Sick-O

So Bubba and I had a really bad scare last week with our boy Orville. All was right with the world, and we set out for a few hours to get a little shopping done. We come home and as per his strict schedule, it's time for the big O's afternoon carrots. The carrot feeding tends to be a bigger production than some of his other feedings, as they are the perfect size for Bubba to feed him by hand, one at a time. As such, she can have him do all kinds of tricks to earn his "bacon" as it were. Shaking of the hands (hooves), the 360 turnaround, and Bubba's favorite, the Carrots for Kisses exchange.

So Bubba gears up for a round of pig action, when much to our surprise, Orville won't eat. He just beaches himself on the couch like Homer Simpson. Well, it didn't take much for us to realize, "Sumpin' ain't right." Orville has NEVER been gastronomically sated in the two years we've had him. Never. Now, nothing. Clearly he's ill. Now it becomes a mad scramble to see who will see our boy on short notice. Can't just call any old vet, since he's a pig and all. Plus, we were after hours by then, so we were really screwed. Finally, we find a travelling vet, but he can't make it until the morning.

Orville is an eating ma-CHINE. "Hoover" we call him, given his penchant for snorting up anything and everything off of the floor. So, while we don't know what specifically, clearly he ate something he shouldn't have. And so the waiting started. Alls we could do was wait it out with him until the morning when the vet would get there.

The Animal Poison Control (Yes, there's one just for animals) said we should try to give him some Gatorade. Poor little man, it was all he could do just snout over the bowl and lap it up off the floor, he was so ill. We tried to give him some peanuts, but he couldn't eat more than like 3. I took a picture because much like Halley's comet, we're not gonna see THAT again the rest of his life: a pig refusing food.

We decided to sleep with him in the living room, keeping him warm, and making sure his vitals didn't drop or anything. Around 4 in the morning or so, I hear Orville start smacking his lips, even more than usual. Next thing I know, he's puking his lil' pig guts out. Not pleasant for sure, but I was happy to see it, as his body was getting rid of whatever he ate that old "Iron Belly" couldn't process.

A few more unpleasant episodes later, it was now morning, and he was starting to come around when the vet came. (They literally squeezed us in before going off to the Cyrus household, as in, Miley and Billy Ray). Folks I have to tell you, this guy was AWESOME. He and his partner came in, and weren't inside more than 2 minutes before they had him on his back, essentially hog-tied, to check him out. As pigs do, Orville screamed his ear-curdling scream like a baby the entire 30-minutes they were there, and the guys didn't even flinch. They checked him out, gave him his shots, trimmed his hooves, AND cut his tusks. (Quick aside: We now know that pig tusks grow in the mouth, not outside like we had wrongly assumed. We thought his tusks were just these two bad-ass snaggle-teeth that he had, that were sticking out the sides of his mouth like daggers).

So at the end of the day, Orville got a clean bill of health, and he's back to his gluttonous ways. He clocked in at a very respectable 50 lbs., not too heavy, but not so skinny that he's being denied his rights as a pig. The only casualty of the affair was that we had to postone this years birthday "feast," as we want to let his belly settle down a bit.

The Path To Comedic Enlightenment

So, I'm not a comedian by any stretch of the imagination, though I DO crack myself up pretty contstantly. That aside, having taken a few laps around the block known as life by now, I've learned that if I WERE a comedian, there are certain places I'd go in life for all of my source material. I'm talking about places that are inherently hilarious before anyone has even said a word. If I were a stand-up, I'd just go to these places with a notepad, and park myself for hours. What are such places? The track. Guitar shops. Comic book stores. Casinos. There's pletnty of others, but that gives you an idea. Just comedy gold.
Why do I bring this up? Because there's another here in Hollywood that totally fits the bill. Namely, the Bodhi Tree. Now, before I procede, let me preface this by saying that just because I'm going to lampoon it, does not mean it's without its merits, as I'd say about all of the others as well (except for maybe the track). My better half, Bubba, is a very spiritual person. She's big on energy, dimensions, and other things that she has opened my eyes to over the years. (For example, the first time we met, she read my energy, and told me my life story 5 minutes later, better than I knew it myself). As such, she hit upon the Bodhi Tree as a sort of one stop shopping for all of her spiritual needs. Crystals, books, incense, lotions, potions and the like. Being the good hubby I aspire to be, I've often gone along with her as the Robin to her celestial Batman.
We hadn't gone for a while, and recently returned. Having learned it's better for me to stay out of the way (much as she would return the favor at a guitar store), I took the opportunity to peruse the offerings and catch up on what's going on spiritually in the world. Again, I know enough to know I don't know too much, and that who am I to say what's legit or not in this world. Simulataneously, one also has to keep perspective in life, and appreciate the comedy in things as well. A few things I noticed: Apparently based on the autographed pictures on the wall (much like how you'd see autographed head shots at your favorite diner), to be a spiritually enlightened man, a prerequisite is a ZZ Top-esque beard. I can't even grow a full mustache, let alone a beard, so I feel like from jump street, the best I can aspire towards is, I don't know, purgatory? Limbo?
I made my way to the magazine rack, where I could've gotten lost for days. You wouldn't believe the array of topics for which folks have taken the time to properly chronicle the cutting edge information. I'm paraphrasing the exact titles, but the topics were all legitimately there. You had Bellydancing Monthly; The Real Encounters With UFO's Times; How to Turn Your Household Waste Into Organic Foodstuffs; and my personal favorite, something like Wiccan Life. The genius of that one was that it was all these witch related topics, but presented with a light airyness you'd find in like, Good Housekeeping. "Read about this summer's freshest new spells!" "How to make your coven stand out!" "10 Surefire tips to keep your warlock under your spell!" Just when I thought my head was about to explode, I noticed that somehow, immersed like 2 magazines down, was Highlights magazine. Highlights magazine?!? I used to read that saccarin magazine when I was like 6, in my Dentist's waiting room. How did that magazine possibly end up in this mix?
I headed towards the actual books for sale, and was completely overwhelmed. How can there be so many different paths to enlightenment? Which of the 25 diet books truly knows correctly which bland food will cure my achy joints? I'm serious. Coming in as a relative spiritual novice, how could I possibly be expected to navigate this terrain, were I looking for outside guidance on taking my soul to a higher level? Fortunately for me, my Bubba's done much of the leg work, so I'm covered.

On WIth the Show, This is it

So, Monday night, I went to my first sort of, movie premiere, in the form of my boy Z, AKA, Issac Bright, AKA, The Verbal Warrior, unveiling, or should I say, unLEASHING his new one man show on the unsuspecting masses. While there weren't flood lights bounding through the skies of Hollywood, or papparazzi, or a red carpet, it was nonetheless, kind of neat, seeing my boys' name up on the marquee. Z was shrewd enough to rent out this really cool theater around the corner from me on Fairfax. I'd driven by it countless times. It regularly shows old silent movies, and seems to have a decent sized regualr clientele for their Charlie Chaplin and Lilian Gish flicks.

