"Home is where..."

So, I apologize to my "fans" for the sporadic entries of late. November was a long, rough month to say the least. It culminated in TWO trips back east in a week. I'll get into some of that in the near future, in a series of entries.
I'd be remiss though, if I didn't acknowledge the fact that Bubba and I just celebrated our first anniversary out west this weekend. What a year it's been. And how appropriate I think, that our first visit back essentially coincided with this milestone. As such, we were able to get a refresher crash course on all things East to compare to.
When we got on the plane to New York, both of us were giddy at the prospect of heading "home." The skyline, the food, and of course, the people. And the cab ride from JFK, after a slap in the face of Northeast cold, seemed to cement those sentiments. Sure, we rode through the less than flattering parts of Queens (are there flattering parts of Queens?), but as the skyline came into view, it really did feel like home. Mind you, that was a semi-disturbing development, seeing as we now live in L.A.
The week was filled with requisite subway/cab rides, delicious bagels and pizza, fast-paced pedestrians, stinking sidewalk garbage, Midtown Christmas decorations, and everything else we remembered so fondly.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the forum. At some point in time, unbeknownst to either of us, the first chinks in the armor of remembrance appeared. Not in any tangible form. Not in any way that I can concretely point to. Still, when our week was up something amazing happened: We were EXCITED to go home to Los Angeles. Not towards anything in particular, but genuinely happy to be heading back to LaLa. And that's a good thing.
I left the title to this open-ended because I don't have an answer. When I was younger, and the homestead was still intact, "home" was very obvious. The large structure where I spent my formative years, where my family was, was home. But that's gone now. My parents live in apartments that I've never stayed in for an extended time. I've spent no more than 4 years in any of my rented residences. I've been here for but a year. So where that leaves me is that while the east is still forever "home," as that's where I'm from, and where so many of my people are, "home" is also, ostensibly, like the cliche says, where I lay my head. Where I'm with my new clan. My Bubba. Orville. The cats. I guess more than, anything, home is where you're loved. And I'm lucky enough to be bi-coastal.

There were a lot of fires in California recently.

So, as you can see, I've dispensed with my usual bad pun blog entry title this week. The California wildfires didn't seem like appropriate comedic fare. Still, I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge what happened recently in some type of blog form or other. First and foremost, my clan and I are more than safe. I don't think we were closer than15 miles from any of the fires, but thanks for asking, as many of you did.
Formalities out of the way, I've found it interesting, my reaction to the whole thing. That is to say, my STAGGERING indifference. I'm not proud of that fact. I'm not ashamed of that fact. It's how I've felt. I've been checking myself out the last few days to try and figure out why that is.
What I've learned is it's a Scuba medley mix of thoughts/emotions/opinions.
For starters, I think being physically removed from it inherently numbs one. Neither in my home neighborhood, nor where I work, was I ever close. The closest I came was my field trip to the O.C. last week. I could smell the residual smoke, but again, I was still miles away. So essentially, my direct exposure was not much different than my people's back home, watching it on the news, save for the bitchin' orange moon that resulted one night.
Most interestingly I suppose, was what I observed from the locals. There was a pride, reminiscent of that of the New Yorkers, post 9/11. It was based on their gumption, wherewithal, and unity in addressing the situation. To their credit, they absolutely did, band together, keep good order, and rally to get eveyone out of harms way in an expedient matter. That said, comparisons inevitably arose to the most recent prior calamity, Hurricane Katrina. I was struck by an offensive smugness and condescenion in some folks attitude.
Obviously, I can't declare this a universal opinion, but I have to say, I was disgusted by certain parties' take on the two tragedies. Unlike Katrina, wildfires are a fairly well precendeted phenomena out here. Hell, there've been roughly 7 bouts of wildfires just in the year I've been here. Conversely, a hurricane submerging an entire metropolis is unprecedented in my lifetime. Secondly, by and large, a fire moves relatively slowly. Slowly enough anyway, such that one could look at the mountain backdrop behind one's house enough to say, "that fire is moving away. I think it'd be best if we got out of here." Lastly, and most significantly, there was a prevailing mindset of all of these people being forced to evacate, like there were now going to be a million refugees, driving aimlessly and destinationless in their SUV's. However many were temporarily displaced, almost all of them had a place to go back to ultimately. Some homes were lost, but most were not. Those that were, I'm gonna venture to say the homeowners have some type of insurance, and life will go on. Meanwhile, two years removed, I can only imagine how many Katrina victims still have nothing.
I don't know what I want from this little rant. At a time when I could've potentially been given the impetus to feel more of a kinship with my fellow Californians, somehow they managed to alienate me.

Chow Bella

So, yesterday was my FIFTH wedding anniversary with my beautiful wife Bubba. It being a special occasion and all, we decided to splurge, and hit her favorite restaurant, Mr. Chow's. Chow's - New York is where I took her on the night I proposed, so it seemed appropos to mark the occasion with a return visit, Beverly Hills style.

Chow's is located in the heart of the high rent district in Beverly Hills. A block or two from the swanky shops on Rodeo Drive and Wilshire Blvd., it's a MAGNET for celebs and paparazzi alike, much like the Ivy I "reviewed" a few weeks back. (And if anyone's wondering, this figures to be my last high-end restaurant review for the foreseeable future. A Fatburger, Astro Burger comparison is far more likely). Sure enough, we pull up to the valet, and the photogs are right outside. Not a Britney level frenzy, but a definite presence. "No pictures, please! It's my anniversary!" I exclaimed, before humbly realizing they were not there for us.

We get inside, and in a bit of real estate irony, it's actually more compact than its New York counterpart. Go figure. Prime time on a Saturday night, inevitably our table was going to be "just a few minutes." No problem. We're in no rush. It gave us a chance to survey the crowd. It was a textbook L.A., chi-chi establishment medley mix of folks. You had the tourist crowd, splurging for the big feast on the vacation, hoping for a celeb sighting to tell the folks back home. You had the Hollywood players and the wannabee players. I can't tell you how I knew the difference, but I knew the difference. There was a gaggle of women, out for girls night out.

And then there were the celebs. Two in fact. See if you can guess which one the paparazzi were staked out to get a picture of. Both are versatile male actors. Both have had careers probably spanning 40 years or more. One is a titan of celluloid, the other of the idiot box. All right, I've kept you in suspense long enough. We saw American icons Clint Eastwood and Tom Bosley ladies and gentlemen! That's right, Dirty Harry and Mr. C. Does it get any better than that? I fought my urges to tell Clint that I am in fact, feeling lucky, and to give Tom the Fonzie two thumbs up, and leave well enough alone.

Anyway, the night was about my wife and myself, not two people I've never met before. The food was exactly as it was back east, which is a good thing. Despite the pretensions of the place, the staff was actually very friendly, surprisingly short on airs. And most importantly, Bubba and I had a beautiful night, as we commenced with the beginning of the first six years of infinity.

Jim Mutha*uckin Brown

So, last week, as previously mentioned, I had a bottom of the barrel celeb sighting, seeing an E-list celebrity, Phoebe Price. She was TROLLING for press at the Ivy, desperate to be seen by anyone who'd look. After checking out her "resume" on IMBD, I couldn't believe what I'd seen. She literally, was an extra on a show like 13 years ago.

How ironic, that four days later, I'd have a REAL celebrity sighting, in complete contrast. Innocently dispatched to the Rite Aid at midnight on a Monday for cat litter, I roll in and hit the ATM. At the first register over, I see an older, strapping man, winding up his transaction. I say to myself, "Hmm, that kind of looks like Jim Brown, minus his now trademark kufi." Unsure, and semi-hesitant even if I WERE sure, I wait until I see him turn more towards me. The iron jaw, brick house physique, and always serious scowl convinced me it was indeed, Mr. Brown. That and the fact that his shirt had a big Cleveland Browns logo on it anyway.

I politely inquired as to his person, and extended my hand, saluting him as a big fan. I made SURE to extend a FIRM handshake. The last guy I'd want to give a wet fish handshake to is Jim mutha*uckin Brown. (71 years old and STILL ready to whip some ass). He graciously shook my hand, and I made a feeble attempt at a connection, via my late Grandfather from Cleveland.

For those that don't know, (and I've been STUNNED at how many don't), Jim Brown is a genuine American icon. Arguably the greatest football player EVER. Arguably the greatest American athlete EVER. Arguably the first black action hero in the movies. Social activist. Blood-Crip peacemaker. The list goes on (and yes, I'm QUITE aware that it's not all good). The juxtaposition between Mr. Brown and Phoebe Price could not present a starker contrast. A dingbat wannabee who's star shines as bright as a firefly, vs. the man Muhammed Ali sought approval from. And the final irony is that this nobody was doing everything decency laws would allow to get any precious frames of camera time she could on the "mighty" TMZ, while Jim Brown, the only man I've encountered in this town WORTHY of actual exposure, humbly and matter of factly going about his business without a hint of fanfare or pretension. In a town based on illusion, somehow I came across a genuine star. And unlike the celluloid variety, he's a TRUE icon, who's forever been completely exposed, warts and all.

Daytime Star-Gazing

Ok good people. Back from the dead. I know I promised a bountiful Fall, and I still intend to, but due to a technical issue, my access to my blog is not quite as often as before (read: work now blocks the site).





Anyway, my dear sister Beth (aka, "Bef") was in town this week, en route to San Diego. So Bubba and I decided to splurge, and take her to the Ivy. The Ivy is located on swanky Roberston St., on the Hollywood, Beverly Hills border. It is a tabloid mecca. Literally, lining the streets are the good folks from Us, People, the Enquirer, TMZ and so on. To the point where Bubba and Bef made sure to look extra snappy, should they find themselves in the background of an US Weekly Photo in the, "They're Just Like Us" section.





As usual, it was a typical beautiful day out here, and after I greased the host a ten-ski, we got ourselves a piece of prime Ivy real estate, front and center on the boulevard, outside under an umbrella. The ACTUAL celeb sightings were marginal, (I DID spot and introduce myself to Lamar Odom of the Lakers. "Lamar Odom! Big fan!" like Stuttering John back in his prime) but EVERYONE there was either someone LOOKING for celebrities, or WANTING to look LIKE a celebrity. And no one epitomized the experience better than one Phoebe Price.



