I never expected to have to calm down a busload of elderly Polish illegal aliens in this or any lifetime. I certainly never expected to have to do it in the name of the Republican Party and Bob Dole. But sometimes you’ve just got to step up and be a hero.
The year was 1996, and the month was August. It was two days after the end of the Republican National Convention, and I was involved in the first colorful adventure of my journalistic career. Actually I wasn’t really a journalist yet – just a smartass 20-something guy from Chicago who had sweet-talked my way into helping both Bill Clinton’s and Bob Dole’s presidential campaigns – but what happened that day wound up becoming the launching pad for the rest of my life so far.
I had grown up in a highly political, and highly conservative Republican household in Little Rock, Arkansas – one of the most diehard Democratic hotspots in the country. My father had fled Poland, and he drilled an intense hatred of Communism and a zealous love for America’s craziest Cold Warrior, Ronald Reagan, into myself and my three siblings. To him, anyone who didn’t embrace Reagan’s nuclear-weapons doctrine of Mutual Assured Destruction was a Commie and a weakling.
I drank the conservative Kool-Aid throughout my growing-up years, even becoming president of my high school Young Republicans. I tingled with pride as George Bush senior vowed “no new taxes” and nearly wept as he described his vision of a “thousand points of light.” (Bear with me.) We were so caught up in the magic of it all that we even visited New Orleans during the 1988 convention despite the fact that we weren’t even delegates – just so we could be near all the excitement. To hold these views in a city so opposed to them meant we had a passion that bordered on zealotry.
But by 1996, I was hopelessly cynical. George Bush HAD raised taxes after all. I had also been jaded about the FIRST Gulf War, wondering what we were doing worrying about a little country called Kuwait that no one had ever even heard about before – just like Vietnam. I also hated Clinton because I’d grown up in Arkansas, and once out, I never wanted to think about that state or any of its leaders ever again. Besides, I’d served him popcorn once in a movie theater and the man insisted on so much extra butter that he actually said “I want you to hit it til I tell you to stop.” Not only did I feel sexually harassed, but he wound up asking for 15 squirts of butter – a horrific amount that I will never erase from my mind. Suffice it to say that I was a Ross Perot voter in ’92.
My favorite movie of all time is “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” and I had spent the past decade since its release learning how to sweet-talk and scam my way into events, just like my hero. And so I decided to see what would happen if I tried to pull off an election-year gag beyond compare: I called the Chicago headquarters of both candidates and said that I was the son of an immigrant and was raised to believe that each man – Bob Dole or Bill Clinton, depending on who I was speaking to – was the greatest living American politician, and that I would do anything to help them get elected.
The reason why I wanted to do this so badly was admittedly unusual and deeply personal: I had just begun performing stand-up comedy in Chicago a year before, but yet I was terrified of crowds and what the strangers in them thought of me. I ultimately had a meltdown on stage one night and wound up getting a shrink.
The shrink was an elderly Frenchman named Antoine Rousseau who had an accent that would confuse Inspector Clouseau. Dr. Rousseau said that NORMALLY, he’d tell someone who’s afraid crowds not to engage in a career field that involved performing in front of them. But he could se I wanted to do comedy too badly to ever stop. So he asked if there was something I could do to stand out from other comics and build my self-esteem that way.
I told him I had written humor columns in college back in Texas but thought no one in Chicago would give a yokel from the South a break. Dr. Rousseau said it was time to prove myself wrong. He assigned me to find something funny to write about, hand it in to him and he’d mail them to the city’s 4 main papers and see if one would buy the story and help me prove I could be funny my own way. The idea was that If I could succeed in print, I’d feel special and start having more confidence performing.
So I called both the Dole and Clinton campaigns because as cynical as I was about politics, I still wanted to see a campaign from the inside and how I could scam the professional con artists we call politicians in return. I wanted to take them for as much fun, access and free swag as possible while doing as little as I could in return. I would be the Anti-Volunteer.
