It's March 1st--Do You Know Where Your D-List Load-Dropper Is?

For those of you who mopes out there who don't know what it means when people call you a mope, here is a fascinating education, courtesy of the LA Weekly:

The porn industry is many things. Subtle is not one of them. So when Porn Inc. went searching for a job title for people like Stephen Hill, the choice was "mope." It's based on the off-camera life of these fringe actors, hangers-on who mope around the studios hoping for a bit role, which if they're lucky might bring them $50 plus food — and the chance to have sex with a real, live woman.

The average rate for a mope is $50 a movie, $75 if the porno gods are feeling benevolent. So financially, mopehood is a losing proposition in an industry where just getting the HIV testing required to work costs $135.

"They're worthless, D-list load-droppers," says Jim Lane, also known as Jim Powers, the director of such fare as Young and Anal 39, Ganged and Banged and White Trash Whore 40.

Unlike mainstream Hollywood extras, Lane notes, "Mopes don't know they're mopes." Instead, most cling to a delusion. "They all think they're going to be stars and millionaires."

Mark Kulkis, the head of Kick-Ass Pictures, a company that specializes in specific niche porn such as foot-fetish and gangbang material, says, "We pay $50 for a foot job. And we shoot one a week for the site. There are only so many of those gigs to go around. These guys are hanging on the edge economically."

Hill, whose screen name was Steve Driver, used to say his signature was "monster hands." According to set photographer Gia Jordan, Hill "would wear these hands, like, from a Halloween costume. That was his shtick. He'd jack off on the girl with the hands and when he'd come he'd yell, 'Monster hands!' It was ridiculous."

Wow. Okay. The only thing I would argue there is that mainstream Hollywood extras lack delusions of grandeur, which anybody who has spent any time with extras knows is patently untrue. 95% of extras expect to be millionaire actors, whether those millions come from 15 years of nationwide Verizon commercials, a role on CSI, or the fat paychecks commanded by an A or B-list movie actor they are expecting it one way or another--IF THEY CAN JUST MAKE THE RIGHT CONNECTIONS.

It's good to know foot-job dicks can be rented for only fifty dollars. This is knowledge that's good to have up your sleeve when you run out of other options. It also helps explain how homeless men in the Valley get all their booze money and how male Hollywood extras are able to stretch out their paltry paychecks during lean times.

But just so you know, not all D-List Load-Droppers go quietly into the night, clutching a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill, and stretch out on a piece of cardboard along the cement-lined Los Angeles River, never to make a name for themselves.

Todd was a pioneer among the D-List Load-Droppers

Take Stephen Hill (aka Steve Driver), for example, who was mentioned above--the lovable "Monster Hands" dude. Now here is a guy who moped his way to infamy in style.

Check it:

Female porn actor Charley Chase recalls, "I only worked with [Hill] once. It was a boy-girl scene and it was terrible. Mainly from bad hygiene."

Smooth Moves

Well done, YAK Films:





I wonder how Sir David Attenborough would narrate that?

_

The Last Two Feet are the Hardest

Tales from the Front:

BAKERSFIELD, Calif. -- A doctor involved in an "on-again, off-again" relationship apparently tried to force her way into her boyfriend's home by sliding down the chimney, police said Tuesday. Her decomposing body was found there three days later.

Dr. Jacquelyn Kotarac, 49, first tried to get into the house with a shovel, then climbed a ladder to the roof last Wednesday night, removed the chimney cap and slid feet first down the flue, Bakersfield police Sgt. Mary DeGeare said.

Dr. Jacquelyn Kotarac, 49, first tried to get into the house with a shovel, then climbed a ladder to the roof last Wednesday night, removed the chimney cap and slid feet first down the flue, Bakersfield police Sgt. Mary DeGeare said.

While she was trying to break in, the man she was pursuing escaped unnoticed from another exit "to avoid a confrontation," authorities said.

DeGeare said the two were in an "on-again, off-again" relationship.

The man's identity was not revealed by police, but the man who resides in the home is William Moodie, 58.

Moodie, who runs an engineering consulting firm, said Kotarac was a superb internist who often provided service and medication free of charge to her patients.

Kotarac apparently died in the chimney, but her body was not discovered until a house-sitter noticed a stench and fluids coming from the fireplace Saturday, according to a police statement. The house-sitter and her son investigated with a flashlight and found Kotarac dead, wedged about two feet above the top of the interior fireplace opening.

Firefighters spent five hours late Saturday dismantling the chimney and flue from outside the home to extract Kotarac's body, DeGeare said.

