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."

Welcome to Los Angeles, 2010

"Take a letter. To yourself.

"Here we go:

"I think everybody strolling the web who would click on this link below (either of them, actually) should be sent to a page where they are instructed to turn their ovens on and put their heads inside them.

"Whatever cog-in-the-wheel schmo we hire to write the copy for the webpage we should have this headline redirect to should make liberal use of his or her powers of persuasion, but it shouldn't be too difficult a task to birth prose effective in effortlessly eliminating that pool of people we're after for some reason I forget.

"Here's a first draft he or she can work from: 

"I probably shouldn't be telling you this, cuz it may put me out a job, but turning your oven on, getting it real hot, and then sticking your head in there for about twenty minutes is actually better for your hair than a professional blow-drying session with Vidal Sassoon. Try it now and I promise--not only will you look your best, but you won't spend any money on blow-drying for the rest of your life!

-- Antonio, Professional Hairstylist in London, England

"With schmaltz like that--and a photo of some handsome vaguely-foreign man in a button-down white cotton shirt holding a hairdryer and smiling in front of a mirror--I bet we'd have 15% of our target demographic put-to-bed after 72 hours on the web, as long as we hit the right sites, which shouldn't be too hard.

"Phase Two, once we earn enough advertising revenue, is to buy a thirty-second spot or two during Real Housewives of Appalachia to advertise our second-generation websites--"LA's Best Places to Encounter Paparazzi" and "LA's Best Corporate Tacos", which both link to a slightly-altered head-in-oven-pitch, with the same spokesman wearing different costumes and assuming different expert roles, so we only need to kill one innocent person when we're done with all this.

"We'd pretty much sack the whole lot after two episodes, by my calculations.

"So, whaddya say, Buddy-Boy? Are we partners?

"Should we take a blood oath and get started tonight?

"Affectionately, Dick Tracy, etcetera, etcetera.

"Well, so you read the letter now, what do you think?"

_

Like Mother, Like Trash

Ava Sambora, daughter of Heather Locklear (right) and Richie Sambora

Yes, she is too young to be dressed like that in public (13).

Yes, that is totally appropriate clothing to wear as a model in a fashion show for a clothing label called White Trash Beautiful.

Yes, that is a clothing line run by her father.

Yes, her mom's face never moves.


The world sure is a messed-up place. But at least it also has this in it:

And this:

And also this:

_

Your F***ing Troubles Are Over, Man!

As seen in Brentwood Magazine--the magazine for the discerning Angeleno:

Finally, something for the girl who thought she had it all. Available in peach, brown, and black. Please ignore the fact that this highly-specialized comfort device was designed to look exactly like a truncated penis--it's just a coincidence.

_

Does This Surprise Anybody?

LOS ANGELES — "Ferris Bueller" actor Jeffrey Jones was charged Wednesday with failing to update his sex offender registration status, authorities said.

He pleaded no contest in 2003 in Los Angeles to a felony charge of employing a 14-year-old boy to pose for sexually explicit photos.

It is the second time the actor has been arrested for failing to keep his sex offender status current. He was arrested in Florida in 2004 for the same offense.

(courtesy HuffPo)

Oh, Mr. Rooney...I wish I could say I never saw this coming, but I actually wrote the following in my journal (the one with the mermaid riding the unicorn on the cover--a personal favorite) on September 25, 1987:

Mr. Rooney is funny, but in a creepy way. I felt the same thing when watching Amadeus at Gerald's sixth birthday party. Not that anybody asked, but if put on the spot, I would probably vote him 'Celebrity I Would Be Least-Excited About Sharing a Hot Tub With' and I would not be surprised in the least should he one day be arrested for failing to update his sex offender status, seven years after paying a 14-year-old boy to pose for gritty nude photographs intended for his illicit arousal.

Yes, then as now, I was quite the precocious young smart-ass.

Is it still adorable?

_

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.

Bows and Arrows Are So Hot Right Now

I don't know how you feel about it, Internet, but I think Lindsay Lohan looked pretty damn good at this photo shoot the other day. And she showed up for work! Double points!