Amazingly, both campaigns were thrilled to hear from me. I went two-for-two with my phone calls and was invited by the Dole campaign to help out with a quote-unquote “very special” event: riding a bus down five hours to the state capitol that Saturday morning to the Illinois State Fair, where Bob Dole and his running mate Jack Kemp were going to be making their first appearance after the convention.
I had to show up at 7 a.m. outside a Catholic church to board what I thought would be an old school bus, or even worse a church van, but instead turned out to be a tour bus worthy of rock stars. Swank seating and multiple coolers full of beer and food awaited me inside, with a TV screen hanging above every row for our private viewing pleasure.
But one thing seemed strange: as the campaign workers handed us our supposedly homemade signs to wave at the rally, I was the only person saying “Thanks” – in English, at least. Everyone else around me was at least 80 years old, spoke Polish and seemed to only know two words in English: “Dole” and “Kemp.” And they learned THOSE words only because the workers led them through a repetition rally in which they yelled only those two names out, over and over, before letting us board.
Granted, we were in Chicago, where there are more Poles living than any place on the planet outside of Warsaw itself. But something was fishy about this, probably a game of Hold A Sign-Get A Green Card. Yet before I could really take note of it or get out of the situation, my mind, eyes and heart returned to the vast quantities of free beer. I also was stunned to realize that, despite Bob Dole’s usual Republican yammering about Hollywood’s corrupt values and sleazy entertainment, we were going to be treated to free video screenings of Jackie Chan’s R-rated chopsocky fest “Rumble in the Bronx”, followed by the James Bond film “Goldeneye,” in which the female villain crushes men to death with her thighs. Ah, hypocrisy!
Barreling down the freeway, surrounded by my father’s fellow countrymen as they sang Polish drinking songs, yelled at the TV screen and drank enough to shut down a brewery, I knew this would be a special day. The idea was to get everyone as rowdy and demonstrative as possible, and the Republicans were surprisingly adept at their mission.
We screamed and chanted our way through the rally, and afterwards I repeatedly tried to get a photo in with Dole and Kemp. Only they weren’t exactly posing for me. As they moved through the crowd, I followed along from about 2 feet away like the famed film psychopath Travis Bickle that Robert DeNiro played in “Taxi Driver,” repeatedly snapping off-balance photos of their heads as I went. Finally, a couple of Secret Service guys had enough and I got a great action photo of them coming towards me with their arms outstretched.
I’m no dummy. And the State Fair was otherwise lame. So I clambered back onto the bus for the ride home, where all the Poles got themselves even drunker and rowdier – to the point where the bus driver finally pulled over the bus in the middle of a highway rainstorm because he simply couldn’t take the pressure anymore.
And that’s when a female Asian campaign volunteer tried to get the crowd to shut up via microphone and instead broke down crying. I was amazed at the power of my elders, but I still betrayed them because the woman asked if anyone there was bilingual – and I was the only one to stand up, walk to the front and save the day.
Grabbing the microphone, I barked out a childhood scolding my mother had given me countless times but which I barely understood: “Prosze! Chee-ho! Shaddai!” meaning Please! Be quiet! Sit down!” Incredibly, they listened and then gave me a round of applause to boot. The girl wiped her tears and said, “Thank you,” as I posed for a dramatic picture, smiling in front of the crowd of my waving fellow countrymen.
I came to realize that the day had been one long bizarre and cynical exploitation of my countrymen. The Republican Party that claimed to oppose illegal immigration had just used about 50 of the hardest drinking aliens on earth as drunken cheerleaders for their shameless cause.
But that was nothing compared to my Democratic adventures. I was told to come to a meeting at an unmarked location – a rented loft located directly above the city’s prime drag queen revue – and undergo an orientation speech and have my picture taken for a photo ID and FBI background check. I thought they would find out I registered Republican and would kick me out on principle. But amazingly, I was called two days later and told that I was in the loop. If I agreed to volunteer for three shifts during the Democratic Convention – which was being held right there in Chicago! – I could get free passes to prime parties and even a night in the convention hall.
