Celebrating the L.A. Marathon 2026...

 I remember my first Marathon. Eons ago.  I remember it with great affection. I don't think the authorities will ever forget it.

OK, so it didn't involve donning those dance shoes and eating pasta the night before. It was in college back in Ohio. Just before that eviction from the dorm. 

A gaggle of us were experiencing our first beers and we decided to drink 26 beers in honor of Pheidippides,the dude that ran that first 26 mile marathon way back when.

It was back in Rome, or maybe it was Greece. Maybe Cleveland. Whatever. No relation to Philippe's Original pork-dipped sanwhiches in Chinatown.

Over the years and over the beers I guess I was silently in training for the L.A. Marathon running today across the streets of the City of Angels and Actors. 

The only real prep for today's race was watching and watching again a slightly scratched DVD of 50's bodybuilder Steve Reeves."The Giant of Marathon" was a Swords and Sandals Italian movie epic that I still watch on a weekly basis. I found that precious cinematic delight in a bargain bin at Amoeba in L.A. The original Amoeba.

Some nights when the Demons come and I haven't heard from Central Casting in forever, I relive a strange scenario. A nightmare that disturbs my REM sleep.

I imagine I'm in the original race. Running next to me is 50's Mr. Universe, Steve Reeves. He is in great shape and style and impressing all the sidewalk spectators. 

Steve is ahead. I'm running behind. Trying to catch up. What else is new?

Both my apologies and my congratulations to all the runners in today's L.A. Marathon.

Yes, in the L.A. Marathon 2026, once again I was an also-ran.

But, enough about me...

Under the Bus Once Again...

I hear screams. I hear loud noises. No worries. I'm glad. I'm watching my neighbors here in LA having a good time. Those artful Dodgers have won. I'm streaming all the madness and mayhem.

They've won the World Series. Again! I missed watching the final game but have been watching the highlight replays since the Dodgers beat the Blue Jays on Saturday night. It was Saturday night and things turned out alright, as the song says. Not much going on for me most Saturday nights.

I was busy reading the Police Gazette, that story about that serial-killer that dressed as a clown and missed the big game. Maybe it was the awesome way the story was written. Or maybe I was channeling a past episode of Dexter. Only the Dali Lama knows for sure.

So happy to see the Dodger hooligans waving from those Double-Decker buses. Blowing off steam. Celebrating a great win. Missing work today by calling in sick. Faking a late summer cold. Whatever.

While everyone is riding the buses, I'm under the bus once again. 

Yeah. Trying to cope. Looking for a more meaningful job. Looking for the 2nd Miss Right. Looking for Miss Goodbar 2025 you might say.

Trying to keep fit by walking 10,000 steps most days, heading to the liguor store down on the corner and back. Dropping those Lumify drops into my baby-blues most mornings. Living my life of quiet desperation,in my own special Southern California LA way. 

Still the sun is shining in LA. It always does. I'm counting my blessings. The Dodgers won. The cartels are paying early once again. Looks like the weekend gigolo gig I thought was dead and buried is alive and on the rise.  

Watching now as those Dodger fans are waving those "Dodgers Forever" signs. 

But, enough about me...

Sharing Life's Lessons on Father's Day 2025...

My greatest role. My greatest honor. Being a Dad. I have always tried to set a good example. Nurturing. Teaching. Sharing Life lessons.

Life lessons like being on time. Let's say you have yet another court appearance. Maybe yet another Parole Hearing. Your scheduled time is 8:00 am. Always be early. Be there at 7:30am. Walk tall.

Life lessons like always smiling. At home. In class. In that court-ordered traffic school Saturday morning class. Smile as you sign in. Smile as your teacher drones on and on. Smile. Walk tall.

Life lessons like Dressing for Success. A special occasion. A wedding. A funeral. Look great. So you have to travel to that thrift shop in Beverly Thrills. So it takes three or four Metro bus connections to get there. Do what you gotta do. Walk tall.

Life lessons like scrolling through your family album as your  Grandfather waxes poetic about your family history. You see horse thieves.  Used car salesmen. Ne'er-do-wells. Streetwalkers. Disbarred lawyers. Defrocked clergy. Corrupt politicians. Like most families. Say nothing. Keep scrolling. Keep smiling. Walk tall.

Life lessons like always showing respect for your elders. You're on a hot bus. Nobody is talking. Handcuffs are chafing your wrists. An older inmate gets on the bus. There's no seat for him to sit down. Show some respect. Rise and give him your seat. In this case, Stand Tall.

But, enough about those Father's Day Life Lessons. 

But, enough about me.

Hope you're having an awesome Father's Day...

26 Miles Across the Sea...

I went 26 Miles today. In my car. No, I didn't run the L.A. Marathon but I did wave to the runners in Chinatown as they rumbled past me.  Most waved back. A few of the bottom feeders gave me a one-digit response. Bless their hearts.

I did pay homage to the local athletes in a Round-About-Way. I celebrated the original Greek runner, Pheidippides,the dude that ran the original 26 miles to the Plains of Marathon, by scarfing down breakfast at Philippe's (no relation, I assume), as I do most Sunday mornings, community service permitting.

