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... 

Echo Park Hues; Echo Park Blues...

I have the solution. It won't be easy. It's taken some sleepless nights. Some tossing and turning. A few "Ah-Ha" defining moments, that came to me, gridlocked in LA's moan and groan traffic. A solution to our biggest challenge. Not Co-Vid. It's simple. It's profound. I have a way to end the homeless crisis.

We need to eat them. 

I know the road ahead will be a long and winding road with many culinary and non-culinary twists and turns. Stay with me. The idea to cure homelessness came to me when I saw an LA landmark being trashed.

A landmark close to my heart and a landmark close to the heart of every movie fan, here in LA and to every movie fan across the world. This landmark location is our beloved beautiful timeless LA Woman. Our sweetheart. Her name is Echo Park. 

In Chinatown, LA Noir gumshoe J.J. Gittes, played by Jack Nicholson snaps those incriminating photos of Water & Power's Mr. Mulray and his alleged girlfriend, as his private detective buddy, rows the boat across the water at Echo Park. 

I binge-watched Bosch last week. Echo Park played a background role as a Walk & Talk scene rolled before the cameras. It was awesome.  

In so many movies, Echo Park has played and will always play a vital character in LA storytelling. When I saw those self-righteous idiots being run out of Echo Park a few nights ago, I slept easier.  It was REM nirvana. I slept the sleep of the just. It won't be easy. 

It won't be easy to eat the homeless. I hope that with your help and with the advice from some of those Craig's List pre-CoVid food workers we'll be able to make it work. Wake up. Cannibalism isn't new to America. Google that Donner-Pass scenario. You get the picture. It's a sick, twisted and yet, hungry picture. 

As an entree, we need to create a restaurant menu. Like at Clint's Hog's Breath Inn in Carmel. Instead of the "Dirty Harry Burger" maybe we should see something like the breakfast recipe for Irish Scrambled Eggs. "First, steal 12 eggs." You get the picture.

We can do this America. All we need to do; is to work together.      To create together. To eat together. 

Bon Appetit.

But, enough about me...

Potential Unlimited: 2021: Soaring the Heights...

It's come and gone. The celebration of New Year's 2021.

I wasn't out in some sordid back-alley, super-spreader event. Once again, I was holed up in my sleeping bag, cell-phone flashlight in my hand reading a knarled copy of The Police Gazette Annual Edition, 1985. I nodded off and when I opened my eyes, it was 2021.

It's so awesome that it's now 2021. Thank God, in all her glory, that the memory of 2020 is receding faster than the South end of Seabiscuit running North at Santa Anita. 

We ain't out of the woods just yet but the light at the end of the 3rd Street Tunnel is finally in sight. (That's in L.A. for those reading this from behind bars.) That light is the maelstrom of vaccines that are pouring in from the drug companies. Vaccines to die for, so to speak.

I'm ready, willing and Uber ready to get a healing shot in the arm. It'll be nice to have a new healing drug in my system. It gets old when your only drug of choice is a steady stream of Kaopectate.

A New Year has dawned and my goal is quite simple: A needy Trophy-wife girlfriend. An adventurous lady with an insatiable libido and longing for a Threesome: Her. Me. And her American Express Card. 

It's the New Year with the promise of Spring. The promise of new movie roles. The promise of meeting new personalities, many of whom will be early-release felons that share my twisted sense of humor, and have robust and still-active connections with the Cartels. The promise of expunging those unflattering court records in L.A. County. The promise of becoming a great Argentine Tango dance-lead and learning some new moves for 2021. The promise of ordering those always-on-sale wife-beater T-shirts on Amazon.

I want to soar the heights. I want to be all I can be. I want to...

Well, maybe not.

But, enough about me...

I Accept Your Presidency...

Yes, I accept the presidency. The Presidency of the newly-formed Dancing Actors of Burbank and Beyond. All rights reserved. Once those recently disbarred entertainment lawyers, now acting as our legal clerks complete the official Sacramento paperwork. 