The best thing that happened, though, was my discovery that the hotel headquarters was located literally two blocks away from my Dilbert-dayjob office. Looking out my window over Lake Michigan, I could see all the layers of security – boats, trucks, helicopters, and even rooftop snipers – whetting my appetite for the excitement to come. And for that week, despite the fact that I hate wearing suits, I dressed to the nines each day and snuck into the Sheraton Hotel before work, on lunch breaks and after work. America’s most powerful politicians and journalists were there and I had a photo ID that enabled me to be waved in and meet them!
Growing up in the relatively small city of Little Rock, I had dreamed of fame and moving in power circles, not knowing if I’d ever get my chance, but suddenly here it was.
So what was my big duty with the convention? Hopping into an unmarked rental truck and driving through Chicago’s infamous Lower Wacker Drive – the underground home of some of the greatest chases in film history, from “The Blues Brothers” to “The Dark Knight” – in order to deliver 15,000 handmade signs to the Union Center convention hall. Better yet, we were given a special government-security clearance notice that we were allowed to show any police officer who attempted to pull us over for speeding or reckless driving, overruling their ticket or arrest in the name of the federal government!
This was like giving an alcoholic keys to the Miller Time brewery and saying have a good overnight stay. We could do ANYTHING we wanted on the coolest street outside of the Autobahn – and bobbing and weaving through traffic at about 75 miles an hour, we took full advantage.
And once we dumped those signs off and signed our paperwork to prove we did it, we kept driving recklessly all over Chicago for the next four hours before our literal Get Out of Jail Free card expired at midnight. Don’t judge me – we were working for the President!
Did I lift a finger to help the rest of that week? Hell no! I had my badge already and had gotten my girlfriend a volunteer gig distributing passes for the parties and convention hall. I made sure she snuck away 2 extra passes to everything, from the Al Gore and Clinton speeches to the parties that were packed with so many odd collections of celebrities I felt like was walking through a live-action “Simpsons” episode. There was Bill Maher, over there was Richard Lewis, then ooh look Olympic legend Carl Lewis! And holy crap, while running across Planet Hollywood to meet Billy Baldwin, I almost tipped over Tipper Gore! This time, a different set of Secret Service goons were coming towards me before I abruptly decided to call it a night.
Being amid all the stars night after night was amazing. I had grown up addicted to letterman and had dreamed of someday having my own show. To mingle with the stars seemed like my dry run for greatness. Best of all was Richard Lewis, who not only posed for a picture for myself, but learned I was an aspiring comic and wound up grabbing me to pose in photo after photo for strangers, like we were a comedy duo or frat brothers at a keg party. When he signed his autograph, he wrote three words I’ll never forget: “Never look back.”
I taped those words to my computer screen at work for the next six months before rising them as the inspiration to quit them as the inspiration to quit my Dilbert day-job and pursue writing full-time.
For just as Dr. Rousseau had hoped, my account of my bipartisan adventures did sell on my first try. It kicked open the doors to my career today and while I remain skeptical of the people our parties nominate, I have developed a renewed passion for politics whenever a truly different voice – a Ralph Nader, a Ron Paul – comes around.
Did I stay too long at the fair? Who’s to say – but one thing I know is that that day at the fair has stayed with me.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
"WHAT ARE YOU, CAPTAIN SAVE-A-HO?" (aka my weirdest misadventures on the Los Angeles public transit system)
“Someone needs to call the motherfuckin’ police! Three motherfuckers been stabbed up in here!”
I never expected to hear those words in my life – especially not while peacefully waiting for train home on a Wednesday night. But sure enough, it was 10:30 p.m. at the Universal City train platform – a place I had previously harbored fond memories of from another night, when an insane Brazilian man with no shoes wandered back and forth attempting to hug everyone while exclaiming, ‘Welcome to Universal City! It is the place where people come from all over the universe! Let me give you a hug of welcome!”