Officials said Kotarac's office staff reported her missing two days prior when she failed to show for work. Her car and belongings remained near the man's house.

A cause of death has not been determined, and an autopsy was scheduled or Tuesday. Foul play is not suspected, though investigators have been looking into the incident as suspicious.

(courtesy Huffington Post) 

Let me get this straight--a man hears his girlfriend trying to get into his house by crawling down the chimney, leaves for three days--in order "to avoid a confrontation," and hires a housesitter (over the phone?) who eventually smells something funny / sees stuff dripping into the fireplace?

What sort of person's first two choices for forced entry into a residence are a shovel and the chimney? Was this Moody guy holed up in some kind of impenetrable fortress? Were there not windows that could have been broken? I mean, the houses in Bakersfield were not exactly built to last...

And where did this guy go all of a sudden, anyway? Was he across town, in bed with some other broad, making this poor sap the laughing-stock of the community, as she breathes her last breath in his chimney--no doubt immediately post-vow to haunt him for eternity?

Probably.

Also, why does it matter that the woman was a doctor? If she were a garbagewoman [Do those even exist? Why are women not forced to represent 50% of the garbage collectors? -Ed], would this article have read "Garbagewoman Dies in Chimney Trying to Break into Boyfriend's Home?"

I think not. You see, we expect that kind of behavior from garbagewomen--when doctors do it, it's newsworthy. It sells papers.

"A doctor did it? Hmmm...well, there must be some kind of juicy story behind this...doctors are usually so put-together and never have to worry about money...oh, look, it says here she was a 'superb internist'..."

-Woman reading aloud to her cat while eating her third bowl of Kix

Meanwhile, the carcasses of her last twelve cats decompose in the nearby chimney, totally unnoticed by the world until Hoarders comes through and turns that ole garbagewoman's life right-side-up in thirty minutes of too-hot-for-TV, soul-crushing depression and feigned re-birth.

Don't miss it!

_

Snoop Dogg Hits a New Low

I don't know anything about poptart Katy Perry except that she is married to an unfunny comedian (Russell Brand), purchased her breasts, looks like a trashier version of Zooey Deschanel (which I didn't think was possible), and really likes the fact that she once kissed a girl.

After watching her latest video, however, which a friend recommended due to its supreme awfulness--it did not disappoint--I am mystified both as to why she is a success and, more importantly, why Snoop Dogg would want to be associated with her in such a public capacity.

Why? Well, because Snoop Dogg used to be cool. His wacky aesthetic, chronic misoginism, and stoner thuggery used to blend perfectly with his clever lyrics, Dr. Dre's beats, his ungainly frame, and the playfulness inherent in anything 'West Coast.'

But ever since he stopped smoking pot--or at least stopped owning up to it--his goofy style has suddenly become the worst thing about him and his every decision (save his generous support for PeeWee football in CA) has been atrociously uncool, if ultimately profitable for Snoop Dogg, Inc.

Every boy from Long Beach's dream come true

Nice murse, Cordozar Calvin Broadus...

This should have been a much tougher Photoshop job--because Snoop

should never have been that close to Martha Stewart in real life.

Even that little girl can't believe Snoop is on Ellen.

And the worst part is that I bet he danced with her. Shudder...

The long and the short of it is that Snoop can do what he wants, but he should realize that he's now an irrelevant, fame-addicted, greedy asshole in the same league as Josh Groban, Nicholas Cage, the Coldplay dude, Garth Brooks, and everybody else he and his buddies probably used to make fun of when they were younger and cooler.

_

Some Things Are Too Important to Ignore

Serpentine--the rock that seduced a state, who then betrayed it in front of everybody 

In an age where lawmakers across the globe have heaping plates of important legislation to deal with, unsustainable debts, and record unemployment, it is nice to know the industrious folks in Sacramento are doing their best to make time for less sexy, if still extremely important issues that might otherwise get swept under the rug.

From the New York Times:

California May Drop Its Official State Rock

The lawmaker and others who would like to see serpentine stripped of its title say the olive green rock found all over the state is a grim symbol of the deadly cancers associated with asbestos, which can be found in the rock. Geologists, who have taken to Twitter on behalf of the rock, assert that serpentine is harmless and is being demonized by advocates for people with asbestos-related diseases and possibly their trial lawyers, too.

The bill to defrock the rock — which recently passed the full State Senate and is awaiting a vote in the Assembly — is sponsored by Senator Gloria Romero, a Los Angeles Democrat, with the strong support of the Asbestos Disease Awareness Organization.

