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...

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...