I mean, her ass is just...jutting right out there. If it weren't for the meth-breath, the persecution complex, the idiocy, and the craziness, I could see myself settling down and growing to love that little potbelly.

Dare to dream, kids--dare to dream.


(For more photos, check out dlisted)

_

Image of Miley Cyrus Captured On Digital Camera Somewhere

This picture brings no less than four things to the forefront of my brain:

1. Miley is way less attractive in the face than I remember and this disappoints me twice as much as it may disappoint you because she was totally on my list of post-career-collapse conquests and now I'm not so sure. My world is being shaken like a snow globe right now.
 
2. I can't believe neither Miley nor her hair-stylist/best-friend have iPhones. Have they not heard of them yet? Are they still on Sprint because they didn't want to pay that crazy early-termination fee? Don't

3. That bag is awesome. I want one--it looks like a Hefty bag with a $4500 price tag on it and everybody will totally be jealous when they see I have one.

 4. This girl is worth more than $25 million and I can't afford a used taco right now.


Dessert:

Talk about a dear in headlights! (Pun!) This flash is so bright that Miley looks two-dimensional. Also, are those jeans actually jean-printed spandex? I'd believe it...

_

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!

_

Los Angeles: Home of the Vaunted Broom Bear

That is some serious equipment there. The engineering involved in that thing is sick--aside from all the spinning brushes, the water system, and enormous engine, the middle segment jacks up and dumps the mess somewhere (the nearest Pacific tributary is popular, as it the most cost-effective solution). When we colonize the moon, this is probably what the astromen will clean it with once a week.

More importantly, this bear is evidence.  As a society, we have progressed from not giving a shit, to having actual humans clean our streets with brooms, to a citywide fleet of $127,000+ monster trucks [And that's used! -Ed.] that is valued more for its ability to generate bottomless profits from parking tickets than it is for leaving a trail of cleanliness.

Well done, world.

_

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.

_

So Much Better Than the Actual Show

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zjwhBkDegA4&feature=player_embedded

Although using Kevin Connolly to play E was a missed opportunity for even more delicious parody, if you ask me...

_

What do they say about good fences?

(photo found here)

Overheard through the window next to my bed the other night, after I was interrupted mid-movie by shouting within the too-close-for-comfort range:

"How many times have I been in jail because of you? How many times?"
[unintelligible]
"That's right--I've been in jail THREE TIMES because of you."
Silence.
"How many times have you been in jail?"
"Many."
"That's right. And I'm sick of your fuckin' shit and I ain't gonna take it no more. Where you goin?"
"I'm goin' to tha BATHroom..."
"What was that?! Say it to my face, say it to my face, say it to my face!"
Silence.

I never thought I would be the kind of guy who would one day hope to overhear somebody making sour love over an unflushed toilet, but that was exactly what happened.

There was something about this situation, despite the fact that I could only picture it with my imagination, or maybe because of that, that was so loaded with tension ripe for the cutting, that made me realize there were only a few possible outcomes for it--and compared to sweet murder, sour love sounds like a pretty good option.

Instead, I heard nothing but silence for the rest of the night, ever since. Which is somehow creepier.

These are my neighbors--either next-door or one floor below--but this is the first and last time I've ever heard their voices.

_

Review In Brief: A Single Man

Dear GTC,

I finally saw A Single Man, directed by Tom Ford, and even though the projection wasn't so great at the shitty theater, I could tell the movie was pretty lush.

Too lush? It struck me as little more than a 99-minute perfume ad starring Colin Firth, Julianne Moore, and two bad actors that play male sex objects.

More than anything, this movie made me want to be rich, so that I could not work very much but still afford a beautiful glass house in the hills--near the beach--and wear a nice watch, fine suits, expensive cologne, drive a Mercedes roadster...

Does this make me gay?

-Lost In Los Angeles

_____________________

Dear LILA,

Maybe. It depends on what sort of people you like to have sex with.

-GoodtimeCharlie

_

NOW it all makes sense...