Declaring that serpentine “has known health effects,” the bill would leave California — one of roughly half the states in the nation with an official rock or mineral — without an official rock. (According to the bill, California was the first state, in 1965, to name an official rock.)

OMG! Say it ain't so, Californ-I-A! No official state rock? Why, that would change...absolutely nothing about the lives of every single Californian!

Please write your Representative today, call his or her office, post on their Facebook wall, send nude photos of yourself eating a hot dog atop a pony every single day until this offensive bill is stuffed into the shredder in the accounting department, because if there is one thing you deserve, California, it is an officially-designated state rock.

Get yours!

_

California Finds a Way to Make Rush Hour Worse

As if things weren't bad enough already out here, they are poised to get quite a bit worse:

SACRAMENTO, Calif. (AP) - As electronic highway billboards flashing neon advertisements become more prevalent, the next frontier in distracted driving is already approaching - ad-blaring license plates.
The California Legislature is considering a bill that would allow the state to begin researching the use of electronic license plates for vehicles. The move is intended as a moneymaker for a state facing a $19 billion deficit.

How Boring is Downtown Sacramento?

No California governor has lived in the governor's mansion since 1967--and it's free! It comes with servants! It's right near where they are supposed to work!

I mean, admittedly, it looks pretty creepy and is probably full of Munsters, but does any other state have this problem? [I seem to recall Blagojevich governing Illinois from Chicago -Ed.]

PEOPLE OF CALIFORNIA: YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

Despite the teeth, the occasional Kermit voice, the melodramatic coughs, amateur production values, and complete lack of evidence, please don't treat this warning lightly, Californians.

Please pray for the safety of all your loved ones and, since that never works, make sure to have your everything ready to go by the crack of September.

Oh, and eat your heart out, Katie Couric--something tells me Frankie is ahead of the curve on more than just baldness and he won't be at his own station for much longer...

_

Diggler Lives!

 
BP, eat your heart out--this is the best news story I have seen in a long time (or at least since this gem):

Sword-Wielding Porn Actor Dies After Falling Off Cliff in Standoff

LOS ANGELES (AP) -- A porn actor suspected of killing a colleague with a sword was taken into police custody Saturday after he fell some 40 feet from a rocky hillside from which he had been threatening to jump, officials said.

A "less lethal munition" was used against Stephen Clancy Hill just before his plummet, said police Officer Bruce Borihanh, who had no other details about the weapon that was used.

SWAT officers spent part of Saturday afternoon trying to talk Hill down from the outcropping as he clutched a sword.

It was unknown whether the sword was the murder weapon in Tuesday's deadly attack at a DVD production center that also left two people injured.

Hill fled to the Chatsworth neighborhood hillside after leaving a house where he was barricaded for most of Saturday.

Borihanh said Hill, 34, would be booked on murder and attempted murder charges after he was treated by paramedics. His condition was unknown.

The charges were filed against Hill Friday after Eric Jover, who runs the Ultima DVD production house, offered a $2,000 reward on the company's website for information leading to his arrest.

Hill attacked a colleague with a sword that was used as a film prop during a social gathering at the Ultima's studios about a week after being told he was being fired and that he would have to move out of the production facility, where he had been living, authorities said.

He then turned on two others who rushed to their co-worker's defense. One of those who attempted to help, Herbert Hin Wong, 30, was killed in the attack.

Hill, whose professional name is Steve Driver, fled in an SUV with the murder weapon, authorities said.

Ultima is located in the San Fernando Valley, known in the adult film industry as Porn Valley for its large number of porn businesses. The small company produces niche films featuring fetishes and sexual domination of men.

Hill was convicted of second-degree assault and a handgun charge in March 1999 in Maryland, according to court records.

UPDATE: The LA Times reports that Stephen Hill has died as a result of head injuries suffered from his roughly 50 ft. fall...Developing...

(courtesy Huffington Post)

Wait a minute--he lived at a "DVD production company?"

Dottie popped over for a cup of tea before her big date with Bjorn.

I'm just gonna skip over the fact that this porn actor--who was only involved in fetish and "sexual domination of men" porno, mind you--lived at the studio he also shot porn in because I love how the person who wrote this won't even dignify porn movies with the sobriquet "movie," but rather insists on referring to the company as a "DVD production company."

Harrumph! Nothing those filthy people make would ever be projected in a theatre! They're not movies! They don't even shoot them on film anymore!