I avoided that guy that night. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to try and get too involved in the attempted triple homicide that apparently lay before me. As the crowd on board what I now lovingly recall as the Midnight Meat Train came pouring out and running for the exit escalators, the people around me on the platform who were waiting to board just stood in confusion.
After all, we wanted to get home. WE hadn’t seen the alleged stabbings occur. Maybe it wasn’t too big a deal after all. Maybe the stabber had just run off the train, leaving it safe for us newbies to board. Maybe the stabber had offed themselves, making it a double murder-slash-suicide combo. Or maybe they would now be sitting peacefully, having already stabbed who they wanted and now wanting to just go home themselves. As the woman on board kept screaming for the “PO-lice!” I snuck around the crowd and looked through the window to find a skinny 20something Latino guy in a white T-shirt spattered with blood.
It looked like a gusher. I’d seen enough episodes of “ER” in my time to know that this wasn’t a good situation to get involved with. There was also a pair of feet laying flat on the floor, the rest of its body hidden behind a row of seats. I didn’t really wanna see what else was there. So I backed away, found the emergency call button for the authorities and pressed the button.
The operator came on quickly: “Whats the problem?”
“Um, there’s someone claiming that three people got stabbed on board a train here at Universal City.”
“Are you sure this happened?”
“What, do you want me to get on board and launch the investigation?”
“There’s no need for sarcasm, sir.”
“But there IS need for a fucking cop! Send somebody down here!” I cried out, as the original woman started wailing again, “PLEASE! Someone get the PO-lice!”
The operator finally listened. “We’ll send someone in five minutes.”
My job was done. I ran for the escalators myself.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been called upon to save the day onboard the Metro- aka the City of Angels’ public transit system. I had previously been given the title of “Captain Save-A-Ho” onboard the 180 bus from Hollywood to Pasadena one night in March 2007 when I called upon both the Highway Patrol and the Glendale Police Department to pull over the bus after a guy had smacked his girlfriend square in the nose and continued to taunt her as she tried to stop a gusher of blood. As six squad cars finally pulled the bus over and the guy was led away in cuffs, he cried out “What ARE you?! Captain Save-A-Ho?!”
It was one of my proudest moments in life. In fact, I almost made a T-shirt to commemorate the occasion.
The other name for the transit network of buses and trains in our fair city is MTA, which I’ve come to realize in five years of riding really stands for “Must Take Anyone.” And while I haven’t been to a state fair in about 20 years, I have to say that every single day or night on board the LA transit system makes up for a lifetime of midway carnival geeks.
I’ve seen it all on board here, often with one of my best friends and personal sidekick, Heather. I have to ride the system because I had a sleep disorder so close to narcolepsy that I’m a menace to society anytime I try to get behind a steering wheel. She, meanwhile, had been a college student whose parents decided to pay for her education and her dorm room while leaving her on her own in terms of personal safety.
Together, we’ve come across all manner of humanity: a black gay dwarf named Chucky who dances for pocket change on board the 217 bus Saturday nights in Hollywood; or our dear friend Kent, an erudite fiftysomething gay man who has tried for the past three years to convince me that we could be more than friends, and forcing Heather to play my girlfriend on numerous occasions just so he would LITERALLY get off my back.
Then there are the people in costumes. We’ve seen a guy in a giant Tigger costume, a teenage dweeb dressed in Jedi robes with a light saber who muttered “It’s a living” in a pissed-off voice when I said he must really be quite a “Star Wars” fan. We’ve seen white men in curly ‘fros that would put Black Panthers to shame. Or a guy who looked like Kato Kaelin with Keith Richards-worthy wrinkles, who rolled his tongue out to reveal the wrapped up packets of heroin he hides in his mouth to avoid the police each day.
But our favorite had to be the black transvestite who was built like an NFL cornerback yet managed to look rather stunning in a glittering purple dress and a wig that made he/she/it look like one of Tina Turner’s backup singers. The best part was when they went from talking seductively in a woman’s voice to barking out “Hold that train!” like he’s Barry White on a killing spree.