"Who is Phoebe Price" you ask? Good question. We sure as hell didn't. Alls we knew was, this woman two tables over was CLEARLY trying to be seen by somebody. Anybody. We polled ourselves. Not a clue. We polled the tables on either side of us. Zilch. When she left, we saw the TMZ cameras descend upon her. Why? Who IS this woman? Well, thanks to Bef's painstaking research, we now know:



http://www.tmz.com/2007/09/28/phoebe-shows-her-cupcakes/

R.I.P.

It is with great sadness that I report to my public, that one of our little gems has passed away. "Shirley," as named at the vet's office, even though we never actually called her that, was taken from us this past Saturday.

In a bizarre turn of events, this spitfire, who was the one who'd fallen the deepest into the wall, who was the one who was the tiniest of tiny, not even tipping the scales at a solid pound, turned ill and passed in a matter of about 36 hours.

We'd been trying to figure out the fate of the dynamic duo. We'd lined up a theoretical taker for one, but we'd said we'd keep them together for a month or so while they got stronger. Spotty, as she was tentatively called, attributing to the white splotch on her back that looked like spilled White-Out, had taken the early lead in the "race" to attach to our hearts. Absolutely wee, she nonetheless was lion-hearted. Every day, when we'd pass by their box with our milk bottle, she'd jump with all her might to try and vault out of the box to get her grub on. I'd ALWAYS pick her first, if for no other reason than she looked like she'd explode if she had to wait any longer. She'd wrap her kitten lips around the nipple, and pull the bottle with her paws, as if they actually had any genuine strength. Then she'd just guzzle.

Of her .8 pounds, I'd say that .75 of the weight was located in her eyes. Just giant saucers on this TINY frame. Wide-eyed at all times, when she took ill, it was obvious. First, she wouldn't eat. Then, the ferocity in the eyes started to diminish. Almost instantly, this sprite took on the persona of an old soul. When Saturday came around, and she still wouldn't eat, I rushed her over to the vet. He didn't see anything obviously wrong, and all of her vitals checked out okay. So I took her home, and we began to force feed her. But by the minute, she grew weaker and weaker until that very night, she died in my lap as quickly as she came to us. No final gasp. Nothing. Just here, then gone.

I was flabbergasted at the impact this cat made on us/me in a mere month's time. I was (am) so saddened to see her go. This little engine that could, just like that, couldn't. Allow me to indulge my inner seer, but I can't help but notice that RIGHT as we were losing her, her sister's spirit has risen in direct proportion. It's as if Spotty's spirit was transferred into her sister, leaving us with but one dynamo. In the days since Spotty passed, "Blackie" has been unstoppable. Bouncing off the walls, swatting aggressively at her bigger new pet siblings (Jack and Orville), and serving notice that she is here, and will take no crap.

Bubba and I are very thankful to have gotten to experience Spotty, if only for a month. For in this blip of a body was a lifetime of spirit.

"And the Lord Said, Give Me Two of Every Creature...

Time to get back down to bidness. Summer's over (though it's been about 95 here all week). Labor Day has come and gone. Time to get back to school as it were. I've been on a lazy, beachcomber pace, as far as the writing goes, but it's time to get back to work. Lots o'things to tell.

First of all, my life took a turn for the bizarre a few weeks ago. We live in a four-apartment house here in W. Hollywood. We represent the lower left-hand quadrant of the house. Between 6 and 9 on the clock, if you will. Our shower is in the back, "overlooking" the garage. So a couple of weeks ago, Bubba's taking a shower, and here's this faint, high-pitched alleged cry. Sounded like it was coming for the wal, so logically, when she was done with the shower, she went outside to check it out. Nothing. Couldn't hear anything. So, she went back to business. But whenever she went to the bathroom, there it was again. I come home, and I hear the same thing. "I think it's a cat," she says. "Ehhh, I don't know." The musician in me took over. "See, the pitch and the meter are way too constant for that to be any type of creature. No being communicates that consistently. No, I think it's the pipes." I even said explicitly, "Mary, I don't know WHAT that sound is, but I can say without a doubt, it's NOT an animal." (foreshadowing alert)

That night, around 4 a.m., we were awakened by the most mournful howling we've ever heard. This cat was outside our place just WAILING. This gave more creedence to the "maybe it's a cat" theory. So, come the next day, Bubba and our neighbor Jules, set out to get this creature out of wherever it was.

Cutting through the minutiae of the fruitless calls to various animal institutions, when I came home from work that day, there were two fire trucks and about 8 firemen and my landlord in my back yard. West Hollywood's Bravest were busy hacking up the back wall. By the time I got to the back of the house, there was already a TINY lil' black and white cat in a shoebox. Great! Miller Time. 'Ceptin' that there was ANOTHER cat still in peril. Not only that, but this bad boy was STUCK. Really stuck. Our working theory is, Moms found this crawl space in the back of the house where she went to birth this litter in private. Problem was, these two cats gell down a ways, and momma couldn't get 'em out, and had to leave them ultimately for the sake of the others.

So, after a few hours of hacking away, my landlord CRINGING with each swing of the pick-axe, they finally got #2 out. Somehow, and there was no discussion by anyone on the topic at all, by virtue of our phonecall, these became OUR de-facto cats. Technically speaking, they weren't ultimately outside of OUR apartment. They were more upstairs. As a result, they last two weeks have seen me bottle-feeding these little souls. I've never been around cats this small before. Both about 7 inches long, less than a pound. The second of the two is REALLY small, but fiesty as all get out.

To complete the absurdity, it was kind of taken for granted that these were both male cats. I don't know why, but no one ever questioned it. I took them to the vet the other day, armed with a slew of male duos to name them after, when it was time to do their charts. Kramden and Norton. Cheech and Chong. Itchy and Scratchy. Bird and Dizzy. And so on. Of course, I get to the vet and they're like, "No, they're BOTH girls." So, in need of girl names, I panicked and gave them Laverne and Shirley. I think I'm now leaning towards Lucy and Ethel though. Lucy is the small one. She's mad cap, wide-eyed and zany. Ethel lays back more, willing to go along with Lucy's antics, but never the instigator.

At press time, we're leaning towards keeping one, Lucy, and giving Ethel to this fella who's expressed a great interest in one. We'll see. This pair had some intro into life, and we'll see if we can break 'em up. Problem is, Scuba's getting Ark is getting a mite crowded over here.

"Lady Show Business...

...is a fickle bitch, Orville." It is with those words that I had to break the news to our budding Olivier that his cinematic career had ended just as soon as it started. That's right folks. It pains me to tell you that no sooner had I broken the story to you good people and Variety magazine that I get the message all master thespians dread: "We've written you out of the script." I'd like to say that they opted for someone younger, pinker and fatter, but the reality was, they had to push back their shooting date several months, and they are afraid Orville will be too big by then, so they "killed" his character before he got a chance to bring "Sascha" to life.

As the picture will attest to, Orville was none too thrilled when I told him what had happened. He threw a Lohanesque fit, obliterating a cardboard box, and upending his food bowls like a rioting prison inmate. Seems he was already spending the loot in his head, undoubtedly on a bottomless pit of vegetarian slops. Maybe I shouldn't have asked for a 3 picture deal? Maybe I shouldn't have asked for points on the back end? Maybe I shouldn't have demanded to score the movie? Could it be that my demands are what led to the kibosh? I can only hope this rejection doesn't send Orville into a pit of despair, culminating in an eating binge, 30 days in rehab, and an US Weekly cover.

I guess the big O will have to make due with never-ending days of eating, drinking, and general merriment. At least until his next Brown Derby moment of discovery...

"They're Gonna Put Me in the Movies...

They'll make a PIG star out of me."

All right folks. This story has been brewing for the last few weeks, but I wanted to wait for its resolution to see how it'd play out. I've been bursting at the seams, and now I can finally tell you.

So, by now, Bubba and I have been out here for eight and a half months now, seeking our fame and fortune in our respective creative fields of aspiration. Bubba's been getting her chops back after some time of acting inactivity, while I've been immersed in the lab, writing and recording some 100% Scott originals to unleash on the world. So who seems poised to have get the first creative break in the house? Orville, that's who. That's right, the Big-O. Ol' snouty just took his first hoof step towards a troth on the walk of fame.

A couple of weeks ago, I see in my inbox, a message forwarded to me from our pig breeder down in Texas. It said, "here's something that might interest you." I check it out, and it's from an independent filmmaker out here in Hollywood, who wrote to our breeder in search of a pot-bellied pig to put up on the silver screen. Specifically, they're looking to cast the role of "Sascha," pet pig to some Russian mobster, complete with a decorative rhinestone collar. Seems they'd gone the conventional routes of trying to procure animal talent locally, only to find the cost to be exorbinant, and did she know of any, I don't know, non-union for lack of a better term, pigs for hire. I said to Bubba, "Orville's a pig! Let's contact them."

I wrote back saying we may be able to help them out, so give us a call. A couple of days later, Anna, the filmmaker did, and we set up a time for them to come out to meet Orville for his "screen test" if you will. The day before his audition, we spruced him up real purty like. I know this may be hard to believe, but a pig can get a little dirty sometimes. Bubba bribed him with cherry tomatoes and made him showroom fresh. Of course, when we took him for his evening constituional the night they were coming, he promptly soiled his snout, but what are you gonna do?

So, Anna and Miklos arrive, and are INSTANTLY smitten. Just couldn't get over how cute he was. The only immediate negative was that he's a tad bigger than they were hoping. They envisioned him being small enough to be potentially toted like one of Paris Hilton's toy dogs, but that ain't happening. From there, we felt each other out. I had to make it abundantly clear that Orville is not trained to do anything but eat, sleep, and use his box, so we have NO idea what to expect on a set. From our end, we were like, "it can't be too far from here, it can't be too long, and we don't want him under ANY duress." Orville is a scared little mush at the end of the day, and the last thing any of us needs is from them to start barking orders or whatever, and have him unleash his patented blood-curdling squeal. They assuaged our fears by telling us that it's no more than two days, absolutely no more than 4 hours each day, probably much less. AND, they'll be some type of ASPCA rep or something on hand to ensure he's safe.