Anyway, so Bubba and I get there right on time, and make our way inside. The theater looked like it held maybe 100-120 people, and included plush chairs, complete with small throw pillows on each one, as well as two rows up front of leather couches for proper, living room style lounging. So much so that this one jackass apparently really did think he was at home, as he fired up cigarette after cigarette. Maybe it was a less than subtle homage to Max Cady in "Cape Fear," minus the raucous, obnoxious laughter?

Before the show started, I mingled with some good folks I knew, ALL of whom were East Coast transplants. It seems true what they say, that no one in L.A. is actually FROM L.A. I got to see three different people, none of whom I'd seen in probably 10 years. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I'll refrain from an actual movie review, leaving that to the good folks at Variety and such. Suffice to say, the performance was "different" and "unusual." Put that on the poster.

Focal Point of Blah

So, I haven't been particularly in the frame of mind to blog much of late, as I've been a tad funky for a little while. Maybe if I grease the wheels of creativity a bit, the flow will increase and I'll be able to up the productivity a little.
Recently, I had a unique experience. Well, not so much that what happened was so extraordinary, but it was new for me. See, a friend of mine from back east was in town, and really for the first time, I was in the position of being an L.A. "host," in the sense of, "I'm the guy who now lives in L.A. so I'll be able to show a newbie the ropes. I've had visitors since I've been here, (my sister Bef, my sister in law Jenny, and the Felz), but none in a while, and I would say that I was more the defacto host then, as opposed to now, when I'm more of a veteran of the L.A. process. And that feels wierd to me, the fact that I've been here long enough to be a "veteran."
Anyway, I've learned since I've been here that location wise, it was a remarkable throw of the darts at the board as to exactly where we ended up. We really are smack dab in the middle of it all, though I didn't know it when we flew out here on a whirlwind tour to find an apartment in 4 days in October '06. We knew we wanted to be in Hollywood, but didn't know just how centralized it actually is. So when my man came out I was like, "where are you staying?" "Over near Griffith Park." "Cool. That's a stone's throw from me. What would you like to do?" "I want to check out the shopping on Melrose." "Cool. That's walking distance from me." The Sunset Strip? Walking distance. The beach? 30 minutes by car. Etc.
We ended up taking a little tour of the Sunset Strip (which he was largely unimpressed by), before doing a little window shopping on Melrose. Once on Melrose, Oren reiterated what I'd already suspected. Namely, that for all the hipness and trendiness aspired to in the shops, it's remarakably homogenized. Like, all of the designers are trying to be so unique and different, yet they all look the same (think Ed Hardy). I've yet to properly verbally quantify the style, but there is this one underlying line of thought, shared by all of the "radical" designers. And all the hep cats sport the same accessories in the form of the haircuts, rings, jewelry, and tats. So much so that I feel like I'M the radical because I'm tattoo-less, sport no products in my hair, and really no accessories at all.

LAPD Blue

So, last Friday, I'm on my 5-mile walk route, same as any other every other day. These days, although we've had a mild summer, I still prefer to do my walking at dusk, so it's not too hot, not too cold. Anyway, last Friday's walk was completely uneventful and non-descript at first. However, about 10 minutes after reaching the halfway point and turning around, although ears deep in Public Enemy, I nonetheless spotted some type of goings on up ahead. Namely, the westbound side of Santa Monica was all of a sudden shut down, but more curiously, I see several blocks worth of pedestrians all standing still, facing forward in the same direction, like it was a crowd scene for a Jerry Bruckheimer film, or one of those Verizon, "Can you hear me now?" spots. Begrudingly, I temporarily interrupt, "She Watch Channel Zero," so as to see what was up.
Much to my surprise, I see some sort of police stand-off outside of the Starbucks. As I got within a block or two, I hear the female police officer over the loudspeaker saying, "Come out of the Starbucks single file, with your hands on your head, and turn left." My first instinct was, "Huzzah! The Starbucks set is finally getting their comeuppance for years of spending $5.00 on a friggin' cup of coffee." (give me the 75-cent, street vendor variety any day of the week. black.) Then I realized there was an actual situation afoot. As I got closer, (gotta keep the heart rate up, standoff or no standoff), I actually saw several officers outside the store in like, SWAT team postition, guns pointed directly at the store.
By now it sort of dawned on me that, hmm, maybe I should probably skeddadle, in case things go awry. A strong police presence is one thing, but kill weapons out of their holsters is another. Plus, I think that the local constible's were a little extra gung-ho, since they don't get too much heavy action in WeHo, lessen' you count public drunkenness, solicitiation, or subduing Andy Dick as heavy action. Last thing I saw, some tall stringbean was getting cuffed and stuffed, and all of a sudden, I felt safer, knowing this double-latte fiend was now off the streets.

Spuds McOrville

So, last Friday, Bubba and I were taking Orville out for his evening constitutional. We like to go at night, after the throngs have disappeared, so O can graze in peace, without other dogs sizing him up, and inhibiting his fun. Orville, ever the fashion plate, has pulled a Beckham for the summer, deciding that short is in. He gave himself a self-styled buzz cut, and is looking mighty sleek and lean these days. I say this because in the course of our promenade, Orville and his new look caught the eye of a photog. A block from the park, we came upon a house party that was spilling into the front yard. As per usual, a gaggle of folks just had to come over and say hi to the Big O.
Whilst working the crowd, this photographer comes up and is like, "Hey, I'm doing a story for Maxim magazine on a wild Hollywood party. Problem is, this party isn't very wild. Might we entice your pig into the party to sort of liven it up?" Bubba and I weren't initially too keen on this actually. I don't know if you know this, but pigs are bigger chickens than chickens. We said to the guy, "Well, if Orville feels comfortable, then we'll let you do it, but if he's scared at all, that's it." So, start to get Orville up the house steps, and he starts to freak. Did NOT want to go inside to put it mildly. So were like, "Sorry. No go." Undaunted, the photographer said, "Well let's just take some pictures outside." So we did. A few candids of Orville "partying down." They didn't try to put a beer bong in his mouth, or a lampshade on his head or anything. Really, it was just Orville being Orville.
So when you pick up your copy of Maxim in an issue or two, and I KNOW you do, you may just see Orville and me, "whooping it up" amongst the young, hip Hollywood set. I don't know if we'll make it or not, but I'm telling you, the kid's got star written all over him.

Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On

So, last week, I had a truly authentic L.A. experience in the form of my first earthquake. As you may have heard, we had about a 5.4 out here. I have to say, it's a pretty surreal experience. Bubba and I were in the bedroom talking, she on the bed, I on a chair. All of a sudden, the whole room just starts to shake and sway. We identified that it was an earthquake probably in about 2 seconds, so we didn't panic. But I tell you, it was a LONG 15 seconds. One is really in "the now" during an earthquake. It's long because you don't know what all is going to happen next. Will it increase? Is stuff gonna start flying off the shelves?

