other tenants. It's a day to remember.

Yes, we are remembering with reverence all our Brothers and Sisters in Arms that gave the ultimate sacrifice. They bought the farm or went home early as they used to say, when I served. I mean was Drafted. God bless them all. But in anticipation of Memorial Day, I did dream about demons last night and those demons looked weirdly like some of the Socipaths that I served with in the military.

I was in a mixed command. That means Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines all serving together. Normally that would mean one for all and all for one. Wrong. Don't think The Three Musketeers. Think the wrong side of the tracks. Think the Back of Beyond. Think,that trailer park in Cleveland. Not a pretty picture. 

I'd relate some of our official and unofficial legal and illegal adventures and misadventures, but being from different states, I  really can't be sure what respective statutes of limitations have expired. 

We lost touch over the years. And over the beers, but, I still see them in my waking schemes and late-night dreams. Especially around Memorial Day. I miss you guys. I salute you. 

But, enough about me... 

I'm Rescued by The Future Moms of America...

It's Saturday afternoon and I'm schlepping to Von's to pick up some basic staples: Beer and maybe some more beer. God forbid there's an earthquake and I need to hydrate. Praying now for those poor souls in Turkey and Syria. The Big One here in Los Angeles! It could happen. 

Stella Artois and I will be ready for whatever the San Andreas fault line has in store for our weekend in L.A. Stella and I go way back. 

As I negotiate my way out of my vehicle, raking through the back gnarled copies of The Police Gazette, crumpled Restaining Orders, and pizza cardboards, a young woman's voice cries out for help.

No, not the voice of the homeless. It's the voice of America's future. It's the voice of America's heartbeat. It's a couple of Girl Scouts pitching girl scout cookies. I stop walking. I stop thinking about myself. Tears come to my eyes. I'm thinking of yours truly, as always, and the future of American entrepreneurship is calling. 

The future of American Capitalism is calling. Two little sweethearts are in uniform, seated behind a pyramid of Girl Scout cookie boxes. 

I stop and do a 180 to the ATM about two minutes away. The ATM coughs up a 20-Spot.  I march back to the card table where our American Girl Scouts are sitting.  I ask for my annual favorite: The Mint cookies in the annual green box. Last time it was $5.00. This time it's $6.00. 

No worries. I'm helping teach the daughters of America, how to add, how to subtract, and how to be responsible Moms, CEOs and God forbid, maybe movie actresses of the future. 

I hand over my twenty bucks. The closest little sweetheart takes my money as I volunteer "I'll have one green Mint please." She and her co-pilot fumble through their bag of cash looking for my change. OMG. Whoa.

Overwhelmed, they try to add up my change. They sigh. They struggle. Math was never my thing either. I smile. I do my Dad thing. I volunteer "I'll take two boxes." They seem relieved. 

But, we're still not out of the woods. America's sweethearts are still struggling. Math was never, ever, my thing. America's sweethearts are beside themselves. I do my Grand Dad thing. "I'll have three boxes" I declare. They smile. They hand me my $2 in change. I smile.

Saturday night. My date, Stella Artois and I are watching a semi-intelligent flick on Youtube. It's Death Warrant starring Jean-Claude Van Damme. The Muscles from Brussels. A chop-socky karate revenge movie that's seen better days. Not exactly Shakespeare. But, something keeps me going. Something special.

Something makes me believe, that the best is yet to come. It's those Girl Scout cookies. The Mint ones. In the green box. 

  

Riding the Dog...

The money arrived yesterday. They did what they said, they would do. Southwest coughed up the bucks it took me to ride the dog to San Jose.

Christmas 22. The days leading up to the holidays. Southwest Airlines stranded thousands. Software glitches. The nasty weather didn't help. I had advance tickets to visit the family to usher in 2023, but I didn't want to arrive on the morning of the day and have my flight canceled. I did what I had to do. I rode the dog. Greyhound.

A flight is about 52 quick minutes. Burbank to San Jose. Just enough time to inhale a cup of Java, click to Spotify and read a couple of sordid stories from my gnarled copy of The Police Gazette, and scarf down those almost edible pretzels they toss to you from a basket that's seen better days. 

Riding the bus took seven grueling hours. No worries. Some days and sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do. 

A journey not for the squeamish. Saturday morning. Rain. And more rain. Up early. 430am. Metro rail to Chinatown. Breakfast at Philippe's. Walking now in the rain. Union Station. A lady with a badge, wearing a raincoat tells me to go down the back ramp and cross the street. 720am.  A small crowd boards the bus. I pulled my iPhone from my jeans and flashed my QR Code. I lucked out. A window seat.  

Rolling North. The 101. Hollywood Blvd. In the cloudy shadows of the Roosevelt Hotel, we pick up a few of the rainswept disenchanted. No one is smiling. But, I am. My gut tells me most of these fellow passengers weren't bumped off any flights. Overweight. Plastic bag luggage. Crying babies. Think Grapes of Wrath. My kind of people. 

A stop at San Fernando. Back on the road. Heading up the grapevine.  I'm following my iPhone GPS as I-5 twists and turns, heading North.  A pit stop in the middle of nowhere. A burrito in a bag. Back on the bus.

Finally. San Jose. Still raining. I collapse my umbrella and crawl into our son Michael's warm car.  

Hanging with family for New Year's. Christmas presents. Hugs. Movies. Breakfast waffles. Lunch from Jersey Mike's. Dinner pizza. Petting family dogs. Telling family stories.  

Riding the Dog took seven hours. It was more than an awesome holiday with the family. I'd do it again. In a New York heartbeat. 

But enough about me... 

"...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...