So apparently, O's got two scenes. One in a limo with two young Russian models, and one in a hotel room with a gangster. His main task is to sit in a lap and be cute, and secondarily, they are going to try and capture at least a few seconds of him running amok. I think that can be acheived with a little food on the ground. There's not a lot he won't do for food. The best part is, he's getting paid for this. That's right, my man is making most dollars (well, a few hundred anyway).

The hilarity of this budding situation has been non-stop in my mind. The bad jokes started streaming out instantly. "Now he's really bringing home the bacon." "I sure hope he doesn't ham it up on camera." And so forth. I started acting like an agent thinking, "Well, maybe Orville can parlay this into a multi-picture deal?" "Should we try to get points on the back end?" "On his rider, we should demand that Orville have full access to the Craft Services buffet, and his own trailer with a supply of m&m's with the brown ones removed." Oh man. My head's been spinning. It's too much.

So now, going forward, any pictures I post will be considered "publicity stills," though I'm touting the one on this entry as his "head shot." So, we'll be going "on location" next month, and who knows? If he plays his cards right, maybe we've got the new replacement for the "Babe" movie franchise?

Offend it Like Beckham

I know, I'm stretching the limits of acceptable wordplay with that title. Anyway, recently, L.A. has seen the culmination of the much ballyhooed "arrival" of David Beckham, here to ignite U.S. soccer on fire, and his wife Posh. For I guess the last two months, we here in L.A. have been besieged by propaganda for this new royalty. Make no mistake, they qualify as A+ list celebs. But I am a sports fan, and I care INFINITELY more about that angle of the story.

I've never been a soccer fan. I enjoy the world cup for 1 month every 4 years. That is my threshold. For one month I can get behind the fiery passion that is the World Cup. I was riveted in '06 when Zidane made like Moe from the Three Stooges and cold head-butted that Italian flopper who'd insulted his sister. I see the occasional insane soccer highlight on ESPN, where I'm like, "Wow, that was great!" and my soccer itch is scratched. I have to say, as if I weren't leery enough at the prospect, when I heard an excited European sports reporter talk about, "Wellllll, he's not so much of a goal scorer. But he IS great with the crossing pass!" That's like saying, "this guy can't dunk, but he sets a great pick! We think he can make basketball popular in America."

But far be it from me not to give something a chance. So a few weeks ago, Bubba and I strap in, along with Eva, Katie, Jennifer Love, Will, Jada, etc. to see soccer's messiah against some European squad. And we waited...and waited...and waited....Seems the savior's ankle is a tad gimpy. So gimpy that he STILL hasn't played, and it's been three or four games now. Well, it's not like they're paying him $250 million dollars or anything. Oh wait. They are.

LT once played one of his best games ever with his left arm broken and limp. MJ dropped 38 in the NBA finals with a temperature of like 102. Ronnie Lott cut off the tip of his pinky mid-game, rather than miss any time. Becks gets a bunion, and he's gotta sit out one or four or five.

Sad thing is, I don't even dislike him. He seems like a well enough bloke. Amiable. Gracious. Still, my sensibilities are offended, hence the bad pun title. For two-fitty, you gots to make in on the field, homes.

(editor's note: I wrote this a week ago, thought I hit "publish," but hadn't, hence the semi-datedness of the subject matter. This week, all deficiencies will be redeemed, with the greatest Orville story ever told.)

Sky's the Limit

So, even though we've been here for what, 7-8 months now, Bubba and I have not painted the town red particularly thus far. Combination of the move, getting settled, and my overall squareness have kind of precluded it. On Sunday though, Bubba was feeling spontaneous. For my male, single friends, what that means is, when your wife is feeling "spontaneous," by definition, YOU are now feeling spontaneous and have to oblige said spontaneity.

We had a little Mexican food (one of the few cuisines where Cali seems to have an advantage over the east), and decided to put our glad rags on and hit the town. Problem was, it was Sunday night, so Hollywood was relatively dead. I called my boy Z from the road, seeing as how he is literally our resident expert. He suggested the Sky Bar, a swanky but hip watering hole on Sunset Blvd.

We valet park the car (an unavoidable reality) and make our way to the place. The Sky Bar is located within the Mondrian Hotel, smack dab in the middle of the strip. Like, I can't swear to it, but I'd say with confidence that the boys from "Entourage" cruise by it in the quick-cut opening credit sequence. We walk through the hotel lobby, out towards the back. Dressed up more than a usual lazy Sunday, but not quite to the nines, we were a TAD leery of getting velvet roped, but we mustered up the courage to forge ahead.

We finally, get to the bar, and I have to say, visually, it was spectacular. What you have is, essentially a really large deck, and glorious swimming pool. The pool was illuminated, and filled to the brim, but because the wind was still, it was pristenely flat. It looked like it was straight out of a Calvin Klein Obsession ad, and like it hadn't actually been swum in since its inception. Like, to swim in it would be beyond uncool. Surrounding the pool were upscale benches and chairs. Meanwhile, the bar itself was upstairs, but still essentially outdoors.

Then you have the view. Located about halfway up the hills, basically overlooking the whole of Los Angeles. For the unintiated, when you're in the hills, Los Angeles is COMPLETELY unobstructed. No skyscrapers blocking the view. No trees. No light pollution. So now we're there, under a cloudless blue sky that almost matched the pool water, a smattering of stars dotting the sky, and the city of angels twinkling below. Not too shabby.

As anticipated, it being a Sunday, the crowd was modest, which was fine by us. Still, within the population were more than enough observable characters to tickle my fancy. Bubba and I looked for a spot to set up base camp, only to see every table posting a "reserved" placard. We managed to flag down one of the waitresses scuttling by, and were able to gleen that we could sit anywhere we wanted to, with the proviso that should said reserved party actually show up, we'd promptly get the boot. Fair enough I guess. So we sat down at a bench in the middle of the pool.

In the half hour we sat between placing our order and waiting for its delivery, we made like Woody Allen and Mia Farrow in "Manhattan," and sized up each party of people, assigning them a life story. First, there was drunk girl. Sitting alone, she somehow managed to attempt to give herself a lapdance, if that makes sense. From there, seeing a more primo location open up, she stumbled across the deck and promptly tripped over a table. While she waited for her girlfriend who was awol in the bathroom, concerned persons helped her back up to her perch. While she should've been completely embarassed, she seemed oblivious, smiling while the entirety of the rest of the bar laughed at her, not with her.

Then there was my favorite. There was this fat walrus of a man, sitting in the corner with a couple of hangers on by his side. I haven't the foggiest idea who he actually was, but he had the air of some type of Hollywood big shot, on the prowl for the latest in a long string of patsies duped onto his casting couch with the faux promise of stardom. This guy was as alluring as Fat Bastard, but in this town, if you got the Motts, the girls can be gotten, no sweat. And believe me, the VAST majority of this crowd would fall into this vulnerable pool. All kinds of 20-something "starlets," bopping around in their summer hoochie wear. All of them trying to be seen, but trying not to look like they're trying to be seen at the same time. I'm also convinced that half the men in this town are genuine nobody's, but they try to LOOK like they're somebody. They lease high priced cars, get a bitchin' pair of shades, and speak of taking meetings with so and so next week.

So up 'til now, this was more entertaining for us observationally, rather than genuinely. But then, the "beds" opened up. I have to concede, this was dope. They had several really large flatbeds, covered in pillows, around the pool. Like, totally big enough for whomever the flavor of the month rapper is, AND his whole posse. They can ALL kick it on one of these. So Bubba and I got a spot, and the night got a whole lot better. Now, were sipping a cocktail, in full cushinoned sprawl, under that deep blue sky. I need one of these in my house. It was enough to make me forget that we were paying $14 for drinks.

A mix of r&b and hip-hop was playing all night long. Bubba started feeling the groove, and was fixing to dance. This not being a dance club per se, presented a slight obstacle. Undaunted, we decided to buck the system, and dance anyway, hoping to inspire the masses. The masses were not inspired, save for two other ladies close by. After a few futile songs, we bagged it and made small talk with the ladies. One was an actress. One was a producer. Surprise, surprise.

It being a school night and my being an overly responsible adult and all, we called it a night around 11 or so. A fine time for sure, but definitely not our scene. Still, as with everything as far as I'm concerned, it's yet another hilarious slice of life, and life in its entiretyIS my scene.

Glasnost in Lil' Minsk

Well, my commentary on my handy abilities did not turn out to be the hornets nest of controversy I'd anticipated, as the lack of comments would indicate. I thought my ability or non-ability with be a lightening rod, along the lines of Roe v.Wade, but I was wrong.

Anyway, to review, Bubba and I are stationed in West Hollywood. West Hollywood, for those that don't know, has a reputation for being exceptionally, er, "festive." (For a point of reference for "festive," see Chelsea, NYC). That said, we live in what you might call EAST West Hollywood, or "Little Minsk" as I call it. My buddy and I were discussing this just the other day actually, and we determined that from La Cienega west, is the line of demarcation between "festive" and "non." At the risk of completely reinforcing stereotypes, I'd say it's almost perfect that east West Hollywood where I live is an old Russian neighborhood, for few folks are as contrastingly non-festive as old-school Russians.

Truth be told, I find the Russian expatriates fascinating to observe. I've had not a lick of trouble with any of them, and they seem like pretty nice folks. There's a lot of little, Russian versions of Satriale's style shops in the neighborhood. Deli's, book stores, liquor stores, nail salons, etc., but all really small scale. No chain stores. No "McIvan's" or anything like that. Just real, authentic Russians, selling real, authentic Russian wares.