The epicenter of this bad boy was about 30-40 miles from us, so really, it wasn't even a 5.4 to us. The locals have all said to me, "that was nothing." Ok. I believe them. It's a little scary to consider. I mean, our house has been here for some time. The old gal upstairs lived through 45 years of quakes in that apt., so it shouldn't ever be too bad. But where it gets scary is, what if you're in a parking garage somewhere? Or up in the hills?
So, while Bubba and I didn't panic, we DID show our New York colors in the sense that, we completely ignored earthquake protocol. They say you're supposed to stand in a doorway. We didn't budge. If the big one ever hits, I'd be curious if I'd have the awareness to do that. I'm also curious to know if our boy Orville is one of them, prophesizing types of animal. You know how they're always saying on the nature shows that the animals know when bad stuff is coming? It would've been cool if Orville were in the room with us, to see if he was twitching or something.
So anyway, it seems to me that no matter where you live, there's always something that COULD take you out. Tornado, hurricane, earthquake, mudslide, etc. As such, I gotta live my life without fear, 'cause it's all bigger than me anyway.

Walk a Mile in my Shoes - Part Deux

So, I haven't had any new, profound L.A. experiences to chronicle of late. But what I can do, is revisit a topic from before, with a deeper understanding of the dynamics in play. I started exercise walking around January or so (I've lost over 20 lbs. I might add!) Ordinarily, I take the same route, heading West down Santa Monica Blvd. towards Beverly Hills, usually culminating in my reaching the border. So, you walk it 3-4 times a week for 6-7 months, you pick up a few things about humanity, and specifically, West Hollywood humanity. I've grown comfortable with this route. I have specific landmarks I can use that are good points of accoplishment. Plus, if I go east on Santa Monica, it gets dingy and more "wrong-side-of-the-tracks-y." And, it's always interesting.
A half mile in, I pass Fairfax Ave. This is basically the line of separation between Russian W. Hollywood, and predominantly gay W. Hollywood. Cross that street and all of a sudden, there's an abundance of clearly gay establishments. (this is where the Gay Pride parade runs, for example). Gay gyms. Gay bars, like "Trunks." Gay clothing stores, where I'm inundated with things like, cut male torso mannequins, advertising the skimpiest of male thongs and such. And there's also a lot of restaurants featuring outdoor, patio seating, that aren't necessarily gay, per se, but are dominated by a gay crowd. I'm not passing judgement, it's simply what is. So, one thing I find somewhat hilarious is when I see obvious tourists from middle America, knee deep in the festivities. I have to ask myself the motivation, and it boils down to, either some Nebraskan couple's wanting to "take a walk on the wild side," or, an overall cluelessness as to what's going on around them. I suppose it's conceivable that someone heard that the chicken sandwich at some otherwise forgettable restaurant is stellar, but I doubt that's the norm. Regardless, both scenarios make me chuckle. Maybe it's just me, but seeing some good old boy from the midwest, baseball cap in effect, whooping it up with his girlfriend at one of these bars just kills me.
I am prone to people watching during my walk. There's a lot of characters to observe, as well as a lot of eye candy. I mean, this IS Hollywood. But when the lights go down, things get a little funny. See, there's also a lot of queens in W. Hollywood. And after sunset, one's gotta be really careful. There's a legitimate danger of seeing someone approaching in the distance, thinking, "she looks nice," only to notice, (in my best Austin Powers voice), "that's a man, baby!" That's never fun. You can at least begin to see how Eddie Murphy got in trouble a few years back.
Closer to Beverly Hills, there's a few upscale restaurants like Dan Tana's, a steakhouse I see on TMZ a lot. Lots of beautiful people, valet parking and velvet ropes. Lots of movers and shakers, and one sweaty walker shouting Public Enemy lyrics from under his headphones. Anyway, I'm walking by recently, and I see these three young dandies putzing around on the curb, waiting for daddy to pull up in the Range Rover. Alls I could think of, as I saw these three Brody Jenner looking types was, "it's just a matter of time before these kids finish their metamorphasis into full-blown, Hollywood p*cks, living their entitled lives to the fullest, and making everyone around them miserable." Terrible. Terrible that that's how I feel, and terrible because it's probably true.
I do enjoy my walks though. Immensely. I'm always a fan of observing the human condition, good, bad, interesting, ALWAYS hilarious. It's completely just as reasonable for any of the lot I've described to have a chuckle at my disposal over there dinner. "Who's this putz walking up the street doing air-turntables with his hands? He thinks he's all that with his Hendrix t-shirt with the cut-off sleves."

"Ooh my arm...

...I think it's broken!" Anyone who's ever seen "Caddyshack," surely recognizes those words as the handy work of Rodney Dangerfield as "Al Czervik." Getting thrashed by Judge Smails and Dr. Beeper in their $40,000 golf game, Rodney tries to parlay a benign tap on his arm by a golf ball into a full-blown fracture, to try and welch out of the bet. Thinking on his feet, he frantically starts waving his arm all around to "prove" that it's broken.

Why this cinematic trip down memory lane? Because this week, young Orville has been doing his best Czervik around the house. O's hooves have been getting long, so we've set out on the WEEKS long process of trimming them. You can literally only do one snip at a time. So the other day, Bubba takes her first stab at hoof #1, the front left hoof. She's able to get a section maybe just short of a centimeter. Seemed fine enough, until a minute later, we see blood coming out. Upon closer inspection, we've found that despite appearances, the actual flesh of the hoof goes WELL into the nail, right up to the edge.

We spent a good hour trying to clean him, and bandage him up. I don't know if you know this, but it's deceptively hard to keep a pig still long enough for a cut to clot. Food is the key to pretty much everything, so, while Orville remained completely unflustered, he nonetheless was treated to a bonzanza of snacks, while we tried to keep him immobile. We'd stuff his mouth full of tomato while we tried to clean and bandage his hoof.

Well, Orville's no fool. He managed to put 2 and 2 together in his pig mind overnight. Come the next day, we wake up and Orville's gimping around like he's been shot. Just like Rodney. "Ooh my hoof! I think it's broken!" Just to be an even better showman, he threw in this wrinkle. Bubba recently taught him to shake hands. It's really precious actually. He'll raise his front left hoof (the one we happened to hurt), and hold it as long as possible. So now, to play up the pity, (because pity = snacks), Orville has been gimping across the room, and "desperately" raising his hoof as an offering of gratitude towards his saviors. He does it with the desperation of Willem Dafoe in "Platoon," having just been shot by his own men, and being left for dead. We load him up with 'mato's or carrots for our baby boy. He gets his grub on, then skips back to his bed or the couch in full stride. Then, his gimp "miraculously" appears about 30 minutes later, when he's hungry again. Genius.

Picture Us Coolin' Out on the Fourth of July...

...and if you heard we was celebratin', that's a worldwide lie.