You learn a lot on a train, or especially on a bus, in LA. I’ve been privy to conversations between criminals and their friends, in which a guy fresh out of jail and still wearing a City Jail uniform shirt is already hatching his next big crime spree after running into a fellow ex-con buddy who’s now a security guard. Another time I got caught sitting directly between two guys from rival gangs who recognized each other from the time they spent in prison together, and nearly decided to restart their rivalry and attempt killing each other right then and there. When I asked if I could please slip out of their way, they finally calmed down and laughed about it, before agreeing to tutor me in prison slang and the best way to start a car without a key.
THAT”S info you need for the real world, and it’s only a buck 25.
We’ve seen aging strippers attempt to pole dance on board train cars while other passengers begged her to keep her clothes ON, street preachers telling us how to get saved while making us feel extremely endangered, and a black man in Chinese robes who jumped off the train car at each stop before busting a few dance moves and leaping back on again.
Ah, but one can’t forget the scents on board either. Aromatic splendors abound, strange smells that can be found nowhere else thanks to the mysterious mingling of humanity, nasty leftover food and general lingering haze of alcohol that hangs in the air like an old closet filled with mothballs. It’s so bad that a fantasy of mine and Heather’s is to spend a day riding the rail system while leaping on and off cars and spraying Febreze into the air. The only thing holding us back is wondering if we’d confuse and startle people with actual fresh-smelling air and have them thinking we were waging a mobile terrorist attack instead. .
Last year, amazingly, the MTA announced that it was named the best transit system in America. How this happened is beyond me. Or if it really IS true, it makes me weep for our nation and fuels my desire to move to Canada the moment our presidential election is over.
The MTA brags about this victory, with splashy onboard ads that show pictures of happy, smiling people gazing into each other’s eyes while saying “Take Metro to Flirt.” Now anyone who’s ever ridden the MTA more than twice knows that there’s NOBODY onboard that you’d want to flirt with, including me. I once had a drunk Mexican guy nearly puked on me while I was wearing a suit on board the 2 bus on Sunset on a Friday night – and that’s the closest I ever want to come to exchanging bodily fluids with ANYONE onboard the MTA.
Other ads say, “Take Metro To Go Out” or “We’ll Get You Home Safely.” I’m sorry, but if I had a choice, I’d still take my car. I’d rather risk a drunk driving ticket because at least in my own personal vehicle I won’t have a bum pass out on my shoulder.
Even worse are ads that say “Take Metro to Shop”, featuring Paris Hilton holding a gold handbag she just spent $5000 on on Rodeo Drive. Yeah, I’m sure the first thing she’s looking for after a shopping spree is the next bus or train. They should be a little more realistic and say “Take Metro to Shop” while showing a closeup of someone’s hand turning purple from holding 52 plastic bags from the 99 Cents store. That’s MY reality.
But is there ANYTHING normal, or pleasant, that happens aboard the MTA, you ask? On occasion there’s a driver with extra flair and personality, like a guy named JB who treated his riders with such friendly attention that they formed a club called The Loco 180 and rode together night after night for years, trading funny stories between JB’s illegal stops at Hooters to buy chicken wings for everyone onboard or for equally illegal 7-11 Slurpee runs.
There’s also the opportunity to learn about all types of people. Not just the freaks, but sometimes you can have a conversation in the same bus ride with a young couple from Sweden and an Iraqi refugee. It’s almost like attending the UN without having to spend the money for plane fare. At the same time, mass transit is our ultimate social equalizer, the last true vestige of honest democracy in action as you come to realize that ANYONE – truly ANYONE – can sit right down next to you and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. I think that every presidential candidate should be forced to ride the Los Angeles MTA for a year as a test of character and courage and as a way of seeing the REAL America in a way that small-town diner photo opps never will.
People say that mass transit is the wave of the future, even here in LA. As gas prices soar and the environment goes in the toilet, more and more of you – yes, you, the supposedly normal, suburban yuppies and middle and upper-class homeowners – will be adding to the mix and experiencing the exotic wonders of a Los Angeles bus ride for yourselves.