As flashes of lightning burst through the dense gray sky, basso profundo blasts of thunder roll for minutes on end, and rain dumps down from the heavens, everything has suddenly come into focus.

Clearly, Los Angeles made a pact with the Devil many years ago--in order to expel the ugly people and achieve maximum sexiness--and the Devil has finally come back for his.

I mean, what else could explain a deliciously heavy rain? Or an earthquake?

_

Item: High-End Realtors No Longer Go Anywhere Without Liverwurst in Their Pockets

The gorgeous and supremely-talented Candy Spelling, the useless widow of phenomenally-wealthy television producer Aaron Spelling (who never cheated on her, I swear, or she totally would have left his filthy-rich ass) and mother of never-quite-sexy-enough Tori Spelling, is desperately trying to sell her home in LA.

The asking price? $150 million

Yes, it is ridiculous--but so is the house and so are many of the people who could afford to purchase it. Situated on 4.7 acres of prime real estate in upscale Holmby Hills, the house has over 100 rooms--including one devoted solely to wrapping presents. Jealous?

Televised-Trash Mogul Aaron Spelling

The house was built in 1991--after tearing down the legendary home of the far-cooler Bing Crosby--using the riches Aaron Spelling squeezed out of the working class via such TV shows such as Loveboat, Dynasty, Charlie's Angels, 90210, Melrose Place, and Charmed, among others.

It is the largest house in LA County and the most expensive home in the country. [FYI--My research indicates that this also puts it in a dead heat for the title of Most Expensive Home in the World, since a six-story mansion on Belgrave Square in London is also for sale for $150 million.--Ed.]

The Manor, as seen from my stealth chopper, Goodtime 1

Can you imagine the commission on this bitch? Can you imagine how many realtors want a piece of that solid-gold pie?

Now, under any circumstances, selling a home like this would require some real craftiness--where do you advertise? Whom do you court? How negotiable is the price tag? How many (and what ethnicity/age) prostitutes do you send to the corrupt Russian tycoon in your attempt to persuade him before you give up and move on to the next one?

In the current economic climate, the successful marketing of this monstrosity is tantamount to a work of art.

How does one choose the proper dreamer for such a task? Copious research into the credentials of the best in the business? Haha--you just betrayed your plebeian roots and demonstrate why you belong in the minimum-wage service industry.

The correct answer is that you let your dog smell the prospective agent.

A soft-coated Wheaten Terrier, but probably not the one in question

Courtesy of Huffington Post:

Spelling told The Associated Press that she let her dog Madison, a soft-coated Wheaten Terrier, help pick out the best real estate agent for the task. She had her security bring the dog into the room every time she met one of the candidate agents and watched how the dog reacted. If Madison didn't like them, Spelling crossed them off the list.

Prospective buyers won't have to worry about passing such scrutiny, Spelling jokes.

"Not at all," she says.

Ha ha ha...as if she would have her dog chose the buyer! That would be ridiculous...

Not that she'll ever answer them, but I have a few questions for Ms. Collagen Repository:

1. What the fuck is a 'soft-coat?'
2. Why is this an important detail when describing your dog?
3. Since the house has been on the market since at least the end of March, have there been any repercussions for Madison's poor taste in realtors?
4. Specifically, have her champagne and caviar rations been reduced?

Should I hear back from her people, you will be the first to know.

Developing...

_

The Cat from Hell

Hungover, tired as hell, damp from a shower, and dreading work, I opened the door to leave my apartment and heard a strange noise in the hallway.

"What is that strange noise?" I said to myself.

I perked my ears and listened closely, but didn't hear anything. I closed the door almost all the way, keeping my hand on the knob, and looked across the room at my sleepy-eyed girlfriend sitting up in bed, curious, confused.

"What's going on?"
"I heard a strange noise in the hallway. What do you think it is?"

I opened the door to get another listen and some sort of creature immediately shot through the crack like a bullet.

I jumped out of my shoes, onto the ceiling, and back into them. What was it? A diseased rat? Possum? Raccoon? Skunk? Feral dog?