Actually it's not. That's just a little Public Enemy reference. I couldn't think of anything else to reference July 4th with. Anyway, Bubba and I had an interesting, fun Independence Day. We were slated to hang with Big Saul, and old friend of Bubba's, fresh back in town. His apartment complex was having a pool party/bbq jam, so we figured we'd head on up and cook up some grub. As such, I headed on out to the Whole Foods to pick up some eats. Whilst roaming the aisles amongst the young and beautiful set, who do I see at the butcher next to me but Zach Braff. Now, relatively speaking, he's no big deal to me. I don't watch "Scrubs," but, he's from like several doors down from me back in the old South Orange. A little after my time, but I remember his brother from around the way. Given our bond of representing the 07079, I toyed with saying something to him. I don't really like bothering celebs, nor do I care for stroking this ego. I was like, "back in the day he would've been a little rug rat to me, some annoying little kid in the 'hood. Now I'm gonna go kiss his ass? Not bloody likely." So I opted against it.

Armed with the choice vittles, Bubba and I made our way towards Saul's new pad, up in the Hollywood Hills. Believe it or not, this represented our first actual Hollywood Hills party. I don't really party to much these days, and when I do, I no longer party like it's 1999. I party like it's 2008, and I'm 37 years old.

We wind our way up the hills, and come upon the party in full swing. Nothing but young, hip cats, having a good old time out by the pool. I half expected it to play out like a scene out of "Boogie Nights," but at no point in time did I see a porn star having sex in the yard with a perfect stranger in front of her husband. That not withstanding, I have to say, the vibe was pretty chill. Everyone there seemed to be peripherally related to the biz in one way or another, and we met some pretty nice people.

Come sundown, folks made there way up to the rooftop terrace to take in the fireworks. At this point, a GLARING difference between New York and L.A. revealed itself. Namely, they just don't do fireworks like Nueva York. They just don't. We were treated to a panorama of so-so presentations, spanning probably 25 miles worth of L.A. Each one, even the downtown show, or the ones I believe were coming from the L.A. Colliseum, seemed small-time to me. You have to understand, I used to the New York stylie, 30 shells going off at once, smell the smoke all up in your face, variety show. Across the board, I couldn't even tell when these shows were over, they were so, eh.

When the dust settled, we ambled back to the main area. What do we see but a bunch of folks playing volleyball in the pool. Forget "Boogie Nights," this was now playing out like straight out of "Three's Company." I half expected Mr. Roper to come break up all the "hanky panky," and force us to take off for the Regal Beagle for a nightcap with Jack, Chrissy, Janet and Larry. Come the end of the night, a quality time was had by all. Bellies were full, skins were tanned, and faith in America was at least temporarily renewed.

Dream a Little Dream

So, being a product of my family, coupled with the fact that I live smack dab in the TMZ, it's really a foregone conclusion that my eyes might happen to partake of the occasional tabloid fare. As I outlined early on in my Buhlogic history, I feel it almost my local civic duty to keep tabs on the haps. My latest guilty pleasure revolves around "The Two Coreys" season two, on A&E. For the uninitiated (or those who won't fess up to knowing), the show centers around Corey's Feldman and Haim, two former teen superstars from the 80's, who's careers spiraled downward such that it was basically the template for every "E True Hollywood Story." All of the requisite cliches are present, so I needn't recap them specifically.

Anyway, I wasn't really feeling season one. It was a bit too canned for my tastes. "Let's put Haim in Feldman's house with his wife and let the hijinx ensue!" The first four episodes of season two on the other hand, I must admit, have piqued my interest. In a nutshell, the two Corey's are trying to salvage their friendship, while Haim simultaneously tries to resurrect his career. Add in the fact that Haim's apartment is spitting distance from where I live, and I'm all in.

I don't know if it's my "old" age, but I've definitely noticed a seismic shift in my outlook on this. Historically, Haim would be nothing but fodder for my snide, sarcastic barbs I'd spew to anyone within earshot. I find myself surprisingly compelled by his saga. He's clearly floundering, and rife with visible insecurities. But he's trying. The odds are stacked that he'll never remotely reclaim any type of a-list status again. He's much more likely to be on "The Surreal Life" than the Oscars. But he's trying. Having been around the block enough in my life, both creatively and just life in general, I have a healthy respect for the ongoing trial that life fundamentally is. As such, my days of cynical hating are largely over. I have respect for anyone that perseveres. Be it the greatest overlooked talent, or the most ridiculous half-wit, I ultimately have respect for anyone that keeps on trying. To try is the true challenge, not the results. To get back on the horse after getting dumped and bucked is the measure of someone.

And so I never thought I'd possibly say this, but I actually have some degree of a new respect for Corey Haim. In tonight's episode, he made an ill-fated attempt at a public reconciliation with all of Hollywood in the form of a full-page ad in Variety. Just not well thought out. But you know what, he tried. He tried foolishly, but he tried. And I hope that dopey sonofabitch keeps trying.

...And Justice for All

Ok, so I've been absent again, after a brief surge in productivity. Well, the reason is two-fold. Number one, I've had a little flare up with my hands, such that I have to minimize excess typing. Number two, Bubba and I were embroiled in a long-standing dispute that finally came to a head with our day in court.
Being a product of the O.J. generation, my expectations towards a day in L.A. court were, er, SORELY misguided. There was no media circus. We did not have a team of lawyers. There was no Judge Ito. I also doubt that I have a book deal in the works. Alas, the good news is, my faith in the justice system has been restored until futher notice.
Anyway, I don't want to divulge the particulars of our situation, but I DID want to pop my head up for air, and let my "public" know that Buh Logic is back on the radar.
Buh

DEFCON 5

So, I'm still debating the merits of a recap of my trip home. I'm not sure if it's too specific or not. I mean, I COULD tell you how great Hubert Wong looked at my reunion, but how much would it really mean to you, unless you know him? In the meantime, I CAN tell you about a disturbing development in the world of Orville, that started while we were away.

In the post 9/11 world, we've all gotten familiar with the color coded, terror alert measuring system. You know, yellow means all is well, red means the end of mankind, or whatever the actual gradiations are. Well, here at Chez McCampbell, we've reached a code red. Our worst fears have been realized. Seems young Orville has figured out how to....wait for it.......OPEN THE REFRIGERATOR. You heard right. Fat boy has taken that snout of his, and learned how to help himself to the lower level of "that place where all my food comes from," as I imagine he thinks of it. This, my friends, is a problem.

Worse yet, he's done it several times since we've been home. In his most recent episode, I was typing away at the computer. I had one of those war movie moments. "It sure is quiet.....TOO quiet." As in, "why don't I hear Orville?" I go to the kitchen, and there he is, knee deep in, well, everything. In the most disturbing aspect of the equation, when I caught him, he was on his first bites of his SECOND helping of uncooked chicken breast, and washing it down with a few sips of Rockstar energy drink. Now, I hasten to remind you, pigs are supposed to vegetarian. Guess not. The end result is, now our fridge is secured with velcro straps. Time has yet to tell if he can penetrate that yet.