I wonder what exactly this swashbuckler did to get fired. Did he lose his six-pack? Forget to shave his chest? Shoot so much heroin into his dick it won't work anymore? Fuck one of the boss' whores?

I also would like to know how this guy is able to travel around LA so freely--he drove from the studio to a house that "he was barricaded for most of Saturday" to another house in Chatsworth --after murdering somebody with a sword in a place of business.

Also, do enough people really frequent the website of this niche porno company to warrant posting a $2000 reward for information leading to arrest? Did it work? Who are these people?

Also also, "less-lethal munition?" They won't admit what it was? Well, here a few guesses:

Acoustic

Acoustic Bullets: High-power, very low-frequency waves emitted from one- to two-meter antenna dishes. Results in blunt-object trauma. Effects range from discomfort to death.

Curdler Unit: A device that is plugged into a sound system to produce a shrill, shrieking, blatting noise. It is used to irritate and disperse rioters and has a decibel range just below that of the danger level to the human ear. It is used in night operations to produce a "voodoo" effect and breaks up chanting, singing, and clapping.

Infrasound: Very low-frequency sound that can travel long distances and easily penetrate most buildings and vehicles. Long-wavelength sound creates biophysical effects: nausea, loss of bowels, disorientation, vomiting, internal-organ damage, or death may occur. By 1972 an infrasound generator had been built in France. When activated it made the people in range sick for hours.

Acoustic & optical

Photic Driver: A crowd-control device that uses ultrasound and flashing infrared lights to penetrate closed human eyelids. Potential for epileptic fits because of the stroboscopic flashing effect.

Psycho-Correction: A technology invented by a Russian scientist that involves influencing subjects visually or aurally with imbedded subliminal messages.

Barrier

Coating, Slick: Teflon-type lubricants that create a slippery surface. In the 1960s the term "Instant Banana Peel" was coined to describe the capability provided by Riotril. When applied to a hard surface and wetted down, this dry, relatively inexpensive white powder becomes ice slick. It becomes virtually impossible for an individual to move or stand up on a hard surface so treated.

Biotechnical

Biodegrading Microbes: Microbes that turn storage tanks full of aviation fuel into useless jelly. Such microbes may produce acids or enzymes that can be tailored to degrade almost anything, even concrete and metal, so their potential use as nonlethal weapons could be extensive.

Genetic Alteration: The act of changing genetic code to create a desired less-than-lethal but long-term disablement effect, perhaps for generations, thereby creating a societal burden.


Neuro-Implant: Computer implants into the brain that allow for behavioral modification and control. Current research is experimental in nature and focuses on lab animals such as mice.


Project Agile: Series of military-science studies in Asia conducted in May 1966 for the Advanced Research Projects Agency. One such study centered on developing "stink" bombs that were race specific.


Pheromones: The chemical substances released by animals to influence physiology or behavior of other members of the same species. One use of pheromones, at the most elemental level, could be to mark target individuals and then release bees to attack them.

Electrical

Police Jacket: Police jacket that jolts anyone who touches it.

Holograms

Prophet: The projection of the image of an ancient god over an enemy capital whose public communications have been seized and used against it in a massive psychological operation.

Soldier Forces: The projection of soldier images that make an opponent think more allied forces exist than actually do, make an opponent believe that allied forces are located in a region where none actually exist, and/or provide false targets for his weapons to fire upon.

Death: Hologram used to scare a target individual to death. Example: a drug lord with a weak heart sees the ghost of his dead rival appearing at his bedside and dies of fright. 

Marker

Invisible: One concept envisions a fluorescent powder sprayed into crowds from a pressurized container. Particles adhere to clothing and are visible only under ultraviolet light. Another concept envisions sponge grenades impregnated with infrared dye so that rioters can be later identified.

Obscurant

Smoke, Colored: Colored-smoke concentrations produce greater initial psychological and panic effect than white smoke. Caucasians are said to have a greater repugnance to brilliant green smoke, whereas Negroids and Latins are declared to be most adversely affected by brilliant red. Rioters confronted with a strong concentration of colored smoke feel, instinctively, that they are being marked, or stained, and therefore lose anonymity.

Riot-control agent

Tear Gas, Invisible: Invisible tear gas cannot be seen by rioters once it emerges from a grenade or mechanical dispenser, and therefore has a greater psychological panic-producing effect than tear smoke.

(Find the rest here. Thanks, Harper's)

It's nice to finally see some of the cutting-edge products our tax dollars have been funding over the years. Good job, scientists!

_

Haven't You Always Wanted to Look Like an Old Crone from the '80s?