My only advice to you is threefold: 1) always carry a cellphone for emergency phone calls to the authorities. 2) sneak a can of Febreze into your purse, backpack or briefcase for those emergency “special moments” when you just can’t take the actual scents on board anymore. And 3) always have a camera at the ready, whether by phone or otherwise, to record evidence – either for the inevitable police investigation, or at least for your friends and family who just can’t believe what you saw that day.
I never expected to hear those words in my life – especially not while peacefully waiting for train home on a Wednesday night. But sure enough, it was 10:30 p.m. at the Universal City train platform – a place I had previously harbored fond memories of from another night, when an insane Brazilian man with no shoes wandered back and forth attempting to hug everyone while exclaiming, ‘Welcome to Universal City! It is the place where people come from all over the universe! Let me give you a hug of welcome!”
I avoided that guy that night. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to try and get too involved in the attempted triple homicide that apparently lay before me. As the crowd on board what I now lovingly recall as the Midnight Meat Train came pouring out and running for the exit escalators, the people around me on the platform who were waiting to board just stood in confusion.
After all, we wanted to get home. WE hadn’t seen the alleged stabbings occur. Maybe it wasn’t too big a deal after all. Maybe the stabber had just run off the train, leaving it safe for us newbies to board. Maybe the stabber had offed themselves, making it a double murder-slash-suicide combo. Or maybe they would now be sitting peacefully, having already stabbed who they wanted and now wanting to just go home themselves. As the woman on board kept screaming for the “PO-lice!” I snuck around the crowd and looked through the window to find a skinny 20something Latino guy in a white T-shirt spattered with blood.
It looked like a gusher. I’d seen enough episodes of “ER” in my time to know that this wasn’t a good situation to get involved with. There was also a pair of feet laying flat on the floor, the rest of its body hidden behind a row of seats. I didn’t really wanna see what else was there. So I backed away, found the emergency call button for the authorities and pressed the button.
The operator came on quickly: “Whats the problem?”
“Um, there’s someone claiming that three people got stabbed on board a train here at Universal City.”
“Are you sure this happened?”
“What, do you want me to get on board and launch the investigation?”
“There’s no need for sarcasm, sir.”
“But there IS need for a fucking cop! Send somebody down here!” I cried out, as the original woman started wailing again, “PLEASE! Someone get the PO-lice!”
The operator finally listened. “We’ll send someone in five minutes.”
My job was done. I ran for the escalators myself.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been called upon to save the day onboard the Metro- aka the City of Angels’ public transit system. I had previously been given the title of “Captain Save-A-Ho” onboard the 180 bus from Hollywood to Pasadena one night in March 2007 when I called upon both the Highway Patrol and the Glendale Police Department to pull over the bus after a guy had smacked his girlfriend square in the nose and continued to taunt her as she tried to stop a gusher of blood. As six squad cars finally pulled the bus over and the guy was led away in cuffs, he cried out “What ARE you?! Captain Save-A-Ho?!”
It was one of my proudest moments in life. In fact, I almost made a T-shirt to commemorate the occasion.
The other name for the transit network of buses and trains in our fair city is MTA, which I’ve come to realize in five years of riding really stands for “Must Take Anyone.” And while I haven’t been to a state fair in about 20 years, I have to say that every single day or night on board the LA transit system makes up for a lifetime of midway carnival geeks.
I’ve seen it all on board here, often with one of my best friends and personal sidekick, Heather. I have to ride the system because I had a sleep disorder so close to narcolepsy that I’m a menace to society anytime I try to get behind a steering wheel. She, meanwhile, had been a college student whose parents decided to pay for her education and her dorm room while leaving her on her own in terms of personal safety.
Together, we’ve come across all manner of humanity: a black gay dwarf named Chucky who dances for pocket change on board the 217 bus Saturday nights in Hollywood; or our dear friend Kent, an erudite fiftysomething gay man who has tried for the past three years to convince me that we could be more than friends, and forcing Heather to play my girlfriend on numerous occasions just so he would LITERALLY get off my back.