So a few weeks ago, we were out and about, and realized we were out of "slops" (our code word for snacks for Orville), and I saw out of the corner of my eye, some cherry tomatoes in a box on the sidewalk at the Russian Deli on our corner. I go inside, and there's all this hard looking produce and whatnot. Like, at the Whole Foods, you'd see, I don't know, pomegrantates and kiwis. Here, you see like only root vegetables. Beets, Cabbage. Carrots. But beyond that, there were these insane looking Russian candies. Then there were all kinds of starchy, prepared dishes in the fridge. Then there were all kinds of fatty meats and cheeses for sale. Just like, everything in there was stuff you get when you're gearing up for that long Siberian winter or something.

Anyway, I get my lil' bag of 'matoes for the Big-O, as well as a head of cabbage, and I make my way towards the counter. When I'd first moved here, I'd noted the phenomenon of laid back "California Time." This, as opposed to say, "New York Time," "CPT," and a few others I've observed over the years. Well, now I can add "Russian Immigrant Californian Time." This was a new level of slow. Like, this was born out of a lifetime of people living genuinely hard existances who decided long ago, "You know what, take your sweet time because I'm in ZERO hurry to get back to my dreary life. In fact, I'd appreciate it if you slowed down even." Even here and now on the sunny shores of California, it's a hard habit to break.

I must say, the Russians in my neighborhood LOVE Orville. Genuinely. A surprisingly large number of them have commented on how seeing Orville reminds them of the pig they had, or the farm they grew up on. I'm happy he can be such a catalyst for nostalgia, just so long as they're not looking at him like he's a ham steak.

(Editor's note: To the People Magazine faction of readers of mine, I had my first celebrity sighting in some time the other day: George Wendt, aka "Norm Peterson." Exciting for me, but not exactly Brangelina, hence the lack of coverage.)

The Handy Man Can

I've intended this blog to obstensibly be about my New York to L.A. transition. Today's offering only semi fits the bill, but it's something I'd like to address. Namely, the misconception regarding my "handiness," or lack thereof. This covers my whole life really, beginning with my family, and currently being the position held by my wife Bubba. I feel I can get away with this here because the move has entailed my taking on an abundance of "handywork."

While I'll never be mistaken for Bob Villa, in my estimation, I've been as handy as I've needed to be. Living pretty much either as a child or a tenant most of my life, not as a homeowner per se, my large scale opportunities have been limited. I've never owned a place that required my, say, putting in a deck or something. That said, more than ever in my new California digs, though still a tenant, there've been many opportunites to strut my handy stuff. And by my count, I'm batting 1.000.

Since I've been here, I've installed locks on our kitchen, (to lock in the Big-O), installed a lock on our Spanish window, installed a toilet seat, unclogged drains, fixed the stove, assembled a deceptively hard faux palm X-mas tree, assembled a deciptively involved oscilating fan, and a bunch of other little stuff requiring a power drill, screwdrivers, pliers, box-cutters, and plungers. This, of course, is on top of all of the unpacking, storing and setting up of shop for all our stuff.

On top of this, I am technically handy as well. I've set up the t.v., dvd, vcr, x-box, stereo, and computer. I've upgraded software. Not to mention, I very quickly became quite adept on my new digital 24-track recorder. I've been making pretty involved, "full-band" recordings, burning cd's, and sending electronic files around the country. Hell, I'm currently "recording" a song with my friend Dimitri back in New York. I recorded the music, and now he's doing the vocals. Learned all this by myself folks.

None of this is insanely difficult. Lots of it was not easy either. My point is, I've never understood where this perception came from. Never have I set out to build/assemble/create something only to have it implode or something. I've simply handled whatever tasks have come my way. I've always maintained that most things are designed to be able to be done by people a lot dimmer than me. My father may not have taught me the nuances of how to say, use a power sander, but he DID teach me how to follow instructions.

Hope this puts this myth to rest. I'll be accepting projects the next time I come back east.

The Notorious P.I.G.

One of my astute, esteemed colleagues, the "Felz" of felzball.blogspot.com, pointed out to me the irony of one of my recent posts. No sooner did I proclaim that I'm a one man opining machine, then I go on a two-week hiatus from posting. Life, and sore hands, get in the way of my bestowing my wisdom on the world sometimes. That said, I will do my best to get back on the beam.

Anyhoo, given that Bubba and I are the only ones I know of with a pot-bellied pig in their domicile, I offer today the latest update on our fine family addition. What have we learned after 5 months with Piggie Smalls? Well, first of all, despite popular opinion, they are remarkably clean creatures, all things considered. There is no discernable odor to them, save for after the occasional roll-around in the ol' litter box. He's odorless, if anything. Bubba would even go so far as to say he "smells like a rose," though that may be a stretch.

Then we have the snout. The snout to Orville, is like our opposable thumbs. It's everything to him. He roots with it. Burrows with it. And of course, smells with it. Remarkably though, it's amazingly ineffective as a scouting tool. We throw the occasional scrap, peanut, whatever, right in front of his face. Instantly, he starts zooming around like a Hoover vac, but to no avail. Only when he happens upon the morsel does he find it, completely independent of his nose.

We've also learned that pigs are quite timid. The Big-O is a flat out fraidy cat. Scared of everything. He's a loving creature, but just a big wuss. The cat laughs at him. When not eating, alls he wants to do is be ensconsed, like in a womb. He'll sit on your lap, bury his snout in any nook he can find, preferably on one's person. Get up to go to the bathroom and it's pig armageddon, for fear of losing that security. Worse yet, because he's got no claws or any other discernable weapons of defense, all he has is his squealing. Just a God-awful, high pitched squeal. It works though, I guess.

Lastly, we've learned that pigs, much like dogs, LOVE to be belly rubbed. He'll often stand at the foot of the catch, completely stoic, waiting for an invitation. Two rubs in just the right spot on his belly with my toes, and he falls like the Roman Empire. And then, my friends, we get to witness "pig bliss." He gets this bizarre look on his face, and you actually see a pig smile. He'll sit there contentedly for as long as you'll rub him.

Just like anyone, he's a genuine character. Full of great qualities, faults, annoyances, and love. The Big-O has made himself a part of our family.

L.A.'s Finest

The weather out here has been pretty nice lately. Unless otherwise noted, you can pretty much pencil in L.A. for sunny, high of 75, low 58. This week it got into the low 80's, so Bubba and I decided to get to the coast and the beach a lil' Saturday. We started with a top down ride up the PCH, you know, to feel the wind flowing in our hair, kind of thing. Problem was, everyone else had the same idea, so the PCH was a might crowded. Instead of my corkscrew curls flowing indiscriminately, my hair stood still, leaving me to recognize just how much the California sun seems to be increasing, and/or highlighting my greying mane.


Ever the gawker though, I couldn't help but notice what was going on along the Malibu stretch of beach. Real-life Baywatch. No joke. I could see a lifeguard in the Pam Anderson red bathing suit, holding her post from the lifeguard tower. Binoculars and everything. Then, I spy this low flying helicopter, riding the coast, I'm assuming in search of struggling swimmers. But flying with the intensity and urgency of a Vietnam napalm bomber.

Then, when Bubba and I got back to Santa Monica, we parked the car for a while, and strolled around for a while. We decided to at least dip our toes in the water and on the sand, since we were there and all. And what do I see, but TWO policemen in full gear, on dune buggies, making sure things stayed in control along the beach. I got to thinking, "what could possibly represent, 'things being out of control?'" Open coolers with beer in them? The occasional smoker (it's illegal on the beach there)? A kid with a sand castle tower that violates local building codes? I picture one of these cops coming up to a 6 year-old, and billy-clubbing 4 inches of his sand castle off until it's up to snuff.

I used to see this back in South Orange, NJ. Bored out of their mind cops assigning completely exaggerated importance to inconsequential "transgressions.' I'll never forget, my first job out of college, working in a health clinic in Newark. Anyway, Elmer King, head of "Security," practically pistol whipped the 4 year-old boy who kept jumping on the waiting room chair. That kind of thing.

Still, I DO feel safe now, that no one will kick sand in my face, steal any shade from my beach umbrella, or try to "pants" me out of my swim suit. They take their beaching seriously out here.

This is how it Starts

I've nothing exceptionally Californian to speak of today. Rather, what I CAN speak about is my seemingly ever increasing desire to speak upon a whole lot of things. See, I experienced a first this week. For the first time ever, I was a caller on a talk radio show. On Monday, at the outset of my evening commute, I flip on the radio. Basically, I have a four-pronged attack: I have one sports radio show, one news/talk show, one jazz station, and one CD at the ready. Whoever has the best offering at a given time gets my attention until further notice. So, at this particular point in time, ESPN radio had my ear, talking about Lebron James' status in the NBA. "Is he the best player?" and things of that nature.

I don't know why, but when one guy spoke of how he'd never seen anyone so single-handedly carry a mediocre team to the NBA finals before, I "snapped," and simply HAD to chime in. I call up, and I actually don't get a busy signal. Some screener asks me my name, and what I want to say. They put me on hold for 5 minutes. Then I hear, "Scott, from Los Angeles, you're on the air." Semi-stunned, I kept my wits about me enough NOT to say, "First time, long time." Instead, I barrelled into my point. "Yeah, hi. I just want to say, if you think Lebron's the first guy to carry a weak team into the finals, go take a look at Allen Iverson's supporting cast back in 2001." Before they could recover from the genius of my insight, I came back with the second barrel. "Also, Lebron's the most TALENTED player, but not the best because he doesn't bring it every night. Tim Duncan is an efficient, winning machine, who will destroy Lebron."

There's a bigger issue here though, on top of my masterful basketball insight. A definite trend in the works. Sure, this was my first call, but actually my second attempt. (2 weeks ago I went ballistic when informed of this a-hole, who's baseball playing, drunken mess of a son had killed himself drunk driving, had the BALLS to sue everyone and their grandmother for his sons death. Guy was drunk, stoned, speeding, on his cell phone, without a seatbelt, and he mercifully only killed himself. Meanwhile, his dad is suing the guy who's car stalled on the side of the road that his son rammed into). So now, I'm calling in radio shows, blogging, and wagging my finger a lot when I have actual live people in my presence. The dam is breaking. Here come the floodwaters. Make way for my soapbox. If I ever run for any type of political office, mark this date on your calendar's folks. You'll be able to look back and say, "THERE! That's where it started." Buh Logic is going to make an imprint on this world, by God!