Well, it's time to finally do something about it! Free parking!


The Knowledge:

Advertisements are supposed to make your product look tempting.

_

The Final Word on Sandra Bullock

How far does one need to bend down while wearing naught save a camisole,
so as to show some cleavage? Must be before the boob-job...

I can't even believe I'm talking about her, but I guess one man can only take so much fucking mindless bullshit from the blaring media before he has to silence the crowd, down a thirsty throat-full of Pellegrino, belch in the satisfied manner of a man of the world, and speak his mind, once and for all, so here goes:

Sandra Bullock is not worth a damn.

The evidence:

1. She has never been, nor will ever be, a credible actor, despite a recent Oscar win for her performance as a skinny white woman with breasts and a questionable accent in 'Precious for the Suburbs.'

2. She was stupid enough to marry Jesse James, a white-trash custom motorcycle dawg with a penchant for porn stars, despite the fact that she had her pick of the litter, and expected it to turn out well.

3. She counts George Fucking Lopez among her closest friends, which is proof that she has absolutely no taste whatsoever, since that guy is a comedian who has yet to realize the only joke he has given the world is himself.

4. She thinks the world cares whether or not she has a sex tape.

No talent, no taste, no clue. And she wants my sympathy?

I say, "Fuck that bitch."

I said it once, I'll say it again. Either raise your glass or begin the slow but fruitful process of learning how to finally accept the truth--anything else is just unnecessarily self-destructive.

_

Leading By Example

This just in:

RIVERSIDE, Calif. — A former police chief in California has been charged with drunken driving after leaving a club and crashing his city-owned car.

The Riverside County district attorney's office charged Russell Leach on Monday with misdemeanor driving under the influence of drugs and alcohol. He could face up to six months in jail in convicted.

The 62-year-old Leach, former police chief in the city of Riverside, crashed a Chrysler into a fire hydrant on Feb. 8. Two tires were missing when police stopped him three miles from the collision site.

Leach previously said he was disoriented from taking pain medication. He resigned last month for medical reasons.

Prosecutors say California Highway Patrol investigators determined Leach had taken prescription drugs and had at least 11 drinks before the crash.

Leach couldn't immediately be reached Monday for further comment.

(courtesy Huffington Post)

Mainly so I know which spots to avoid in the future, I want to know what kind of club has 62-year-old men hanging around.

Was it, perhaps, a strip club? I mean, something tells me he wasn't shaking his diaper to techno music...

_

Gotta Love the Governator?

As much as I wish Arnold Schwarzenegger was not our governor, I have to admire his (Chief of Staff's) balls in issuing the following veto message to the California Assembly today:


Check out the first letters of lines 3 through 7.

OH!

This hilarity notwithstanding, my problem with the Governator remains: I don't like his schtick, but, at the same time, I can't stop occasionally falling for his schtick, as I might an old flame--which doubly irritates me because it highlights an obvious weakness of mine.

But, I mean, come on--can you blame me? How can you not smile at this Duke of Dweebs?


_

A Man Named Ted

A cursory glance at the numbers readily available on the splash page of couchsurfing.com is telling:

CouchSurfers ----------------------------------- 1,009,067
Successful Surf or Host Experiences --------- 983,312

A pretty good ratio--97.4% positive--but that's not surprising. Most people are nice; especially nice people who offer other nice people a free place to stay.

But, also not surprising, some of those people--twenty-five thousand seven-hundred-fifty-five--are bad. Some of them are probably even real bad.

I have to assume anybody who uses couchsurfing.com approaches their transactions with a modicum of trepidation, or at least I hope they do, but I also would be remiss if I did not alert everybody to the fact that there is at least one confirmed super weirdo in the mix.

His name is Ted.

Ted came into my life one whiskey-riddled South Texas night, just after a hurricane, riding a Harley engulfed in blue flames, screaming like a hyperbolic banshee gettin' raped by the Devil.

Kidding--it was much more tame than that. It was a note.

A note nailed to the heavy wooden front door of a former 'officer's house' in which my friend rented a room, in the middle of a sleepy old naval base on the San Francisco Bay.



The note seemed harmless enough (I paraphrase):

Miguel--

I drove over to the house at 9pm and knocked and rang the bell but nobody was home. Where are you? I sent you an SMS but you did not reply--maybe your service is down? You must get back to me urgently, so we can make arrangements for our upcoming trip to Yosemite.

--Ted

I remembered Miguel from the night before--he was visiting from Buenos Aires, a friend of one of the other five guys living in the house, a guy named Bill.