As the faceless monster frantically darted around the apartment and my heartbeat worked its way back toward normal, I saw it was only a cat. I hate cats; they smell, I'm allergic, they're boring, arrogant, and rude. Would it bite me? Would it scratch me?


As I debated whether or not a squirrel or raccoon would have made a better foe, an unkempt middle-aged man stepped into the doorway and offered up some morning breath.

"I'm sorry. He's been a little crazy lately and he thinks he still lives here."

I recognized the man, Dennis, as the weird dude that lived in my apartment for years and years before moving into an identical apartment a mere two flights up. Even though we are probably more similar than I would like to admit--or maybe because of that fact--I was glad he decided not to cross the threshold and venture into my intimate space (it's an adorably/annoyingly small apartment).

When I toured my apartment...five years ago(?), trying to decided if the place was right for me, Dennis was in the throes of his big lazy move upstairs and pretty much all that remained were dozens upon dozens of milk crates stuffed with old records, stacked floor to ceiling along an entire wall. I'm a record collector myself, so you'd think I would think somebody who had tons of records would be cool, but these babies might as well have been yellowed newspapers--something about that gargantuan wall of musty records and its prominent location in the apartment screamed mentally-deranged loner pack-rat.


Based on that small bit of data, before I even met him, in my mind Dennis was a middle-aged hermitic freelance saxophone instructor or jazz music critic who decided years ago, maybe after his only girlfriend left him for their accountant, to hole up in an old brick building in Koreatown--probably since before the neighborhood was swallowed by the insatiable Korean monster and was still mostly Hispanic--smoking cigarettes with the shades drawn, never venturing outside save his midnight walks to the pleasantly uncrowded 24-hour grocery store and the ritualistic weekly moving of the ancient Volvo station wagon for street cleaning.

Not long after I moved into my apartment, I got a piece of Dennis' mail--which is the only reason I know his first name--and decided to give it to him by hand, since I knew where he lived and I was curious to see what he was like. Our neighborly interaction/intrusion of personal space lasted all of two seconds and did nothing but confirm my earlier impression about this guy's weirdness, reclusive nature, and potential for jazz saxophone instruction.

Dennis had long dirty-blond hair, wore tinted prescription glasses, didn't open the door more than 4 inches and never said a word when I politely handed him his mail and tried to make a bit of small talk (I hate small talk, but ya gotta do what ya gotta do).

To see this man standing inches from my face, at eight o'clock in the morning, years after our first/last meeting, seconds after being startled nearly to death by a crazed cat I never knew he had, and still stung by a hellacious hangover, was a bit much. I froze.

Luckily, my girlfriend leapt out of bed and corralled the cat before conversation between Dennis and I became necessary. Once the prickly pet was handed over and Dennis apologized for the intrusion, I nodded, closed the door, and took a breath.

"That cat scared the shit out of me!" I had to say out loud.

My girlfriend and I looked at each other as if we had both seen a ghost. Wishing to put the entire incident behind me, I opened the door for a third time, checked to make sure the coast was clear, and headed off to work, a bit closer to death than I was the last time I opened that portal to reality.

_

Saturday in LA

There's a homeless man outside, covered in carbuncles, walking an endless circle around our block, jabbering to whomever has a free ear and nothing better to do. He does this every day, never asking for money, but somehow always drunk or getting there.

I call him Barnacle Bill because I like to think of his face as the prow of a ship, content with its humble lot in life, wading through the muck day after day, doing as little as it takes to get by, patently unconcerned with trivial things like appearance, until the whole vessel suddenly falls to pieces one day, swallowed by the timeless sea, unacknowledged, relieved.

Like most fixtures in my neighborhood, Barnacle Bill is a lot friendlier since my girlfriend moved in and gave the fellas a little something to look at around these parts. He never used to say a word to me, but now he often interrupts his monologues to say 'Hi' as I walk past; I'd rather not think about what he says to my ladyfriend.