This has to be said...

So, I just got back from my lunch. I decided to stay out and eat, and figured I'd occupy my time with catching up on the newspaper. Historically speaking, I'm a big newspaper guy. I used to buy two daily, ESPECIALLY in my commuting years where I had lots of train time. It got to where I could strategically fold a paper and still rock my Su Doku whilst standing shoulder to shoulder in a rush hour subway car. Plus, I'm just old school about the hands-on experience. Don't get me wrong, I pull plenty from the internet and what not, but I've just always liked my newspapers.

Since I've been here, my hard copy consumption has dramatically slowed down. I'm not really feeling the L.A. Times, and more than anything, my commute is driven. So for the sake of not killing myself or others, I begrudgingly don't read behind the wheel (though I DO play air guitar, and tap some fat polyrhythms on the dash over the latin jazz show on my drive home). Meanwhile, my treasured Sunday ritual of crossword/coffee/bagel has been largely forsaken, seeing as I've yet to even come close to finding a satisfactory bagel. Content wise, I miss the 4-inch letter, tabloid headlines on the front and back pages, and general sensationalism. I saw the NY papers go nuts over the A-Rod scandal, or should I say, the "Play-Rod," "Stray-Rod," "Yankee Doodle Randy" scandal. I miss that stuff.

But today at lunch, I was reminded of the final dagger, dividing me from newsprint. While waiting for my lunch, I dart over to the 7-11 to grab a paper (since corner newsstands are essentially non-existant). Grab my Times, pull out my 2 quarters. Oh. Right. THEY CHARGE TAX ON THE NEWSPAPER HERE. Fitty-four freakin' cents. That just chafes me. Newspapers are supposed to be bought and sold with quarters. Multiples of 25 cents. EEEEvery once in a while, perhaps a dime increment can be tolerated. 25 cents, up to 35, kind of thing. Fifty-four cents?!?! That's just fundamentally wrong. I can honestly say I'd wrather pay 60 cents before 54, just for the "privilege" of keeping it silver. "We pay tax on everything else, why not the paper?" Because, that's why. It's wrong. Just wrong. Or if we MUST pay tax, make the price 46 cents, so with tax it's 50.

Back to my Mission

All right, I seem to be straying a tad in the last few offerings. Things are getting a mite political here at Buh Logic, and that's not my intention. This is supposed to be light-hearted whimsy. My off-beat take on a world gone mad. Now I'm doing critiques on the homeless and abortion. Next thing you know, I'll be telling you about the shape-shifting aliens in our midsts. (that's a joke folks. A direct reference to a dear friend who has co-opted some, er, "unconventional" ideas since he moved out here, lest anyone take me seriously). Anyway, as we say in corporate America, I'm straying from my mission statement.

The fact is, I have actually begun to establish the type of "life groove" I lamented losing a few entries back. There is a palpable rhythm to my life beginning to take shape. Between work, the commute, my home life, and my music (I'm recording a CD, hopefully fit for public consumption by summer's end), I haven't engaged in too many wacky adventures lately. At least not California specific anyway.

This phenomenon, actually, is quite interesting to me, this concept of the establishment of a life rhythm. Like, I've been here about 6 months now. I would say that for all relative purposes, I've mastered, I don't know, L.A. within approximately 15-20 mile radius of my home. May not sound like much, but that's a lot. Have I been EVERYWHERE within that radius? Of course not. But I'd say I've represented a high percentage of that area, certainly the things of note. I know all of the big streets. I've been to, or at least passed by, the beach, the O.C., Hollywood, Downtown, Universal City, Ventura County, Santa Barbara, Koreatown, Silver Lake, Simi Valley, Fairfax, Bel Air, Beverly Hills, etc. (If you're really bored, go to map quest and punch all of them in to see the ground I've covered. In other words, I get it. I get the idea of what's doin' around these parts.

A further wrinkle is that in lil' Manhattan Island, where I lived or worked in for I guess 14 years, I could STILL find little nooks that were undiscovered. Places in the city where until that day, you never had cause to be there, so you never happened upon them. None of this is a complaint, mind you. If there's one thing I've learned in life it's that dynamics ALWAYS change.

Now it makes sense...

So, I've been commenting lately on how remarkably conservative I've found SOCAL to be. The war and immigration being the biggest issues I hear about daily. But on one other topic, abortion, I'm perpetually amazed at how MATTER OF FACTly conservative California appears to be. That is to say, the consensus is for Pro-Life. I have no problem with one being pro-life. Personally, my stance would be Pro-Life if at all possible, but hell if I or the courts have the right to say so definitively.

I learned a long time ago, coming from a family of women, that my voice is pretty irrelevant on such matters. I remember one time, my sisters, mother, aunts, talking about breast feeding pros and cons. I cavalierly offered up this gem: "When I get married, I don't think I'll insist that my wife breast feed." They uniformally stopped me in my tracks and said (with their eyes), "Your DAMN right you won't insist on much of anything!" Once I'd scraped myself off the floor, I took to heart the fact that, to paraphrase a New York expression, my opinion on women's rights and $1.50 will get you on the subway.

Anyway, as a Libra, I've always been able to see both sides of things. On this topic especially, how could you not? I certainly understand why someone could see it as "killing," to a degree (albeit, it seems ludicrous to me in the first two tri-mesters), but I also certainly can see how sometimes in life, it's probably best that it's done, either because of health risks, or economic realities. So given that, I've been stunned at how staunch the pro-lifers are out here. And the other day, it finally hit me. It's a melding of a lot of the things I've been talking about out here.

Since I've been here, I haven't seen anything REMOTELY close to say, North Newark, or Camden, though I'm sure some version exists somewhere. Here, I've seen skateboard parks, little league fields, and clean schools. I see two-parent households, WITH nannies to boot. I see crossing guards. I see afterschool activities. I DON'T see drug pushers. I don't see unemployment. I don't see welfare moms. OF COURSE everyone wants these kids to live. Why wouldn't they? Life is eden out here for a child. Conversely, elsewhere in the world, where HARSH realities exist, it's not so easy sometimes. There are economic realities that I think Californians can fail to comprehend because they're generally conceptual to them, more than actual. I guarantee you, the same Californians on the soapbox about pro-life would invoke the same venom they have towards the immigrants, were abortion to be outlawed, and there was an influx of welfare mothers and their kids. "Why are my tax dollars going towards these un-wed mothers and their babies?!?! Haven't they heard of contraception?!?" You get the idea. It's that underlying hypocrisy that chafes me above all else about the pro-lifers. Their agenda should be amended to, "Pro-life so long as I'M not bothered."

No Witty Pun For This One..

One of the bigger ironies I've noticed out here, is that for all of the laid back, mellow folks who don't seem to work but so much, there is a remarkably industrious homeless population. For real. There's no comedic sarcasm behing that statement whatsoever.

In my neighborhood, there is a curiously high number, relative to the relative comfortability of my 'hood. It's not Bel Air, but it's not the wrong side of the tracks either. One certainly would not expect to see a bona fide "population" of homeless. But there they are. And they have clearly carved out a niche of sorts, as it is the same folk daily that you observe.

Unlike New York's homeless, this group does not strike you as potentially dangerous. There are no train tracks to get pushed in front of here, but if there were, I don't think they'd do it. No, the homeless here actually have agendas. There's a tiny, old Mexican woman and her dog. I see her SEVERAL times a day, like clockwork rummaging through the garbage cans of the area. In between her, are several others who make the daily rounds at the same cans. God help them if they come across our kitty/pig litter, but they seem to find recyclables and enough food to get by. Hell, I even saw her help herself to a few flowers in our yard the other day, for wherever she lays down in the evening, she wants it to stay fresh.

Then, on my commute, there's a significant intersection I go through twice a day, maybe 2 minutes off the 405. High volume, long lights, so a couple of savvy homeless have co-opted the intersection as their own. Smart business acumen. High volume = High profits. I see them every day, same signs asking for money in tow, during the evening rush hour. But what freaked me out was, the other day I had to pass by around 1, running an errand, and there they were. My point being, all these folks might be homeless, but they keep regular hours, respecting it like a job almost. The New York homeless stayed in a perpetual stupor, looking for change to stay high or whatever. They'd unabashedly get in your face, and offend or scare you without regard. But out here, whatever their plight, they seem to generally take it as THEIR plight, for better or worse. They do what they can to survive, but basically don't throw it in your face.

Hopefully, this isn't sounding offensive. It's just a different vibe to a particular sub-culture that DOES exist, here, New York, and everywhere.

Come on Down

Bubba and I live a stone's throw from Television City. Probably a 10-minute walk from CBS studios, where all kinds of clap-trap is produced. I don't even know what all goes on there - with one exception: The Price is Right.

Every day on my commute, I go down Fairfax and pass by the studio. And good ol' American icon Bob Barker is about to hang 'em up, come June I believe, so for the last few months, Fairfax Ave. and Beverly Blvd. has been packed with national yokels, looking to "come on down" with Bob. So, what you get is, a sidewalk full of people SLEEPING OVERNIGHT, just for Price is Right tickets. Like it's a line for U2 tickets or something. Hilarious. Sleeping bags, tents, folding chairs, all that good stuff.

I have to say though, unlike a rock and roll show, this crowd seems to be a jovial, very friendly bunch from what I've observed. No cops or velvet ropes needed. Everyone's on their honor. And they all seem to be laughing and carrying on, real pleasant like. It's also filled with (but hardly exclusively) the geriatric set. You can just tell that everyone's from Anytown, U.S.A., and that this will EASILY be the highlight of the R.V. trip to LaLa land. For me, the best part is everyone in their group themed t-shirts, as they make some kind of play to be recognized by the producers. You know, like gaudy colored, raised t-shirts saying something like, "Falls Church Hearts Bob."