It seemed logical that Miguel might have another international traveler trying to get in touch with him for a trip to somewhere like Yosemite--that happens all the time when people are traveling. Not every international traveler has a cell phone that works abroad, so maybe Ted had to walk over from some hostel and leave a note. Maybe Miguel was being a flake. Maybe it was an honest mistake.

Huh.

My friend and I smoked a joint on his front porch and rehashed an evening spent fruitlessly trolling bars in the Marina area of San Francisco, unsure of what we wanted and getting none of it.

An SUV taxicab rolled up, splitting the secluded silence, and two people got out--Bill and Miguel. They accosted us from the street and then came up the stairs to trade pleasantries on their way inside.

"Hey, Miguel, there's a note for you."
"What? No..."
"It's from Ted."

Miguel read the note, laughed, and showed it to Bill in disbelief.

"What's so funny?"
"It's a long story..."

A story which we then made him tell us.


Miguel had been skiing in Tahoe for a long time, perhaps even for the entire winter season. At some point recently, he decided he should step out of his skis for a few days and see some of the sights before he left to go East. He went online to check out his options.

On couchsurfing.com, Miguel found somebody who was organizing a trip to Yosemite. He communicated with this guy and arranged to meet him for the trip.

On the appointed date, at the appointed place--in the middle of nowhere--Miguel was confused. He was the only other person there, apart from the man who organized the whole affair.

For whatever reason--it was not clear (false promises? lack of perceived options? excessive trust?)--Miguel got into this strange guy's car and they drove away.

Miguel scrutinized the man. He was smaller than Miguel, which is saying a lot, considering Miguel is probably 5'6", 120 lbs. The important thing is that Miguel definitely thought he could beat him up if the need arose. He was old--maybe 50. He had a hunchback and walked funny.

His name was Ted. He spoke.

"We're not going to Yosemite."
"What? But..."
"We're not going to Yosemite. We're going somewhere else."

Ted drove off elsewhere, taking Miguel to a place called 'the peninsula.' I'm sure it is a beautiful place to go, wherever it is (Monterey? Palo Alto?), but not when you think you might be buried there in a shallow grave. Or raped at gunpoint.

Miguel had no idea where he was, no idea where he was going, and he was in the middle of nowhere. He began hatching an escape plan. He realized his friend Bill lived relatively nearby, in San Francisco. He bluffed.

"Hey, Ted, my friend Bill just sent me a text and said his sister is going to Buenos Aires tomorrow and that maybe she can take my skis back for me, so I don't have to lug them around New York for the rest of my trip."

"That's great! Let's go! That'll be a big help, I bet."

Ted was accommodating. He drove Miguel all the way to the old naval base in San Francisco, to Bill's house. Miguel removed his skis and his suitcase from the back of Ted's car.

"I...have to do laundry, too..."
"Oh, okay--I'll come back to pick you up in a few hours."
"Okay..."

Miguel evidently went inside, met my friend and me, explained the weird situation to Bill, then they went out drinking. A narrow escape.

Once the bars closed, my friend and I ran into them once again, on the porch. Ted had long-since come and gone.

Miguel was stunned.

"He lives far away...in Berkeley? I can't believe he came all the way back here..."

The whole situation seemed so strange, something out of a hokey horror movie. Miguel's description of the guy seemed strange, which is fitting for a guy like that, I suppose.

We all kind of wished Ted would come back again, just to get a look at the guy, just to see what he would say or do, just to protect our new friend from this could-be predator.

It's probably for the best that he didn't, though. He might have had an equalizer.

_

Jack Nicholson Must Be Lonely

Jack Nicholson is inarguably my favorite actor of all time. Don't even try it. You cannot persuade me that I think otherwise--trust me.

As I steeled myself for a potential face-to-face meeting the other day, I tried to imagine what I would say to him, were we to make eye contact, or were I to stumble upon some golden opening.