Growing up, I was a huge fan of the "Little Rascals." There's one of my favorite episdoes that has become even dearer to me since we got Orville. In the episode called, "Roamin' Holiday," Spanky, Alfalfa, Buckwheat and Porky all run away from home. In the middle, Buckwheat and Porky play on the good-nature of an older couple who run a bakery. Having essentially kidnapped the couple's dog, they parlay it into a bag full of goodies. Buckwheat explains how the dog is hungry, and that he likes cakes, pies, cream puffs, and even chewing gum. Everytime I walk into the kitchen these days, no matter WHAT I'm about to eat, when I look down at Orville's longing eyes, all I can do is hear him talking to me like Buckwheat, with this sweet, sing-songy voice, explaining to me how he's sure he'd like a piece of WHATEVER it is I'm eating. "I like pizza, Dad!" "I've never had it, but I'm SURE I'd like ice cream!" That sort of thing. And just like the kindly couple in the "Little Rascals," it's hard to resist.

Everybody is a Star

So, the day before Bubba and I headed east recently, while packing, I noticed the fire department urgently walking up my driveway. Sadly, they were heading for the back, upstairs apartment of our elderly neighbor, Hannah. Hannah, an 88 year-old former actress, had suffered what turned out to be a massive, fatal heart attack. We actually didn't know it was fatal when we left. A neighbor told me she'd died right then and there, but her caretaker told me she was still alive. It's a surreal circumstance to know your neighbor might be dead when you come home.
I'd only directly met Hannah a handful of times. She was old and in poor health, predominantnly unable to traverse the stairs. She'd had several episodes when she lived alone, where she'd fallen and was stuck for hours, unable to be tended to. After one such incident, she was forcibly removed for several months. But she kept fighting, and had returned in better health several months ago, and now with live in care. Finally, her heart and will gave out and she succumbed.
Why do I mention all of this? Because for every Clooney, Roberts, and Eastwood, there are thousands more "Hannah's" strewn about Hollywood. From what I'd gleaned, she was a marginal actress back in the day. Look her up on IMDB and you'll find a sole role, where she played a nurse on a Morgan Fairchild series for one episode. Apparently she'd done enough other things in her career, such that she was able to make a living, before retiring some time ago. Almost daily, I'd see her Variety magazine, and the periodic free dvd's from the Screen Actor's Guild, for her to vote on for the awards shows. She was also eligible for, and awaiting entrance into some type of SAG sponsored retirement home.
Hannah never got a star on the walk of fame. Never won an Academy Award. Best as I can tell, her claim to fame is being my landlord's oldest tenant (40 years). But she was a sweet old gal. When I DID see her, she'd usually offer me a stale box of chocolates, or some other sundry from the years worth of stuff she'd amassed in her apartment, as some type of offering. She also used to leave food out for the strays, leading to the two cats we ended up rescuing.
I don't know what happens to anonymous members of the chorus when they pass. You don't hear about it on "Entertainment Tonight." Star or not, she was a brick in the castle that is Hollywood.

Iconography

Ok, quick aside post. I've got a humdinger, motherload entry forthcoming about my trip back east last week, but I had another very Hollywood moment yesterday that I thought I'd share first.

So, I'm coming out of Ralph's supermarket yesterday (I love the Whole Foods and all, but it's a tad pricey to be hitting it up on the regular). I'm turning onto Sunset Blvd., and like they taught me in driver's ed, I take a good long look to my left. I see a hot pink car coming my way. "Hmm, you don't see hot pink cars very often" I thought. As it got nearer, I could tell it was a classic shaped Corvette. "Hmm, you REALLY don't see hot pink Corvette's every day." Hot pink Vette on Sunset, it was a foregone conclusion that there'd be a vanity plate on it. So as it got closer, I made out the name, "ANGELYNE" on the California tags.

For the uninitiated, Angelyne is a Hollywood "icon." She's an icon who's famous for absolutely nothing. Check that, she IS famous for something. She's got platinum blond hair, HUGE plastic boobs, and enough make-up to make Tammy Faye say, "Hey, you might want to ease up on the face paint, hon." Since some time in the 80's, she's been advertising her "talent" on billboards around Hollywood. And THAT'S why she's famous. That's it. The billboards. The ONLY reason I know who she is, is because I used to watch "Moonlighting" when I was a kid, and they'd show a second or two of the billboard in the opening credits.

But that's Hollywood. That's the TMZ culture that's been cultivated out here (my mom was really "impressed" when I explained to her that I live smack in the middle of the "Thirty Mile Zone,"). Less is more. Less talent that is. But really, when you get down to it, Angelyne is the caricatured, epitome of Hollywood. The simple elements of fantasy (in this case, a pretty, fit Marilyn Monroe type blonde), exaggerated to absurd proportions, with little to no basis in reality.

i·co·nog·ra·phy - symbolic representation

Angelyne is just that. A symbolic representation of all that is Hollywood.

Typical Day in the Neigborhood

So, recently I'm up at the old Rite Aid. Middle of the day, completely unextraordinary circumstance. But this is how we roll in Hollywood. There was a long line at checkout. Much to my personal, societal dismay, the folks decided to form one huge line, and disperse as each new checkout space opened. (While it IS fair, it completely gums up the works of the checkout area). Anyway, so this one beast of a line extended far down aisle 2, BUT, there was a big space between the front of the line and the cash registers.

All of a sudden, a sweating, middle-aged man was cutting the line (unknowingly), to buy himself a Gatorade or something to cool off from his jog. I look up and I'm like, "I know that dude. That's Schillinger from Oz!" Enraged, I got my dander up and said, "Yo Schillinger, man, that was f'd up what you did to Beecher! You don't tattoo a swastika on a man's ass! AND, you don't cut me in line when I've got arms full of cat litter! Now, back of the line before I go all Adibisi on you."

Well, maybe I'm exaggerating slightly, but I DID ask him to kindly respect the order of the line. My point being, sometimes it's hard to disassociate the actors from their characters, which I reckon is a testament to a job well done.

Park Place

First of all, I want to thank my loyal readers. I've been sporadic at best, yet I know that my fan base seems to have remained true, based on the commentary, anonymous or otherwise (I'm looking at YOU mom). Anyway, when in doubt, an update on the Big-O is always good fodder.

So, over a year into the pig gig now, and we continue to learn a few things. For example, did you know that a pig could be uppity? You didn't, did you? Uppity, stubborn, chickens*it, aloof, loving, curious, and flippant? I didn't either.