When I come home on the days where they've had shows, I see the folks on the sidewalk, sporting the authentic name tags I grew seeing. The Price is Right was particularly an elementary school sick day staple for me. Feign a stomach ache, eat a lil' breakfast, watch Bob and the gals, and settle in for my stories in the afternoon until cartoon time.

I've yet to see anyone visibly euphoric on the streets, like they'd just won BOTH showcase showdowns, but I'm sure they're all satisfied regardless. I wonder to myself, who got to play 'Plinko?' Did they have to play the race game? Or my personal favorite, the little mountain climber dude. Did he appear today, and if so, did he fall over the cliff?

I've heard CBS has the audacity to try and replace Bob when he's gone. What, 35 years isn't enough of a milking that you have to try to squeeze yet another drop out of it? Bob was and is a rock steady solid, national game show icon. A pro's pro, who will be missed.

Woke Up This Mor-nin'...

Back east, for maybe the last 10 years I lived there, I used to schlep (you don't get good Yiddish) out here) out to Joisy every Friday, to continue my guitar studies under the tutelage of my mentor, Rich Fusco. Beyond the hour or so lessons, it became an entire ritual for me. You could literally set your watch by the whole thing. Yellow line subway from Mid-town to Port Authority. Buy a discounted Daily News and Post OUTSIDE P.A., go in and buy a sleeve of fresh popcorn. From there I'd catch the 5:50 Community Coach out of gate 306. (I'd always try to look gnarly and angry so as to improve my chances of sitting alone). Next, it was a ride eerily similar to Tony Sopranos during the opening credits of the Sopranos, 'cept I was seeking higher musical knowledge, he was seeking power and good sausages. Out of the Lincoln Tunnel, with the panorama of all of Manhattan (first with the WTC, then without), through the rancid, chemical belly of North Jersey. From there, the Turnpike to 280, past Kearny, and sometimes, past the Satriales neighborhood if the traffic re-routed us. Then, just like Tony, I'd see the gradual presence of grass and greenery increase. The houses would get a little nicer. Next thing you know, I'm in Livingston, about one turn over from Caldwell, Tony's area. Rich and I would get our guitar on, and leave at 8:46 for South Orange, my original stomping grounds. I'd catch the 9:14 Midtown Direct. NJ Transit was remarkably good on time, so I'd get into Penn Station at 9:46. Walk a few blocks to the Yellow line, and I'd be walking through the door between 10:12 and 10:14 every week. I did this on average I'd say, 35 times a year for 10 years or so. Rinse and repeat.

So why, pray tell, am I rehashing my excercise in tedium for you all, ESPECIALLY when it's not even a CURRENT exercise in tedium? Well, first of all, obviously I am attempting to fortify my stronghold on the title of "World's Squarest Bad Ass Guitarist." But secondly, to ruminate on one of the more subtle aspects of picking up one's life and starting anew. See, I took great comfort in such a refined level of predictability. I loved that I could know that, every Friday at 7:05, I could be found in the same 7-11 in Livingston, buying the same cup of coffee. Or that I'd finish my Su Doku after the Lincoln Tunnel, but before we officially got on the Turnpike. It took YEARS to master that groove, and now I'm back at square one.

This isn't a knock against L.A. Just a reality of moving. I had certain aspects of my life down to a science, beyond just my Friday night junkets. Pick up my newspaper from the same stand every day. Have the short order cooks start fixing my order on sight. Sunday bagel from Ess-a-Bagel. Etc. It just feels wierd now, that's all. Naked, without an established order to my daily life. Some of you reading this are probably like, "Thank GOD he's out of that rut! Listen to that monotony!" Listen, life keeps things interesting whether I'm structured or not. In fact, it's BECAUSE life is never boring, that I cherish those few arenas where I CAN keep it simple.

So now, my life grooves aren't smooth yet. My record is warbly like an LP left out in the sun. You can still make out the song, but it's a little skewed.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

So, I went to my first Dodger game the other night. An old college buddy of mine, Schultzie, brought his wife, sister and progeny down the coast, and treated me to a ticket out at Chavez Ravine to see Barry Bonds and the San Francisco Giants.

I've been to maybe 50 ball games in my life, the vast majority at Yankee Stadium. My experience is that people either love Yankee Stadium, or they hate it. Personally, I always loved the experience. It didn't get any better than 50,000 rabid fans, on a crisp, sunny Saturday, in the House that Ruth Built, caring WAY too much. The pinstripes, the Yankee Franks, the Bleacher Bums, you can't beat it. Others can't stand it. The Bronx, the profanity, the arrogance. I remember a former colleague of mine at Estee Lauder. Originally from Seattle, he was all agog about going to "The Stadium" for the first time. Came in the next day. I said, "How'd you like it?" He said, "That place is a dump!" Coming from Seattle and their modern stadium, he, like many, is of the, "sushi at the ballpark/day care for the kids behind centerfield/baseball as a backdrop" set. So where would L.A. fall?

I live about 9 miles from Dodger Stadium, but it took me about 50 minutes all told, what with traffic and parking. Still, I was there with plenty of time, as my buddy and his clan were held up by traffic all the way up in Santa Barbara. New to the place, on a BEAUTIFUL night, I figured I'd amble around the grounds for a while. But you know what, let me back up a second. Just driving to the ballgame is something I hadn't done in YEARS. NO ONE drives to Yankee Stadium. No one smart, anyway. I lived in midtown, on the east side. I'd walk to the subway, and like 25 minutes and 3 express stops later, I'm there. Door to door. Here, I was treated to the combo platter of rush hour, and ball game traffic. Still, all in all, not bad. Until I got to the parking lot, that is. FIFTEEN smackers later, I parked the car in the lot behind the outfield and started my promenade.

The stadium itself, though one of the older ones, is pretty attractive, I'd say. The back is more or less open, with large palm trees adorning the exterior. It never reains either, so it's always perfect for baseball. It's odd though, in that it feels like it's in the middle of nowhere. By that I mean, most big cities I've ever been in, you can very readily see the stadium from the highways and such. Dodger Stadium though, is in a ravine, like up on a semi-mesa even, and remarkably INconspicuous until you are on the paid grounds.

Next big difference for me was, whilst milling about, who walks by me, but noneother than Paris Hilton. (I swore I wouldn't name drop, but a) people seem to like it, and b) it's pertinent to my story of contrasts.) Seriously, that doesn't happen at Kansas City Royals' games. In New York, it's more likely going to be, I don't know, James Gandolfini. And better still, much to my pleasant surprise, when they confirmed her presence on the Jumbotron, she was mercilessly booed.

A nice little touch for me was when I came across a monitor showing the game, since my friend was late. Who do I hear, but Vin Scully and his buttery smooth, classic broadcaster voice, only THIS time, I'm a part of the action he's painting such a beautiful picture of. He's like the Phil Rizzuto I grew up with, except he makes crystal clear sense.

Once inside, taking in the game itself, a couple of bullet points stuck out. First of all, just like I'd heard, the crowd is fashionably late (read: 2nd or 3rd inning). HOWEVER, I can now cut them a bit more slack on that one, having now seen just how much traffic has to squeeze into such a small amount of road, all during rush hour. They also leave very early, to which there is no excuse. If you don't care about the outcome of the game, don't go in the first place.

New York fans pride themselves on their knowledge of the game. They know when to cheer, when to boo (except with A-Rod), and appreciate the nuances. More than anything, I was floored when in the middle of a close game with their arch rival (this is L.A.'s version of Yanks-Red Sox), with Barry Bonds, the greatest player of my lifetime at the plate, two men on base, the crowd was FIXATED on the beach ball bounding in the stands. That was all I needed to know.

Overall, it was a pretty nice experience. It's a lovely facility. Very civil. Completely family friendly. And like most things out here, completely without edge, which, depending on your tastes, is a good thing or a bad thing.

Right on the Left Coast

In the 4 months I've been doing this blog, I've made it a point not to get political. There's plenty of soapbox forums in the world without me cluttering it further. I've got plenty of opinions, and I'm always a willing sparring partner for a bouncy dialogue, but a preacher I am not. What I WILL comment on though, is the political atmosphere I've observed out here in my new digs.

For some reason, I got it fixed in my head that the whole state was going to be this bastion of liberalism. You know, "If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair," "gliddy glop gloopy," that kind of thing. Nothing but positive, brother-loving "vibes." Wrong. I'm increasingly amazed at how conservative the climate is out here. Chalk it up to my own naivete more than anything. I mean, if I stopped to think about it, the Governator is the Governor for crying out loud, and Ronnie Baby has been all but annointed sainthood here.

Burned out on my jazz cd's, scared to listen to my hip-hop in the wake of the Imus fall out, I've been listening more and more to talk radio during my 45-minute commute. While my personal politics tend to fall on the left side of the fence, I find myself much more drawn to conservative radio. I find their passion, even when I deem it grossly misguided, to be very entertaining. I'd say there are two common themes I hear more than anything else: 1) Staunch support for the war/troops in Iraq, and 2) "It's time to build a Berlin-esque wall or SOMETHING to keep out the Mexicans."

It's the passion behind the border issue I find most fascinating. My minimal experience with the extensive Latino population of L.A. has been, they're the same as everyone else out here. Populous, hard-working, certainly willing to get their hands dirty. I see them working within the restaurants, at the bus stops of Beverly Hills coming and going from their domestic or landscaping jobs, packs of day laborers looking for work every morning, business managers, you name it. The whole spectrum of working capacities, same as any other peoples. Yet I sense such an undercurrent of hostility towards them. I suppose not outwardly in day to day dealings, but when the faceless voices "appear" on the radio, on a repercussionless forum, there's real venom behind some of these callers.

"Get the troops out of Iraq, and onto the Mexican border!" "Forget a wall, the border jumpers should be shot on sight." That kind of stuff. Real vitriol. Just this morning, a prominent radio voice here was talking about the various diseases and such "these people" bring here. There seems to be SUCH resentment and disdain.