We know that working in the shadows has been a tough gig. Thank you for your devoted endless hours campaigning on my behalf. The endless days. The dusk till dawn footwork. The in-and-out series of never-ending court appearances that helped bring me this honor.

I know I'll be busy promoting us both as dancers, and as actors, but my door will always be open for my constituency and any questions that may come to mind. 24/7. As always. 

Read that: My tent flap will always be open. (It might have something to do with living under the 5 Freeway viaduct in that Army surplus tent) next to the van, down by the river. Let me reiterate: My Flap will always be open. Come one. Come all. 

Actors. Non-Actors. Dancers. Non-Dancers. Homeowners. Homeless. 

Speaking of the homeless. Would the motley crew of malcontents that keep texting me that we are related, please bother somebody else.

OK, I knew you guys in the trailer park and we partied hard, and one of your sisters and I spent that unbridled heavy-breathing weekend in Yosemite but that was months...okay, weeks, okay, days ago. That doesn't mean we're engaged. I have my own life to live now. Writing comedy. Uber. Dancing. Thanks for your understanding. 

By the way, that family heirloom photo album you mailed me was much appreciated. That picture of our neighbor Jeffrey Dahmer helping me blow out the candles at my 4th birthday party brought tears to my eyes. Growing up in Wisconsin was beyond awesome. Jeff showed me my first dance steps and I like to think, helped me pave the way to this honor of becoming President. He was a great dancer with some badass moves and gave some back-yard barbeques to die for. Sure miss those days. Good times.

I'll be in touch with the Dancing Actors details as to future meetings, locations, and any updates that you need to know. 

Be Safe.

But, enough about me...

It's not a pretty sight...

It's not a pretty sight. I'm sitting in my birthday suit. Well almost. I'm wearing those Speedos. The one with the faded Union Jack flag. Mick Jagger probably wore these decades before I did. How they ended up in a thrift store in Hollyweird is anyone's guess. Another L.A. Heat Wave. Another Labor Day long weekend. Another day to dodge the pandemic bullet.

Dodging the bullet in L.A. What else is new? Slumlords. Grand Jury Subpoenas. I've dodged them all. In this heat, I'm doing what I gotta do with my new best friend. We're snuggling up real close.

Wish I could say my new best friend is that lady I met in Tango class in South Pasadena. My new best friend coughs and hacks like a senior citizen at 5am. My new best friend is that R2-D2 sized AC floor unit I bought off Craigs List for sixty bucks and change way back when. Back when Hitler was painting houses. It's still pumping out those BTUs. Still cool. Still Miles Davis cool. So far, so good. 

My AC unit and I are getting closer each time the temperature rises. I'm hydrating as well. I'm surviving and actually thriving, primarily on light catering. Bud Light. After a cold brewski or two, I start to forget all about the heat. I do have a Plan B. 

It's down the street next to the 24/7 laundromat. It's that 'Circus' liquor store and my buddy, Jake, a disbarred entertainment lawyer works there most nights. If my AC gives up the ghost during this heatwave, Plan B will go into effect.

My Plan B could stand for Brewski. Jake will pretend I'm a customer and let me walk through the icy cold beer locker. Domestic. Imports. Heineken. Fat Tires. Brewski heaven. We did this caper last summer and the owner, that country club guy, never knew the difference. 

Nothing planned for Labor Day. Not really. Keeping cool. Hand washing my cleanest pair of dirty jeans. Maybe hand-washing my Speedos.  Maybe buy some new masks. 

But, enough about me...

Another Hollywood Player Has Passed...

My heart is broken. Hearts across Los Angeles are broken. Hearts across Hollywood will never be the same.

Life will never be the same I'm sorry to say. When you've worked with someone special for a number of years on a number of shows it's tough to know you'll never see them again.