This is the conversation that ran through my head:

Me: "I'm a big fan."
Jack: "Prove it."
Me: "My five favorite movies of yours are: Five Easy Pieces, Carnal Knowledge, The Shining, Chinatown, and As Good As It Gets."
Jack: "What, not Batman? That's one of my faves--I considered it a piece of pop art."
Me: "No. It was a good performance, but the character is the definition of un-relatable; I prefer you when you are more human, because I see a lot of you in myself and it's interesting to see what I might do in certain situations I've never been in. If I could have written and directed one movie, Five Easy Pieces would be it. I relate to your character much more than I should. Bobby Dupea is fundamentally unhappy, selfish, and cruel--yet also brilliant, adventurous, honest, and above all, confused."
Jack: "You trying to make love to me or pay a compliment? Now I'M confused..."
Me: "Sorry. I guess I'd just like to sit down and talk to you a bit more, under better circumstances, with some drinks, maybe even some drugs. I think we'd get along really well. And your character in Carnal Knowledge got me rolling one night on an idea for a movie. I'd love to sit down and talk with you about it sometime, hear your thoughts, get some advice--maybe we could work together."
Jack: "Well, I'd ask you to become my assistant or protege or whatever, but your tits aren't big enough. Better luck next time, kid."

When I saw him the other night, at the California Hall of Fame induction ceremony in Sacramento, it thrilled me more than I would have guessed--a rare moment of fanboy excitement in my otherwise measured life. I wanted to get a picture with him, but I could not bring myself to invade his privacy like that; I went back and forth on the idea all night. Instead, I observed.

He looked old, as you might imagine a 71 year-old man would, and has definitely been packing on the pounds in his never-say-no-except-to-marriage old age, but there was something else going on that affected me immediately, yet took a while for me to identify.


He was at once casual and uncomfortable. He loped around the room like he was sneaking away from something, like he might leave at any minute. He never stayed in one place for too long. He rarely made eye contact. He did not want to be there, and yet he was; and yet he stayed.

He watched the other inductees curiously, studying them on the sly, speaking to them only when spoken to. Backstage, he stuck to Clint Eastwood like glue, like he was so grateful to have found a fellow 'man' who could understand him. It was the only time I saw him smile before the show started.

During the show, he alternatively looked bored stiff or listened with childlike interest to the brief retrospectives on the others, often turning around to watch the pictures projected on the big screen. As the evening progressed, he seemed to loosen up a bit. I think he realized he was surrounded by other people who have also done great things, and maybe they weren't so bad.

At the afterparty, I was never too far away, my camera burning a hole in my pocket, my eyes well-trained. I realized what was bothering me about him, what I think is bothering him.

I think Jack is lonely.


I scanned my brain for possible supporting evidence:

- Only found out that his 'sister' was actually his mother and his 'mother' was actually his grandmother after they both were dead. A reporter discovered this while doing a piece on him in 1974, and had to be the one to break the news to Jack.

- Has no idea who his father is. His mother, a New York showgirl, evidently got around quite a bit, and although there are two prominent suspects (her manager and a showman--not 'showboy,' interestingly), nobody was ever sure. Needless to say, he grew up without one.

- In 2004, Nicholson attended his 50 year high school reunion accompanied by his aunt Lorraine.

- Six kids, five mothers, one failed marriage (1962-68).

- Dated Angelica Huston for 17 years. Broke up with her when his other girlfriend had a baby. Once again, a reporter broke the news.

- Marlon Brando = Dead

- Warren Beatty = Married with children

- Roman Polanski = Banished to France

- Robert Evans = Senile, broken, and useless


As I watched Jack fidget and dart glances around the room, I kept flashing back in my mind to two quotes I remembered from his imdb entry (one of the most fascinating there is, by the way, if you're looking to waste a little time):

"It's not so nice when you are 71 and looking for some action. I feel uncomfortable doing it in the limelight - so from now on I'll do it when it's right. Happily, when it comes to girls hitting on me, I'm not undernourished."

"I think it is very unattractive for me to be seen fawning over little, tiny girls. I didn't feel that for a long time but now I do. If I could slip them out the back entrance wrapped in a blanket, that's a different story." (February 2004)

And so it seems everybody's favorite Lothario has developed a wee conscience, a sense of propriety; he has changed. Some would say matured. Perhaps part of him wonders if he should have settled down at some point--maybe with Angelica Huston, maybe with one of the countless others before and after. Perhaps in his old age, he realizes there may be value in having a partner around with whom he can share his life, have interesting conversations, and reminisce about the good times. Perhaps he's wondering if he did it all wrong.

But then he remembers all the wild times he's had; the alleged 2000+ women he's fucked; the young, female, complete strangers that still walk up to him on-set at lunch and ask, in front of the entire crew, if they can blow him in his trailer; the steamy affairs with costars, extras, wannabe starlets, models, starstruck commoners...and his Chesire grin stretches its limits. Who would want to throw all that away for a wife whose stories you know all too well, and whose body long ago lost its fascination? Where's the fun in that? Where's the adventure?