There are a host of legitimate issues regarding our immigration policies. I'm personally not a believer in carte blanche, no questions asked citizenship for whomever asks. But while I'm all for immigrants entering the U.S. via proper channels, I don't think SoCal anyway, realizes what would happen to their lifestyles if they got what they wished for, and they all disappeared.

Where's all the groovy cats? Where's all the good vibes? This aspect of my California living is kind of like setting out to go to Woodstock, but ending up with Altamont. You still got a great show with a host of different acts, but instead of Hendrix playing the Star-Spangled banner at dawn to close the show, you got the Hells Angels stabbing someone during the Stones set. Puts a bit of a damper on things, to say the least.

Gone, but not Forgotten

To my "legions," of fans, I know I've been a bit slack lately. I got a new musical toy, and it's taking up most of my free time at the moment. I'm unleashing a couple of years worth of songs that were stuck in my head upon my new 24-track. Anyway, I promise to get back to my irreverant take on L.A. shortly, and in abundance.

Buh

Everyday People

So, I'm halfway through my commute the other morning, stopped at a light. I look over to my right into the driver's side of this big ol' gold, Lexus SUV. I hadn't yet had my coffee, but I'm like, "Is that...? I think...Yes, it's Leeza Gibbons." Was she on her way to "Dancing With the Stars" rehearsal perhaps? Should I offer up some pointers?

Don't worry folks, I'm not gonna tell you all every time I see a celeb out here. The purpose of today's treatise is actually to comment on the relatively mundane phenomenon it is for people to see celebs. It's no big deal to anyone out here, because it's the norm. I've now seen a real who's who in random famous people (my criteria for famous is, if I know who they are and we've never met, then they've clearly attained at least some degree of notoriety.) I've seen Kirstin Dunst, Kyra Sedgewick, Leeza Gibbons, "Crab Man" from "My Name is Earl," one of the lesser guys from "Swingers," and one of the Sklar twins from that "Cheap Seats" show. Throw in Bubba's two-for-Tuesday the other night of Lindsay Lohan and Quincy Jones' daughter from "The Office," and it's a pretty good lot for 4 months.

What's wild is, in all of these instances, it was coming across them in day to day life. The supermarket. The pharmacy. The hair salon. The parking lot. And what's gotta be pretty cool for them is, no one seems to hassle them at all. At least not during the day, away from the clubs. All bets are off if you're currently embroiled in a scandal of course, but out of all of these folks, not one of them was being badgered for pictures, autographs, etc. I gotta tip my hat to L.A. about that. Bodes well for my impending celebrity.

A Fool and His Money...

So, Bubba and I ended up at this lil' house party on Saturday night, in the home of an acquaintance she'd made. More in the name of fulfilling a coerced promise to attend, than any real burning desire to be there, we figured we'd make a token appearance towards the end of the allotted party hours of 4-10. We made our way to the backyard, which was pretty darn cool. There was this whole, zen meditation garden thing happening, that I could very much dig having myself. You know, plant life, stones, little trickly water and whatnot. I could definitely find myself in there.

Anyway, I did not know a soul besides Bubba at this shindig. So, upon seeing the woman who'd been on the bench next to us leave, leaving this gentleman by his lonesome, I figured I'd start some small talk. He was around 50 or so, with this long, tightly braided, thin ponytail. I thought to myself, "if my ponytail looked this chumpy all these years, I've made a grave error in judgement." (for the record, I don't sport the ponytail too often these days. more of a mop-top. but I also say with confidence that when I did/do, it looks a lot better on me than on him.) So I start chatting up this guy. "Where you from? Who do you know here?" etc. After, "what do you do?" he proceded to give us 15 minutes of insane commentary.

In a nutshell, this guy was telling us how his family business, worth about $30 mil or so, was to be divided amongst himself and his two sisters. Seems one sister, systematically took over the company and has acquired all of its net worth, leaving him, his other sister, and his elderly parents, to fend for themselves. This tale blew my circuitry on so many levels, that I could barely speak.

1) Why is this man telling me, a perfect stranger, INTIMATE details of his finances? I mean, specific dollar amounts. "These are my assets. This is what I owe." etc. Is it me, or isn't it completely wrong to offer up this kind of information? It's rude, no? I don't like to tell people my rent, simply because it's none of their business, let alone, how much his father takes home annually from Social Security (which he did).

2) This whole business culminated like 2 months ago. This wound is FRESH. Yet he was unbeliveably calm about it all. More than that, he's not even angry at his sister the thief, and he's pretty much ceased fighting it. Bubba and I kept looking at each other, half outraged, half trying to keep from laughing in this guy's face. "What would you do Bubba?" "I don't know. SOMETHING." "What would you do Scott?" "I don't know. SOMETHING." This dude was like Homer Simpson. "Yeah, but what are you gonna do? Can't fight city hall."

3) The last offensive nugget was that he was mulling over the prospect of actually, potenitally having to get a JOB after all of this. You could tell that this was really troubling, and completely foreign a proposition to this guy. First he's gonna sell everything he's got. Basically, anything to avoid actual toil. As such, he deserves to lose his money.

So what did I learn from all of this? This is what happens when kids have to wear helmets when they bike ride. (I keep bringing this up because this coddling phenomenon keeps happening, and I've had a lot of contrasting commentary on my observations). Calamity hit this guy, and he's like Chauncey Gardner, the Peter Sellers character in "Being There." He's clueless about the real world. If he understood the real world at all, he'd be going Tony Soprano on his sister about now. Lastly, I'm telling you, I'm all for this California peace thing, mellowing out, be in the now, acceptance of what is and all. But at some point, a line gets crossed between a surrender to the river of life, and being rendered an impotent dormat. If I ever get as "peaceful" as this guy, someone please do me a favor and fit me with a pair of cement shoes. For MY own good.

All Bark, No Bite

So, nearly 4 months in, and only last week did I really take my first legit foray into the Hollywood night life. Despite outward appearances, I'm actually one of the squarer, bad-ass guitar players you'll ever come by. Don't let the long hair fool you. I tend to get my kicks osmotically and observationally.

Anyway, Shawn, Holly's husband, has a band (Daughter's of Mara) that is about to make its major label record debut, so in preparation, they're doing a few shows around town to start up the buzz. Gotta support the brethren, and since it was in W. Hollywood, at a civil hour (9:30), I figured this would be a good show to hit. Shawn's music is, er, how would you say, "aggressive" to put it mildly. And since Bubba is the Queen of 70's "wuss" rock, I figured I'd best fly solo on this one. She agreed.

So, as luck would have it, the show was at the infamous Viper Room. For the uninformed, the Viper Room is a notorious Sunset Strip rock and roll club, maybe a block from the Whiskey, and smack dab in the middle of bumpin' Sunset. Before I get into the Viper Room proper, a few comments on Sunset. I don't know if I just watched a few too many Guns 'n Roses videos as a kid or something, but my preconceived notion was that Sunset would be like Times Square (circa the 1980's) west. You know, real seemy and treacherous. Strip clubs, dive bars, trouble on every corner. Well, there ARE bars, strip clubs, etc., but it's not seemy at all. In FACT, it's downright, borderline chi-chi. Put it this way, most of these places have valet parking. I don't recall CBGB's offering that service back in the day. This isn't a complaint, just an observation.

So, I park my car, or, "Jeeves" parked my car more appropriately, and I made my way to the door of the club. Much to my surprise, it had a velvet rope. Been a while since I'd suffered that humiliation. Ah, the good old days. So the doorman is gnarly enough looking I guess. Spiked hair, some combination of tatts and piercings, requisite black clothes of some form or other. He just lacked the imposing air I would've anticipated. I want my doormen/bouncers coming in at like, 6'6 250, and looking like they just got out of the joint, and they were given the job because they stopped the club owner from getting shanked last year. I want to feel a sense of accomplishment when I get past a doorman. Like I just looked the devil in the eye, and he blinked first. Alas, this chap checked my name for his list, gave me the hi sign, told me to enjoy the show, and off I went.

The Viper Room is a club that used to be owned by Johnny Depp until 2004 I believe. It's also known for being the place where River Phoenix od'ed. So what do I do first, but go check out the bathroom. Not because I had to go, but because of the cache surrounding it. Is it wrong that I took a picture to show Bubba? "Hey Bubbs, over here is where he must've been slumped over?" Well, to paraphrase the song, "If takin' pictures of bathrooms where junkie celebrities died is wrong, I don't WANNA be right!" Anyway, I was stunned at how nice the club was. An actual decor, mood lighting, a nice elevated stage, proper sound and lights. Plus, the bartender looked EXACTLY like Fidel Castro, with thick beard and all, so that was neat. The crowd was civil. Enthusiastic, but not unrully. They even had a few mugs circulating about to make sure folks stayed in line. Turns out, I was one of the troublemakers, because I tried to take a picture without express written consent or something, and the guy made me put it away.

There was not an ounce of danger to this place. Not one. My shoes didn't stick to the floor. When I bumped into someone, he DIDN'T crack his empty on the bar to slash me with it. He excused himself. The show was slated to start at 9:30. It started at 9:30. Somewhere, Axl Rose is turning over in his rock and roll grave (HE's not dead, but his career, and more importantly, his hell raising ways apparently are).

Has the whole world been gentrified? Again, I'm no Hell's Angel. BUT, here's the thing. IF I go out to a rock and roll club for a show, I WANT there to be the dangerous rock and roll element. I don't crave that often at this point in my life, but if ever I want it, that's where it SHOULD exist. I mean, 90% of that crowd had piercings and tattoos. When I was a kid, I remember very vividly seeing someone with a spiked mohawk for the first time. It was petrifying. I sized up these kids at the club, and I just laughed to myself. I felt like I could kick the ass of the entire room. Mind you, this was a METAL show. This was not Coldplay. This was METAL.

When my mom and I talk about pro football, she'll always side with the team from the colder climate. "They're cold and angry. Those sunshine teams are too happy and soft." That's what it is. All this sunshine out here must just sap the hostility right out of you. Not just football teams. Everyone.

