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.

"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.