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?