Social Studies

So, almost 4 months into my new life now, I think I can safely make a few sweeping generalizations and pigeon-hole this entire population of double-digit millions. I was joking when I said that, but kidding aside, I actually, genuinely believe there IS one remarkably common trait they share out here, and it's in stark contrast to my New York City experience. Namely, WHEN I have interaction with people out here, 9 times out of 10, if not more, it's been positive. Ahhh, but here's the rub: Unless there's a REASON to talk to you, it's VERY rare that strangers will engage you.

Historically speaking, I have what people have considered to be a "kind" face. Big cheeks, freckles, non-threatening, and I smile a lot. (Either that, or I look like a sucker. Too close to call really). For whatever reason, people of all walks have always felt compelled to talk to me. Deli guys, cabbies, homeless, doormen, in elevators, sitting in the park, you name it. Fine by me really. I like to talk. I like to listen too. Out here though, it just doesn't happen. Again, when I do interact with folks, it's fine. Very pleasant. But they just don't engage you out here.

I've only seen one person really kick it New York style. There's a diner I go to from time to time for lunch. There's a woman I see there more often than not. She's beyond being a "regular." You can tell she straps in for the long haul when she's there, like it's the days' event. She brings her crosswords, and even though I get my order to go, she only takes about two bites the entire time I'm there. Meanwhile, she'll engage ANYONE within earshot, about anything. The ol' gal is just lonely really, which isn't the biggest crime in the world. Anyway, an old episode of "Lucy" was on the other day. Lil' Ricky was playing the babaloo on the drums, and she asked whomever, "Is he playing those things?" Undeterred at the initial silent response, she persisted. "Is that him playing? Do you know if that was over-dubbed? He sure looks like he's really playing!" Finally, knowing that my to go order was safely ready to go, I jumped on the grenade and said, "Yes, he's really playing," then bolted like a gunshot, lest she consider the bait taken and she come back with a follow-up conversation starter about the genius of Fred Mertz or something. In New York, she represents "business as usual." But out here, she looks THAT much more loco, because NO ONE engages strangers. I'm telling you.

Similarly, I love my neighborhood, but it's the same thing. In my building, there are three other units. None of my neighbors explicitly introduced themselves upon our moving in. (Hannah, the 87 year old, gets a pass though). When I DID meet them, nothing but pleasant. But one of them, I only met for the first time 2 weeks ago! (The exception to all of this, of course, is when we are walking Orville down the street).

Maybe I'm using revisionist history here? Maybe I'm waxing nostalgic for something that actually didn't exist? It's not like my New York neighbors and I were always "kickin' it." Still, I remember time after time, coming home and saying, "Bubba, you should've heard this conversation I just had." It's like, people care too MUCH about your business in New York, and could care LESS about your business out here. I don't know which I prefer honestly. I think for me, I like to be in the PRESENCE of busybodies and loose cannons to observe, with an OPTION to engage, if that makes any sense.

Mr. Pig Stuff

All right. I've put it off long enough. The shock that there's a pig roaming my house as I speak has ALMOST worn off, at least enough for me to begin regaling the inquiring masses as to what cohabitation with a pig is like. As much as I'd like to think otherwise, I think my legion of fans is more interested in the pig's life than mine.

So, what have I learned thus far? Well, I've learned that everything is a snack if you look at it right. (Bubba and I have even fashioned that into a song we sing to Orville when he's on the food warpath). Dry pig food? Of course. 'Mato? Sure. Crabapples? Mmmhmm. Cat food? Forbidden fruit. But it doesn't stop there, see. Phone books? Delicious. Mail? Heavenly. X-Box games? Crunchy. You get the idea. But here's the kicker, apparently, where it DOES stop is with....drumroll please............carrots. We'd been giving him these little cherry tomatoes, which he ravaged. Great, but a little pricey. So we figure, let's get him going with carrots. Crunchy, cheap, non-fattening. Perfect. Except the sonofabitch doesn't like them. He begrudgingly ate them once, then decided, "no thanks." I said, "Bubba, is this some kind of a sick pig joke? Wasn't he eating his own litter just last week? Didn't he just get finished trying to eat my bare feet like they were Vienna sausages? And now he has STANDARDS?!? Now he's a gourmand?!?! Unbelievable.

I have to reiterate, we should all be as passionate about SOMETHING in life as Orville is towards food. He literally smacks his lips CONSTANTLY. It's a Chinese water torture sometimes. And when there's no food afoot, he improvises on paper or whatever else is handy, as though he needs to keep his chops up (pun intended) or something. And when there's no paper, he literally, chews the air. Like, just in case some food happens by his mouth, he doesn't want to take any chances about missing it.

We have a mild-mannered cat in the house, Jack Sprat. I'm happy to say that those two have been able to tolerate each other just fine, and in fact, are now beginning to engage in some traditional "cat and pig" style rough house. Still, Jack-o will assert his position as the incumbent once in a while. Like, the other day, he very brazenly decided to use Orville's litter box, right smack in front of him. As if to say, "Yeah, I see you looking at me. So what? What'chu gonna do about it? Lest you forget who is the H.C.I.C. around here, beeyatch!" What's also funny is the two clear factions in my house now. Jack is just like his dad. Laid back in the cut, quiet, low maintenance. Orville, is just like his momma. Strong-willed, determined, feisty, and both want what they want, when they want it.

Lastly for now, one plus to having the Big O around is that he's indirectly contributed to my losing around 10 lbs. since I've been out here. See, he spends his time going back and forth between the kitchen and the living room. And if there is ANY kitchen activity brewing, he makes sure he's present so he can get a piece of the action. As such, I have to think twice now before I venture to the fridge. "Do I REALLY want to make a grilled cheese samich, at the expense of having my toes nibbled on for the next 10 minutes?" Plus, I have to say, my pork consumption is down considerably, so I guess he's really paying dividends to my health. Now, if he could just stop tempting me by standing by that fire...

Not too Shabby

Most people review movies, I apparently review movie THEATERS. Didn't set out to, but being in Tinseltown, where they do movies right, I can't help but comment because the theaters have been no joke so far.

On Saturday, Bubba and I were fixin' to go to the movies. The pickin's themselves were fairly slim (I can't justify plopping down $30 on "Road Hogs" or whatever it's called), but we were able to come up with "Pan's Labyrinth" since we'd heard great things about it (the great things were wrong, by the way). It was playing at the Arclight at 8 o'clock, which to me simply meant, "it's playing at 8 at some movie theater about 10 minutes from here on Sunset, that happens to be called Arclight." Our biggest concern was, "I hope the 'pops' are better than that last place we went to."

Well, we roll up on the Arclight Theater, and even as we're parking the car, I still don't know what we're getting into. I see a multi-level parking lot, much like you'd see at any mall. We park the car, and go into the middle of this complex. Wow. Just gargantuan. This mall size area, was like, 90% movie theater, with a smattering of other shops. It being Saturday night and all, it was an absolute madhouse. I see in the distance these automated ticket kiosks, and the lines are like 8 deep on the 6 machines. (You know you live in California when the theater can so confidently put the kiosks outside, completely uncovered, with complete confidence). We wait on line, and it's finally our turn. I go through the rigamarole, and then, out of nowhere, a seating chart comes on the screen, and I've got to now CHOOSE our seats. What the?!? On the one hand, pretty neat. On the other hand, we were 35 minutes early, but because everyone knows they can do their seats early, all of the good seats are taken, even though most of the crowd isn't strolling in until 7:59. Fortunately for us, we (read: Bubba) love to sit real close, so we snag a close pair of seats on the aisle. It should be noted however, that these seats also cost $14 per. So I'm already in for $30, plus parking, and I haven't even had a kernel of popcorn yet. My boy Z told me it's cheaper during the week though.

Tickets secured, we make our way into the theater lobby. It looks like a reception at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. For real. Huge open space, fresh art works on the walls, an upscale little boutique gift shop, selling all kinds of things (body creme for instance) that have nothing to do with movies. Furthermore, it sounds like a cocktail party, with all of the chit chat. Very social scene. I actually saw human ticket sellers inside, though they probably call them something more exotic, like "brokers," or something. There is also a cafe/bar, where people convene, probably often independent of even seeing movies. Check out this menu. http://www.arclightcinemas.com/(dzca3e45s0l0gnractstgwfr)/arclight/cafe_bar_menu.html
I don't recall anything like this back at Essex Green Tri-Plex in West Orange, NJ.

So, we make our way to the concession stand upstairs. This too, was like 8 deep. In addition to the usual movie fare, I see a few bizarre, exotic options on the "menu." My memory is annoyingly failing me right now, but it was something akin to like, "a lobster salad panini." Something really involved. Not my speed, but what IS my speed is, the popcorn offered the option of REAL butter. Simply put, best popcorn I've had at the movies, maybe ever.

We find "our" seats, pops in hand, and again, all of the people with the dope seats came RIGHT before the movie started, because they could. So basically, if you were observing from above, you'd have seen this ring of people slowly enveloping the prime middle seats, like a virus. The previews are about to start, and this usher comes out like he's one part steward, one part curator, to tell us what we're about to "experience." He offers that he and his "colleagues" will be popping in and out, making sure everything is hunky dory. A far cry from my days as a ticket monkey, where we ushers shared a disdain with the patrons that they felt right back at us. We offered to ignore the patrons if they'd ignore us.

Much like the Chinese theater, this one was equipped with great seats, completely unobstructed views, a booming sound system, and a huge screen. Apparently, they have an additional theater, known simply as, "The Dome" that defies cinematic description. Like, this is where you go to be blown away by a great sci-film or something. http://www.arclightcinemas.com/Arclight/dome.html?path=about

I have to say, it's pretty neat living in the movie capital of the world. Rare was the opportunity back east to see a movie as it was intended to be seen. More often than not, it was like watching our big screen t.v. at home, except with strangers. Here, great theaters are the norm. Now, the studios need to pay as much attention to the filmmaking as the theaters seem to be paying to the film halls. The prices were not so hot, but at least I can see what the money is going towards. Overall though, the Arclight represents a pretty unique movie-going experience.