Then there are the people in costumes. We’ve seen a guy in a giant Tigger costume, a teenage dweeb dressed in Jedi robes with a light saber who muttered “It’s a living” in a pissed-off voice when I said he must really be quite a “Star Wars” fan. We’ve seen white men in curly ‘fros that would put Black Panthers to shame. Or a guy who looked like Kato Kaelin with Keith Richards-worthy wrinkles, who rolled his tongue out to reveal the wrapped up packets of heroin he hides in his mouth to avoid the police each day.
But our favorite had to be the black transvestite who was built like an NFL cornerback yet managed to look rather stunning in a glittering purple dress and a wig that made he/she/it look like one of Tina Turner’s backup singers. The best part was when they went from talking seductively in a woman’s voice to barking out “Hold that train!” like he’s Barry White on a killing spree.
You learn a lot on a train, or especially on a bus, in LA. I’ve been privy to conversations between criminals and their friends, in which a guy fresh out of jail and still wearing a City Jail uniform shirt is already hatching his next big crime spree after running into a fellow ex-con buddy who’s now a security guard. Another time I got caught sitting directly between two guys from rival gangs who recognized each other from the time they spent in prison together, and nearly decided to restart their rivalry and attempt killing each other right then and there. When I asked if I could please slip out of their way, they finally calmed down and laughed about it, before agreeing to tutor me in prison slang and the best way to start a car without a key.
THAT”S info you need for the real world, and it’s only a buck 25.
We’ve seen aging strippers attempt to pole dance on board train cars while other passengers begged her to keep her clothes ON, street preachers telling us how to get saved while making us feel extremely endangered, and a black man in Chinese robes who jumped off the train car at each stop before busting a few dance moves and leaping back on again.
Ah, but one can’t forget the scents on board either. Aromatic splendors abound, strange smells that can be found nowhere else thanks to the mysterious mingling of humanity, nasty leftover food and general lingering haze of alcohol that hangs in the air like an old closet filled with mothballs. It’s so bad that a fantasy of mine and Heather’s is to spend a day riding the rail system while leaping on and off cars and spraying Febreze into the air. The only thing holding us back is wondering if we’d confuse and startle people with actual fresh-smelling air and have them thinking we were waging a mobile terrorist attack instead. .
Last year, amazingly, the MTA announced that it was named the best transit system in America. How this happened is beyond me. Or if it really IS true, it makes me weep for our nation and fuels my desire to move to Canada the moment our presidential election is over.
The MTA brags about this victory, with splashy onboard ads that show pictures of happy, smiling people gazing into each other’s eyes while saying “Take Metro to Flirt.” Now anyone who’s ever ridden the MTA more than twice knows that there’s NOBODY onboard that you’d want to flirt with, including me. I once had a drunk Mexican guy nearly puked on me while I was wearing a suit on board the 2 bus on Sunset on a Friday night – and that’s the closest I ever want to come to exchanging bodily fluids with ANYONE onboard the MTA.
Other ads say, “Take Metro To Go Out” or “We’ll Get You Home Safely.” I’m sorry, but if I had a choice, I’d still take my car. I’d rather risk a drunk driving ticket because at least in my own personal vehicle I won’t have a bum pass out on my shoulder.
Even worse are ads that say “Take Metro to Shop”, featuring Paris Hilton holding a gold handbag she just spent $5000 on on Rodeo Drive. Yeah, I’m sure the first thing she’s looking for after a shopping spree is the next bus or train. They should be a little more realistic and say “Take Metro to Shop” while showing a closeup of someone’s hand turning purple from holding 52 plastic bags from the 99 Cents store. That’s MY reality.
But is there ANYTHING normal, or pleasant, that happens aboard the MTA, you ask? On occasion there’s a driver with extra flair and personality, like a guy named JB who treated his riders with such friendly attention that they formed a club called The Loco 180 and rode together night after night for years, trading funny stories between JB’s illegal stops at Hooters to buy chicken wings for everyone onboard or for equally illegal 7-11 Slurpee runs.