Actually, all in all, Orville's being a good boy (he's LITERALLY trying to eat today's mail as I just typed that). The newest wrinkle is that we've recently found a nice little park for him. It's nice. It's about a 5-10 minute walk each way, depending on his mood, and it's gotten him some "social" interaction with other people and dogs. Actually, I have to reiterate that before we even get to the park, Orville is a local celebrity. I know every parent thinks that about their "child," but honest to God, Orville stops traffic. And I swear, there is an endless supply of old Russians that are just smitten with him. The other day, two older gals were out for an evening promenade of their own, and when they saw Orville's jowls jiggling up the block, they stopped dead in their tracks like they'd just gotten a face to face with the Pope. "BEA-YOOOOUUUUUTIFUL!. BEA-YOOOOOUUUUUUTIFUL BOY!" Like he's an angel.

Anyway, to give you perspective, the park to Orville, is like if you got an all you can eat pass to your favorite 4-star restaurant. To him, it's a smorgasbord. A buffet without the sneeze guard. He can eat 'til his heart's content. It's also socializing him to other dogs. Well, it's socializing THEM, to him, but he could care less. They sniff him, poke him, tenederize him, eyeball him, and so long as it doesn't interrupt his chewing rhythm, he's cool with it. So far, only one dog spooked him. So much so that O busted a move like I've never seen before. He was like, "F this! The pig that opts to run away, comes back to gorge another day. Let's get the hell outta here!" So we did. And he will.

Thrill of the Chase

So, a few days ago, I'm watching the local evening news. First of all, before I even get into the crux of today's rant, a few notes about the local news. To my tastes, it's COMPLETELY forgetable. The formula is, one forgetable man, one notably busty, "saucy" Latina co-anchor, and one weatherperson with impeccable hair. Honest to God, not one name has registered in my mind the entire time I'm here. Conversely, I can tell you every newsperson from New York to this day. Let me give a shout out to Sue Simmons, Chuck Scarborogh, Ernie Anastos, Warner Wolf, Storm Field, and, just to kick it old school, big ups to Lloyd Lindsey Young., and I see the same story I've seen about once every two weeks ever since I got here. And that story is...the car chase.
It's unbelievable. I'll be watching the Simpsons or something only to hear, "we interrupt this program to take you live to a breaking story." Cut to some type of SUV/truck, driving relatively slowly, with 5 or 6 cop cars in IMMEDIATE proximity, AND, a helicopter above watching its every move. This goes on for like 30 minutes before the perp inevitably turns himself in.
Now, the mindset behind this completely escapes me. There is ZERO percent chance of escape. This is L.A. There's ALWAYS traffic. That's what's so funny. These chases occur in rush hour, and it's like, best case scenario you have a quarter of a mile where you can run 35 mph. THEN, they hit the side streets. THERE'S NOWHERE TO GO. Yet they persist.
What's also interesting is, I think we can see direct fallout from Rodney King and The O.J. See, O.J. popularized the car chase with his white Bronco, and since he got off, these yahoos seem to think they will too. Secondly, I guess these guys feel like, "hey I KNOW I won't get beat down since the Rodney King trial happened. What have I got to lose?" And to an extent it's true. These cops seem to show the utmost tact and prudence in these pursuits. When they finally catch them, they are a little physical, but all and all not too bad.
I don't know why this bothers me so. It's not the pre-empting of my shows (I don't think). It's the futility of it all. The wastes of time and energy. And lastly, the fact that we as Americans get so compelled by it. I can't say I immediately change the channel, but I should.

L.A.'s REAL Stars

So, recently, Bubba and I went for a Saturday afternoon cruise. We've really become taken with tooling around the Hills and such. On a clear day from the top, you can see well into the Pacific on the south side, and about three layers of mountains deep on the north side. Just spectacular. Kind of like L.A.'s version of going to the top of the Empire State Building. Anyway, this particular Saturday, at the suggestion of my friend Emei, we went on up to the Observatory in Griffith Park. Now, the observatory is one of the few genuine landmarks of L.A. It rests high in the hills, neighboring the Hollywood sign, and visible from miles around. Early on in our tenure here, we'd started towards it, only to find it was undergoing massive renovations. Now though, it's back up and running, so we figured we'd check it out.

Back in the Apple, Bubba and I lived a stones throw from the Planeterium. We'd venture there often, seeing as how observing genuine stars was none too easy, given all the smog and light pollution. More than anything, we loved the show. The old, theater in the round, lean back and stare up at the laser generated universe. So when we got to the L.A. version, our New Yorker came out as we smugly anticipated an inferior product. Our snobbery was only intensified when we were less than impressed with the surrounding museum exhibits. Say what you want about your humble narrator, but if nothing else, he can admit when he's wrong. The L.A. version was slamming. The biggest, bestest difference was the fact that they opted not for a James Earl Jones, Morgan Freeman, or Tom Hanks type of narration, but actually that of a a LIVE human being. Our celestial tour guide was an enthusiastic, knowledgeable woman who doled out a fantastic buffet of information. Couple that with some stunning visuals, some of which rivaled an IMAX virtual rollercoaster ride.

Our inner John Glenn's satiated, we strolled around the grounds as well, and were treated to wondrous panoramas of SoCal. I have to say, the views don't get tired around here. I don't know the official elevation, but it feels like being atop any number of the New York skyscrapers, where the wonder of it all is displayed over 360 degrees. Add in the fact that you can the ocean, and via a mere twist of your neck, be treated to snow capped mountains and it adds up to a pretty sweet show that God's put on down here.

Walk a Mile in My Shoes

Hello all. I'm back. I've been MIA as I try to heal up my perpetually sore hands. I've got a backlog o' tidbits to catch up on, and I'll do so as my hands permit. Anyway, on with the show.
So, one of the benefits of being unemp...er, "employment challenged" right now is that it has afforded me the opportunity to get my ass in shape. I've done the gym thing before, and may still again, but for now, I've taken to hitting the streets with my size 13's. I strap on the headphones, blare my militant hip-hop records or warning label rock and roll on the I-Pod that Bubba can't stand, and do my thing. I can't emphasize enough how good it is to do folks. I'm under the Mendoza line (that's 200 for those uninitiated to the obscure baseball reference) for the first time in 10 years. Plus, the more I do it, the more I WANT to do it. Anyway, that's my PSA for this morning.
Walking the streets of West Hollywood has shown me a few things. First and foremost, it is a deceptively small town. By that I mean, I've been able to up the ante to about 4.5 miles (2.25 miles each way), and I've discovered that the vast majority of my life was already contained within a 2 1/2 mile radius, JUST LIKE NEW YORK. I try to switch up my route to keep it interesting, and no matter which way I go, I end up within my life radius. If I go North, I could be in the heart of tourist Hollywood (Chinese Theater, Kodak Theater, Walk of Fame). If I go south, I'm at the Bev Center Mall. If I go west, I get to the border of Beverly Hills. If I go east, I get to the "wrong side of the tracks" of Hollywood, so I don't go east. Bottom line, the town FEELS bigger than it is, because that mile you usually drive in 10 minutes, is actually just a mile.
More specifically, one really gets command of one's neighborhood when you walk it every day. For instance, I've discovered there are ELEVEN, count 'em, ELEVEN Russian groceries/deli's just within the first 10 minutes of my walk. They all sell the same things, at the same prices. I know because I can always score a good deal for Orville. If one place has cherry tomatoes on sale, they ALL do. And they all sell the same bizarre chocolates, and they all sell the same media that are Scrabble players dream words (lots of Z's, Q's, K's in the words).
I've also discovered that there is a remarkably high amount of community service going on. Every day, I see a different platoon of young folks sporting the county vest, picking up trash. It's why I don't drive at night, for clearly the drunk drivers are rampant.
Also near us is the bizarro counterpoint to the Chinese theater. The Pussycat theater that I walk by apparently has legendary status. I know this because outside, the biggest "stars" are cemented in the sidewalk. Only, it's not the hands and feat of Bogart, Eastwood, and Monroe, but of Holmes, Chambers, and Jeremy. Thank God it's just the hands and feet they've imprinted.
Lastly, there seems to be a remarkable number of people "taking meetings" every morning. I swear, I walk by these restaurants and it's uncanny. You can just tell. Everyone there is pitching a script, or trying to be seen. As many BAD movies as there are that are released, God only knows what kind of tripe is being REJECTED. But, that's Hollywood I guess.