Even the workaholic bodega guy, Michael, has gotten friendlier. One day, Michael gave me $3 and change because he said his brother overcharged me for a bottle of vodka the day before; another time he gave me a bottle of Crown Royal and three Mexican Cokes for an IOU when my debit card wouldn't work. My girlfriend, meanwhile, not only gets handfuls of free Korean mystery candies and slightly lower prices, but also has her own private stash of Italian sodas.

Unwelcome friendliness is better than a knife to my throat, but in general I prefer to avoid the local flavor, to remain anonymous, despite my conceptual yearning for community. I suppose you have to draw the line somewhere, though--do I really want Barnacle Bill drinking a beer on my couch, in his pee-stained pants? Do I want to find out what goes on behind the curtain at the all-night Taco Psychic across the street?

I saw someone buy Barnacle Bill a beer from Michael's bodega once. I learned that Barnacle Bill only drinks good beer--Modelo--when somebody else is buying, some stir-crazy lonely soul angling for a sidewalk drinking buddy. On one such glorious evening, as she smoked on the fire escape above, Bill chatted up my girlfriend by trying to convince her that toucans live in the trees outside our building.


Phantom toucans aside, nature is everywhere out here, whether you want it or not. Confused fruit flies patrol the toaster oven, an alley cat minus a tail begs for male attention, and
the cockroach perched on my toothbrush shoots me daggers. Does he know something I don't?

Somewhere in the bowels of our building, a lap dog resumes its incessant barking and the shirtless Korean man in the building next door hocks his 400th loogie of the day. It's 7:30pm. "Welcome to the Wheel!"

There is comfort in regularity; there is also resignation.

_

So THAT'S Why They Call It B.O...

For those of you not on the left coast, fyi, it's been hot as balls; an ideal time to seek refuge in the comforts of an ice-cold movie theater, 1920s-style.

Yet it's hard to recall a time when I was less inclined to venture out to a movie theater than this past weekend--and based on the precipitous drop in box office, it seems I wasn't alone.

But don't worry, folks--not only does notorious turdlet G.I.Joe open this Friday, but so does the long-awaited "adventures of the wishing rock," if the startlingly self-mocking poster I saw at the bus stop last night is to be believed.

Seriously?

William H. Macy, say it ain't so! I'm broke as hell, but I'll gladly sell my blood and give ya the dough til a better role comes along! You don't need this! Really! Your wife makes plenty of money on that shitty TV show anyway!


At this point, I'd rather see El Mariachi 6 starring Jack Black and Shia LaBeouf than anything else the egomaniacal Robert Rodriguez churns out at his sadly-highly-profitable, one-man movie studio...

The world doesn't need any more Steven Spielturds--one is more than enough.

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Jennifer the Leopard: Hungry for More

J-Lep (aka Jennifer the Leopard) performed last night at the Redcat Theater and knocked 'em dead. My only complaint about the 25-minute set was that it was too brief, although perhaps leaving your fans wanting more is a good thing...

Although the music itself was enjoyable, the performance went beyond the sonic, cleverly infusing video, back-up dancers, and a full-blown audience percussion section. The quartet made especially inventive use of video during the 'move your car' and 'this is a break-up song' segments and kept the audience clapping, stomping, smiling, and shaking their noisemakers during the entire set.

Are they punk, post-punk, rock-n'roll, or a blend of it all? Who cares--it's fun. Go see them at Redcat, in downtown Los Angeles, either tonight or tomorrow at 830pm.


And Now the Obligatory Warnings:

#1: Redcat works more like a museum than a music venue--latecomers are only allowed in during a set break or intermission. Last night, that meant getting in by 830pm, at 847pm, or between the two differnet performance pieces.

#2: There are two drastically different performances on the bill. I recommend rolling in around intermission, unless a Big Lebowski-style 'dance quintet' set to the tune of a never-ending fart is your kinda jam.

#3: If you plan on drinking, I'd bring a flask, as my favorite $20/bottle bourbon is $10/glass from the surly wench at the plywood bar in the hallway.

Buy tickets here.
FYI--parking garage underneath the Disney Theater is only $4 if you're going to Redcat.

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