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.

"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.