I have to say that, although I (sadly?) do not exactly share his 'experience,' I can relate to Jack in a very human way. A very manly way. The disparate desires to settle down and spread your seed represent a torturous Jeckyll & Hyde* conundrum that make being a man nearly an impossible task. Every waking second is a battle--the social versus the biological beast.

Every time a man with any hint of a libido sees a sexy woman, he wants to fuck her. Most of us have obstacles in our way--shyness, ugliness, fear, poverty, attachments; Jack has none. Well, maybe not none--surely he has some sort of STD by now, surely there are women who think he is simply too old, surely there are sexy women who wouldn't be too thrilled to be in the 2000+ community--but there are perfectly sane young women that I know who find him disarmingly sexy. Still. And he works it. Still.

All men are jealous.

And yet, as Jack sat up on that stage with other famous people--Jane Fonda, Jack LaLanne, Quincy Jones, Dave Brubeck, and descendents/widows of deceased honorees such as Dr. Seuss--I sensed a yearning for their peacefulness, their stability, their love. He was the only person on stage who came alone. He was the only one who would leave alone. When he got home, nobody would be waiting for him. Sure, he would probably call up a $5000/hr 19-year-old Ukrainian hooker, snort a mountain of cocaine, pop a Viagra, and get his rocks off...but then what? She would leave. He would be alone. The buzz would wear off. He would snore himself awake in the middle of the night and nobody would be there but the darkness.

Nicholson has admitted publicly about his intractable fear of death.

"I would be so happy if I didn't smoke, for a lot of reasons. I can't believe that I can't break the habit. I don't want to be lying around, dying in Cedar's Sinai Hospital and thinking that I was as stupid enough, a man who is as petrified of dying as I am, to have done it to myself. I'm a real fraidy-cat about mortality."

Jack Nicholson long ago chose to live the Hyde life. Most others sided with the good Dr. Jeckyll. But let's be honest--most of them aren't any happier. Is the grass simply always greener?

Every man who is married debates divorce, debates having affairs with coworkers and secretaries, debates calling up prostitutes, debates fucking the babysitter, debates becoming a Mormon fundamentalist, debates cashing in his 401k, changing his name to Sugar Daddy, and moving to Poland.

Every man who chooses to stay single and leave his options open inevitably finds himself chasing after girls he does not even respect, girls he cannot even hold a conversation with, girls he hangs out with purely because he wants to fuck them. Why? The alternative is spending yet another perilously lonely night at home, wondering if he should have married some old girlfriend, bought a house, traveled the world, had kids, grown old together... Was she the one and I blew it? Will any other woman worth a damn ever find me attractive? Are all the good ones taken? At what age will sexy young women start refusing to even consider me an option? What then? Will I have to pay for sex for the rest of my life? Oh, God--I should have married Tina while I had the chance! No--wait--why? I'd rather be alone than with her when she's 50. Wait--would I? I don't like being alone. I only like being alone when I can't be alone. Wait...what? Tina! Tits! ARRGH!

Neither choice is perfect, neither choice is easy, both end in death and, typically, regret. But what does it all matter? As Zorba the Greek said, "in the end, we're all the same--food for worms."

Sadly, not everybody can have it both ways in one lifetime--just Warren Beatty, it seems--and Jack and I both know he will never change; it's too late. But, as I'm sure it has dawned on him, the cost of his lifelong gallivanting, the downside of his Jeckyll/Hyde decision, has come to bear: late-life loneliness. He must face down his biggest fear--death--alone.

Speaking of...I don't wanna jinx things, but I really hope he makes another movie before he dies. If The Bucket List winds up as Jack Nicholson's parting cinematic gift to the world, I think I'll drive over to Hollywood and vomit on it.


* Incidentally, The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll & Mr. Hyde is my favorite literary work of all time. I think I underlined the entire book; brief, but packed with relevant, timeless, social philosophy.

Things I Learned About My Governor Today

- His chair at the conference table is 4 inches higher than all the others. Nobody else is ever allowed to sit in it.

- Every square inch of his bathroom wall is covered by either a framed photo of him, a framed political cartoon about him, a drawing of him, or a painting of him.

- He likes almonds.

- He has a 3ft-tall, metal, blinking Terminator skeleton immediately behind his desk, over his shoulder.

- He has the sword from Conan the Barbarian on display in the President Ronald Reagan Cabinet Room adjacent to his office.

- When he wears a green velvet sportcoat, his orange hair makes him look like an elf.

- His Chief of Staff, Daniel, is totally a vampire.

- He's a Leo.