Dark Side of the Moon

So, one of the cooler aspects of living in L.A. versus New Yawk pertains to the clearer skies we're afforded. Smog be damned, the fact is, I'm now privy to the cosmos in a much more unabated fashion than I ever was back east. I can't count how many times some type of stellular phenomena would be hyped up by the media, only to leave me disappointed when I either couldn't see it, or if I could, it'd be in muted tones. The fact of the matter is, between the skyscrapers, light pollution, and North Jersey chemical fog, I always considered myself lucky if I saw the moon, let alone eclipses, comets, what have you.

Last night represented the last lunar eclipse for the next 3 years. Bubba and I heard about it, but it didn't really register, at least enough to schedule around it. As luck would have it, the eclipse took place around evening walk time for the big O. I can honestly say, I was never as jazzed by a sky show as I was last night. We got on the streets just as the last fifth of the moon was being obscured. Many of our neighbors were out on the streets as well, with binoculars and everything. By the time we got to the halfway point of our walk, the moon was "gone." Flat out gone. I finally understood how centuries ago, people could have been convinced that the Gods were angry at them, or that a serpent may have just swallowed the moon. Orville was more impressed by the loose cigarette butt he found and tried to eat, but Bubba and I were truly enthralled.

L.A. Driving 102

So, I long ago commented on my initial observations regarding the L.A. driving scene, but certain elements lend themselves to a second glance. First and foremost, I've yet to get a grip on the pedestrians out here. Quite frankly, 14 months in, and their behavior is still APPALLING to me. I can't get over the cavalier attitude in which they dart into the street unabashedly. I just can't. Under no circumstance is it even conceivable to me how one could EVER just blindly, waltz across a busy street without any rhyme or reason. I mean literally, Bubba and I will be cruising down Santa Monica Blvd., a main street where cars can get to 35-45 miles/hour when the traffic is thin. Yet people will walk out in the middle of a block, just because they get the urge. And what's worse is, they will SAUNTER across the street and not so much even look up whatsoever. They have absolute faith in the vision and disposition of all drivers that they will not be hit. And they aren't.
What's truly bizarre is, Bubba and I have tried to bust this move time and again, and somehow the drivers seem to be able to feel that we're not 100% behind it, so with us, they DON'T acknowledge it. They don't stop. They actually treat us correctly, as the rude, civil disobediants we're being when we do it.
On the plus side of the equation, I will say that they are remarkably dilligent about letting people in, and giving "the wave." For example, just getting onto Santa Monica for us can be quite a chore. But the drivers are probably 90% cool about saving a space for us to turn onto it when it's possible. I've always been a big believer in "a successful alternate merge makes the world go 'round." My L.A. brethren seem to concur.
On a different automotive tip, I can't get over the number of choice rides out here. Bubba and I were taking a nice cruise through the hills the other day during rush hour. We were coming down the hill, while the Hollywood power brokers were making their way back home to their mansions. From the top of the hill to the bottom, was a single lane of bumper to bumper traffic, consisting almost exclusively of Mercedes, Lexus, Hummer's and Porche's. Unbelievable. You couple that with the wannabe's, who LEASE the primo wheels throughout Hollywood and it's like, you feel like there's a $40,000 minimum to be allowed on the streets. At least I know that if I ever get plowed crossing the street trying to "fit in" with local custom, the driver can pay for the damage.

E-I-E-I-O

Old McCampbell had a farm, e-i-e-i-o.
So, while I'm home seeking new employment, I'm taking the time to get back down to bidness concerning my music. I'm always playing, but the later part of the year saw it become hard for me to get my groove on, on a daily basis. So now, I'm getting my chops back. Back to the hypnotic metronome, click, click, clicking away, much to the annoyance of anyone within earshot. But what's funny to me is some new elements that have entered my practice regime.
Time was, in my Unabomber shack in Williamsburg, I lived the life of a true Bohemian artist. Bare bones, ascetic, with no television and a mattress on the floor, I honed my craft, old-school woodshed style. By myself, every day, the picture of focus. Now, I am married with three animals filling our one-bedroom apt. Remarkably, all of the animals are fascinated by playing. So now when I play, I've got three "groupies" who like to jam with me. First off, there's Orville. I thought he, big chicken that he is, would be petrified, but quite the contrary. Sometimes I sit on the couch to play, and the Big-O wants in on the deal. Next thing I know, I've got a pig on the left of me, his snout buried in my side while I play. He loves it, unless it gets to rockin'. Apparently he's an "easy listening" pig.
Then there's the cats. Ol' Jack Sprat is a veteran of the process. He LOVES to camp out on my amp while I play, soothed by my butter tones, and the warmth of my amp. He sprawls out on top, reminiscent of the old RCA dog fixated on the Victrola. Meanwhile, Touille has become his lil' protege. Where he goes, she goes. What he does, she does. So now I've got cats sitting on my amp in stereo. Throw in their love of swatting my chords, "killing" my loose guitar picks, and their completely hypnotic staring at the dangling strings when I change them on my guitar, and I find myself asking Bubba time and again, "Do you think Hendrix did this?"