We were first introduced on my first feature movie "Dead Women in Lingerie." Broadway's Jerry Orbach, the father from Dirty Dancing was the star. I played an LAPD rookie, dressed in Hill Street Blues, standing by the dumpster. It was my first gig as Background, aka an Extra. At this time of industry-wide grieving, please forgive me, but I carried that movie.

Inches away from the dumpster, a new friend was waiting to enrich my life. Thank you, movie gods. Little did I know that many shoots and many missed Oscar nominations in the future, my new friend would be dead. As dead as my in-minus-numbers ancient SAT score. As dead as last week's 400th unrequited text to Jennifer Lawrence, pledging my future love and devotion. As dead as Julius Caesar. 

Now, passed, I'll always remember the good times. We were a team. On more sets than you've had hot lunches. Seabiscuit. The Grifters.Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. 24. Grey's Anatomy. Mad Men. Scandal. Jersey Boys. Bosch. Curb Your Enthusiasm. Indiana Jones-Crystal Skull. Vice. Sharknado. The heartbreaking list goes on and on. 

The virus caused the death of my near and dear lifelong movie-loving friend: Craft Service. 

'Crafty' as she was known was most generous. Sometimes in your face. But always there. Always there. Flaunting her womanly wares for Cast & Crew. Hot coffee. LAPD-style 4am Call Time donuts. You name it. Cheese sandwiches with tomato soup on those winter all-nighters in Downtown LA with the team from Snow Business, making it look like Christmas in Chi-Town.

We all have good days. We all have bad days. But she always wore a smile. Always there for all of us: Directors. Producers. DP's. Actors. Wardrobe. Crew. Hair. Make-Up. Background. Teamsters.      The Whole Enchilada. 

I heard through the grapevine that the spirit of Crafty is slowing returning. Returning as those most-welcome Call Sheet emails have begun arriving again, as the virus slowly but surely, heads South.

As Crafty's spirit reinvents herself, in this LA LA Land of reinvention, I'm stopping for 4am Java at Starbuck's. Stashing a few Cliff power bars in the pockets of the costumes and business suits I wear in front of the cameras.

Wardrobe. Hair. Make-up. Thanks for making me look good. Look after yourself. Mask. Social Distance. Washing hands. I'll join you. 

But, enough about me...

 

I'm sick. I mean really sick...

I'm sick. More than sick. Sick of it all.  No, not the virus. Not the mask-wearing.  I'm sick to death...of carrying this town. 

Why do I have to answer every email? Every text? I'm starting on my 5th book. 

Now people are asking me to teach writing. Get a life, people. 

I'm carrying this town and waiting. Waiting on two of my speaking line roles to wiggle out of post-production and get to the big screen. Talk about development hell. Thanks to that freaking virus, I'm in post-production hell. 

Can't wait. Can't wait till they see me on the Big Screen. Ex-professors. Ex-wardens. Ex-parole officers. Ex-1st ADs. Ex-Lovers and other strangers.

I pray to God every day. I know she's listening. I ask for her guidance. Help me cope. Help me cope with the Cretins in Hollywood.  Divine Ma'am, Why do I have to carry this town?

I'm sorry. I 'm sorry. 

Sorry that my good looks (a debatable proposition) questionable talents both on and off the dance floor and my never-say-die hustle have catapulted me to fame and most likely shame, as a Hollywood icon. 

Okay, maybe being a Hollywood background movie extra ain't your cup of Green Tea. Still, it's almost a living. 

Fellow actors,  disgruntled directors, and recently disbarred entertainment lawyers, I'm still walking tall and an occasional muffled communication from a small, disgustingly oily but loyal fan base keeps me going (usually from within prison walls on stolen devices)and is enough to keep me living the dream.

And back to auditioning, once this virus thing is dead and buried. Whatever.

A lot of people out there are jealous of my performances. 

I've worked with the Best: Cruise. Walken. Pitt. Clooney.

So have they. Me. How long do I have to carry this town? 

But, enough about me...