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?

Summer 2018: OK L.A...

I'm a simple man with simple needs:

A trophy wife. A trophy wife with a car. A trophy wife with a good day job.

Is that too much to ask here in L.A.?

Everyone knows. The Cartels are slow payers.

The FBI knows. The CIA knows. Your sweet Grandma knows. God bless her.

Slow-paying is a lifestyle here in Los Angeles. Like earthquakes. Like those hot winds raking across the desert from Coachella.

Yes, I'm still eking out a living.

Vegan demos at Pavillions. Movie background extra work. The two-finger typed blogs I write and sell. Bitcoin and that gigolo caper both went south. The Big South.

OK, fishing through my overflowing Speedos Sunday mornings over an omelet and two cups of Java at Philippe's makes me smile after those late-Saturday Midnight shows on stage @ Magic Mike's.

One dollar notes still work. One dollar notes still pay the rent. Still, put gas in the tank. Still, pay for light catering. Bud Light. Still waiting in the shadows of the Hollywood Sign.

Still waiting for the suits to buy one of our comedy screenplays.

Still waiting to meet the second Miss Right. Maybe an elbow-to-elbow heavy breathing scene as we share an Uber Express Pool. Take one. Take five. Maybe.

Summer 2018:

Hot dates. Cold beer. Restraining orders.

The usual scenarios. The usual suspects.

Fame? Shame? I'm game.

I'll be streaming. Dreaming. Hoping.

Have an awesome summer.

Have a good one...

How long do I have to carry this town...?

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

That SKYPE prison teacher lady said to type out that sentence. Like over and over. 'Cause it uses all the words in the alphabet. Sorry. Trying to get my brain and fingers working together. 

Was on the dark side of the web last night. Again. I couldn't sleep. The demons came. I'm not talking about those all-night Uber driver dudes that live down the hall and drive by night and sleep by day.

Demons. The dark side. I was only on there for maybe 3 or 4...hours. Lots of weird sites. It was scary and getting scarier. Funny, I started to like myself again. My eyes began to flutter closed.

Eventually, I dozed off reading through my digital book galley proof of my latest book "Confessions...of a Hollywood Movie Extra." It's out now and downloadable via Amazon, Barnes & Noble and on the shelf in discerning prison libraries worldwide.

It's about my Hollywood misadventures in the screen trade. The ups. The downs. The magic. The good. The bad. The ugly.

As I read 'Movie Extra' on my devices, I realize how long I've been carrying this whole town. I've worked with them all. I've made them all look good. 

All of em. Denzel. Hanks. Clooney. Okay, I ain't no matinee idol. But, the audience looks at me and then looks over at them. Next, to me, they look good. How long do I have to carry these guys? 

Scorsese. Lynch. Fincher. Tarantino. I've seen all their movies. 

Hello! I've been carrying these guys too. I've had a gutful.

Looks like I'm going to have to save up some bucks from my background extra acting gigs and now that I've lost a few pounds, those Saturday nights shows @ Magic Mike's, and jump aboard MegaBus and head up to Sundance next January. 

Well, maybe Slamdance if the suits haven't finally pulled the plug by that time. Bastards.

I love La La Land, but with my special 'Look' I may have to go full- bore Indie.

Maybe that Park City, Utah clean air will help clear my head.

How's your community service going?

Good luck with your parole hearing.

Hope your 2017 is kick-derriere. 

See you at the movies...   

Winter in L.A. Ain't No Picnic...

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Just trying to get my fingers and my brain together so's I can write this blog...

It's a few seconds past Midnight.It's raining in L.A. I can hear the rain dripping off the dumpster, down in the alley. When I stand on the fire escape I watch the rain drops dropping down onto the dumpster and onto the alley. The rain has stopped. It's quiet now.

Now that the stores are closed. Christmas in L.A. Same old; same old. Gridlocked freeways. LAPD car chases. Earthquakes. Broken glass in the streets. Homeless. And more homeless. Not in Beverly Thrills. They sweep up the broken glass there. Most of it. Guy working on a movie set told me so.

I hope so, heading to the DGA for a Hateful Eight screening near Beverly Hills in a couple of days, so's I hope they swept up all that broken glass. I'm looking forward to seeing what Tarantino has been up to. The movies. All part of the lifestyle here in the City of Actors and tarnished Angels. Some good news too.

More movie shoots are coming back to L.A. Was riding a crew shuttle on a TV shoot in North Hollywood yesterday. Sacramento voted and the California tax subsidy incentives are bringing the movie work back to where it should be. California. Means I can pay my bills on time. A nice change. The holidays are here too. 

Been saying my prayers so's God knows what I need. I know she's listening. This Christmas I'm hoping Miss Right walks into my life. Or maybe Miss Right Now. Whatever.

Got's to get back to it. No worries. The usual things; the usual suspects. Looking for work and more work. Searching on line for more acting gigs. Waiting for that 24/7 call: "Can you work tomorrow?" The answer is always the same two words: "Roger that." 

Still working on my next book, hope to have it ready to read in the early Spring of 2016. So save up some ciggie-money so you can download it, with the Warden's permission.

Dropped a few pounds and emailed Maurice at Magic Mike's my new look. It's me in a wife beater, looking baddass.

Hope to get back on board for the Midnight gig, Saturday nights. I miss those Sunday mornings, waking up with all those lipstick smeared dollar bills tucked into my Speedos. Good times.

Let's get together at Larchmont Pizza before/during/after the holidays. Let me know what happens with the Parole Board.

Wishing you an awesome 2016...