I actually jogged a few steps from Broadway down to Philippe's on Alameda. In my mind I wasn't the only member of the Screen Actors Guild that is also a California licensed Funeral Director (3383), I was Steve Reeves, the acclaimed 50's bodybuilder who played the role in the Swords & Sandles, filmed-in-Italy epic "The Giant of Marathon" a prized DVD I discovered amidst tears, in the bargain-bin rotisserie at the new Amoeba location one rainy night a couple of restraining orders ago.

As I breakfasted, over a second cup of Philippe's 45 cent cup of coffee, I realized that those 25,000 plus runners, currently huffing and puffing to the finish line in Culver City, were probably churning and burninng big-time calories and probably hungry as a wolf. Have I no shame! (As a member of ASCAP, my apologies to Duran, Duran.) 

It's a small wonder all those dudes and duchesses from a third-world place like Ethiopia always win the American marathons. They're motivated by nature, famine-skinny, and bless their hearts, are probably coping with the pain and strain of the race, by picturing the finish line in Culver City.

A finish line, not too far from the neighborhood In-n-Out with a Double-Double with onions simmering on the grill. I know hunger.  I know the 3rd World. I've been to Cleveland.

Maybe next year I'll attempt the L.A. Marathon. I'll start my training by running short distances. To the Liquor store. Or maybe home from the laundromat. Maybe running to catch the shuttle from the Disney Concert Hall parking to another appearance in Federal Court. 

Speaking of court, good luck next Friday. I know you're tired of being a defendant over and over. Try to smile. Get a new suit from Goodwill and walk tall. Text me when it's all over. Good luck bro.

But, enough about me...

I Found My Christmas Joy 2024 in a North Hollywood Diner...

Christmas morning. I thought I would sleep in and grab a few extra winks of REM sleep. I thought wrong.

Those LA clowns from Sanitation didn't get the memo. No Christmas Collections. Whatever. Wham! Bam! No thank you Ma'am.

As I negotiated down the fire escape I could see those Sanitation dudes had had a few up-and-down mechanical hiccups and had left a debris field of pizza boxes, broken beer bottles, coffee grounds and sundry flotsum glistening in the alley behind my digs. 

I borrowed a broom from a just-awakening homeless guy and swept up the fallen trash. My good deed. My mitzvah for the day. Gosh maybe for the year. OMG. It's the least I could do on this special day.

I peeled the "Not an abandoned car" sticker off my car windshield and headed out for a Christmas breakfast.

North Hollywood Diner. Christmas chow at its best. 24/7. Sourdough toast and eggs over greasy. Some Java to wash it all down. The coffee creamers were disappointing.

Some corporate honcho loser removed that hot Native American goddess that used to be on the cover. She was kneeling in front of some mountains. 

I confided to the waitress that when I looked at the old creamer logo, I used to imagine those hot knees were breasts. Hey, I'm a guy. She gave me a smile and a thumbs up. My kind of woman. 

As I inhaled another cup or two of Joe, I noticed a couple of locals walking by the restaurant. A couple of SAG actors I haven't seen in a while. Hope to see you at, and in, the movies again real soon. Happy Holidays Guys. 

The diner atmosphere was a great place to rifle through the latest Esquire and read that awesome article about Denzel. There is a God. Looks like there will be an Equalizer 4 and 5. 

Christmas. A great breakfast. A few texts. A few phone calls. A movie. Another movie.  A creamer fantasy. An amazing day.

A day to remember. A day to remember that famous Tiny Tim line that closes the last scene in A Christmas Carol.

"...and God bless us everyone."

But, enough about me.

I Give Thanks For My New Favorite Word: Expunge!

It was a special day yesterday. It was Thanksgiving. Yes, it was the day our Founding Fathers, those awesome dudes seen on all the dollar bills, gave thanks for arriving and surviving in the New World.

It was like when I rode the grey dog (Greyhound) from Cleveland and arrived in L.A. I celebrated my arrival and survival and that trip from hell with a late lunch of vending machine Twinkies and a Diet Pepsi. Good times. 

Good times and bad times, it's all about words.

Thanksgiving words like Turkey, Cranberry Sauce, Coffee, Pumpkin Pie and I'm sad to say, in my case, Kaopectate.

This Thanksgiving I have a new word to add to all the holiday words. No, it's not Zelle. Well, maybe like Zelle, when I hear the word, I smile. The magic word is Expunge.

It's like Etch-a-Sketch for all your past mistakes, and God knows I've had my share. Waking up half-naked in that laundromat back in Cleveland. That arrest here in L.A. at the homeless encampment in Long Beach way back when. 

I was working as a background extra on Dexter and I showed up at the wrong work location. My GPS was on a coffee break for God's sake. I only realized I was at a real homeless encampment when I noticed there were no cameras or movie lights, like normal. God bless Central Casting. They still paid me and that included overtime. 

Expunge. Don't know where it came from but I'm glad it arrived. My court records seem to have been erased. Maybe it was a hiccup with those dudes in Sacramento. Maybe it was voted in a couple of weeks back on election day. I ain't asking. 

I feel like a new man now. My horizon is promising once again.  Things are looking up.

But, enough about me.

Happy Holidays!

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... 

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... 

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...