My Kingdom for a Bagel

So, my boy Z already chronicled our latest escapade on his monthly newsletter, but for those of you who do not receive the monthly, Verbal Warrior Society Breakdown/Beatdown, I'm gonna double up.
Z is a fellow New Yorker/Jersier, my former roommate of 4 years on 2nd Ave., among other things. He came out here maybe 7 years ago. He and I both have been on an unfulfilled quest to find a good bagel. Back east, we had a Sunday ritual where'd we'd rock the Ess-a-Bagels, at a mere fitty-cent per. I'd kick my everything bagel, dry, while Z would usually get a sesame or poppy, topped with a schmear of cream cheese and a slice of tomahto. Fat, thick, and absurdly topped, the grinchy old Jewish folk at Ess-a-Bagel set the gold standard for bageldom.
So, Z had gotten wind of the deli at Barney's having H&H bagels flown in. Personally, I never loved H&H. These would be the type you would have at your local street vendor back in NYC. Still, if they were home grown, they stood to be better than the local fare, so we were more than game. The Jints were taking on the Cowboys, so we figured we'd rekindle tradition with some sunday bagel/football action.
We hopped in my car, and made our way to Beverly Hills and right side of the tracks. We parked on the street, eschewing the valet, though I couldn't help but notice the collection of Maserati's, Mercedes, and such on the way inside. Sure, it was a public shopping mall, but I felt like I was inside a country club, filled with the stench of elitism as we made our way through cosmetics. We went up the elevator to the deli, and right away I sensed trouble. Where was the line outside the door? Where were the crotchety old Jewish folk? Where was that smell? That bagel smell. We pressed on, and came upon this reMARKably slow putz behind the counter. I say remarkably because I can't believe they get away with this guy catering to their high powered clientele. "I'd like 2 everything bagels please!" No everything. Z said, "I'd like 2 cinnamon raisin please!" No cinnamon raisin. I settle on an onion and a poppy, z, a poppy and a sesame. "That'll be $10 please." "I'm sorry, did you say TEN?" "Yes, ten." Ten dollars for 4 dry bagels. We're not on First Avenue anymore Dorothy.
Already there, we succumbed to the gouging and took our bagel booty home. We stopped at the Whole Foods to buy some toppings, refusing to submit to a further financial bloodletting at the deli. We got to Z's already anticipating that we'd been essentially had. Popped 'em in the toaster, topped 'em, prettied 'em up as best we could. Now for the moment of truth. Chomp. The verdict? Quintisentially sub-mediocre. We choked down round one, disgustedly. Watched the ball game. I said, "Z, you gonna eat you're second one?" "I suppose." "I'm gonna eat mine out of spite," which I did.
New York, New York it's a helluva town. The Bronx is up, and Ess-a-Bagel is down. Can't nobody dooz it like the good folks on First Ave. Belie' dat.

Pandora's Box

So Bubs and I have been here just over a year. Somehow, I've managed to NOT get to Amoeba records in all of this time. My boy Z had hipped me to it a while back, as THE wrecka stow (see "Under the Cherry Moon" for the geneis of "wrecka stow") in Los Angeles. What with the advent of the I-Pod, the greatest invention of my lifetime, I've spent the last few years slowly getting my cd collection uploaded onto it, and downloading the periodic single on line, such that I haven't had the need to frequent a record store. Amoeba is up on Sunset, right next door to my favorite theater, the Arclight, thus, I've passed it plenty of times. In search of a James Brown DVD, we figured we'd break the ice and check it out.

We park the car, and walk up a block to the entrance. There's a strange mix of folks, congregating at side. Tatted up, slacker looking punks, and oddly, a LOT of hip looking young Asian kids. Enough to where I wondered if we were coming up on an in-store appearance of the Wu-Tang Clan or something (the Wu are oddly, HUGE in Japan). Turns out, it's just business as usual. We venture inside, and instantly, the formerly deceptive vastness of this place hits us. Just gargantuan. Or dare I say, ginormous (I recently saw that somehow, that word that sounds like Phoebe from "Friends" talking has somehow made its way into accepted, dictionary veracular)?

Almost instantly, I'm practically short of breath at the overwhelming potential of this store. Where to start? I'd already decided that I deserved to treat myself to a cd or two. Now, faced with this seeminigly infinite selection, I realized my error in planning. Clearly, one needs a pointed agenda before setting foot into such an aural paradise. I compose myself enough to at least narrow down my options to the jazz section. But now what? The Duke? Miles? Trane? Do I go guitar? If so, who? Wes? Grant? Joe Pass? Do I go vocal? Someone I've heard of but never taken the plunge with? Problem is, if I go new, which album of say, Sun Ra, do I begin with? The stakes are too high to screw this up.

No. Clearly, going forward I need to do my homework BEFORE I get there. I need a game plan. I can't do this willy nilly. So, resigned to my fatal miscalculation, but still determined to leave with some type of musical booty, I opted for "Impressions" by John Coltrane, because I love him and it's a classic I didn't have, and a Wayne Shorter joint because I love Wayne, and my man Herbie Hancock is part of the ensemble.

The point is not to name drop my hipster musical sensibilities. The point is, this place is the bomb. The point is, ironically, in the same way I stubbornly (STUPIDLY) put off getting an I-Pod until my father got it for me, I similarly have denied myself this unbelievable resource. So much music, not enough time.

Bright Stars and Bright Teeth

Well folks, the last 3 months have been a bit topsey-turvey to say the least. Thanksgiving travel, the passing of my grandmother, more travel, the ending of my job/job hunting, Christmas travel, sore hands, etc., has made blogging a bit sporadic to say the least. But with some time on my hands, at least for right now, and my hands healing a bit, I'm going to get back in the swing of things. Hopefully I can win my readership back.
Anyway, so I go to the dentist yesterday for a little annual cleaning. The guy tries to tell me I need to replace EVERY filling in my mouth with porcelain or something. Apparently, the mercury is slowly poisoning me. I just didn't know it. I say, "I've had these since about 1982, so I think I'm poisoned by now." Then, his asst. tries to sell me on his credentials by telling me about his French upbringing. As if I'm now supposed to say, "Oh, well that changes EVERYTHING. Replace every tooth in my mouth if you'd like. He's French, so it must be true."
I said, "My last dentist never said a word about this. Why not?" "Because 'ee iz, eh, how you say, 'stoo-peed. Zat ees vai." (I'm adding the Inspector Clouseau accent. He didn't have one. But he DID say 'stupid,' as in, 'stupid American'). I told ol' Marcel Marceau that I'd sleep on it and get back to him.
What was interesting to me was outside the office. His office is up on Hollywood Blvd. Apparently it's on the wrong side of the tracks of Hollywood Blvd., at least as far as the walk of fame goes. I mean no disrespect to the folks I'm going to mention, but while there were a few A-Listers, the 7000 block is populated predominantly by the C-Listers. 'Lessen of course, you consider Terry Bradshaw, Isabel Sanford, Mac Davis, The Osmonds and Don Cornelius as A-List. Plus, the physical location of the block leaves something to be desired. It's like on a dangerous corner at an awkward intersection. It's not near any tourist haunts. Really, it's just near, well, pompous French dentists. Like, the only one who'd know about where Weezie's star is located would be Sherman Hemsley.
Anyway, this is the kind of mundane minutiae you can now look forward to on the regular again folks. Happy New Year.