There’s also the opportunity to learn about all types of people. Not just the freaks, but sometimes you can have a conversation in the same bus ride with a young couple from Sweden and an Iraqi refugee. It’s almost like attending the UN without having to spend the money for plane fare. At the same time, mass transit is our ultimate social equalizer, the last true vestige of honest democracy in action as you come to realize that ANYONE – truly ANYONE – can sit right down next to you and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. I think that every presidential candidate should be forced to ride the Los Angeles MTA for a year as a test of character and courage and as a way of seeing the REAL America in a way that small-town diner photo opps never will.
People say that mass transit is the wave of the future, even here in LA. As gas prices soar and the environment goes in the toilet, more and more of you – yes, you, the supposedly normal, suburban yuppies and middle and upper-class homeowners – will be adding to the mix and experiencing the exotic wonders of a Los Angeles bus ride for yourselves.
My only advice to you is threefold: 1) always carry a cellphone for emergency phone calls to the authorities. 2) sneak a can of Febreze into your purse, backpack or briefcase for those emergency “special moments” when you just can’t take the actual scents on board anymore. And 3) always have a camera at the ready, whether by phone or otherwise, to record evidence – either for the inevitable police investigation, or at least for your friends and family who just can’t believe what you saw that day.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
HOW MY BEST FRIEND HELPED ME GET A KILLER OFF MY COUCH AND THEN NEARLY GOT ME BUSTED BY THE FEDS (no aka necessary here - it's all true!!)
I’ve never had a friend quite like “Adam”. I’ve always typecast him as “the Brit,” and he is one of those people with a magnetic personality who skates his way through life on charm and the ability to just slightly con nearly everyone he meets out of a little something: a free chai latte at Starbucks, or an extra movie ticket, all the way on up to a free car and even a free place to stay for months at a time.
The most memorable cons he’s carried off have to be the cars. Only one was outright free; the others are an assortment of surprisingly decent-looking beaters that cost an average of $450 and have an average life span of 9 months each before they either conk out in the middle of the 110 freeway or literally catch fire on the Lake Avenue exit ramp off the 134. Each time one dies, he will sit sadly, contemplating for literally just a moment, and say “Oh well, $450 for 9 months of a car? That’s what, $50 a month? AMAZing!” and then it’s on to the next little favor that he rarely seems to return.
People just love the guy due to his saucy British charm, joyful personality and surprisingly decent teeth. Women also love him for being fit, funny and able to think of witty comments on the fly – all factors that make up for the fact he has a quickly receding hairline at just 32 years of age.
I became his best friend when he realized that through my entertainment reporting job, I have access to tons of free events and the occasional meeting with a celebrity. He wants to meet Sam Jackson or Ewan McGregor while seeing “Star Wars” films earlier than anyone else? Fine, I need a ride to said premieres because a sleep disorder leaves me unable to drive. It is a match made in heaven, and like Ferris Bueller and Cameron we are pretty much inseparable. We are like-minded souls looking to coast our way through life in LA getting as many free and cheap opportunities as possible together.
I meet him the first time on the set of a Kelly Clarkson video where we are hired to portray paparazzi. It is perfect symbolism for our lives and our takes on LA: pretending to be the most obnoxious hangers-on in LA society for a fictional storyline. But what makes us stand out is that we are supposed to take a couple of photos with flashing fake cameras and not show our faces, pretending to snap pictures at a movie premiere Kelly is attending.
Only I am determined to be noticed, dammit! So I take a couple of snaps and then would pull my camera down and yell, “Kelly!” Or “Work it, girl!” and occasionally yell out at one of the extras that looks like a celebrity, like the dude who is a dead ringer for Ted Danson. “Yo, Ted! Danson! Becker!” I yell and make the crowd around me burst out laughing. “Adam” quickly slips in behind me and starts doing the same thing. Even though it drives the director nuts, it bumps the crowd’s energy up on an overnight shoot and we not only get our faces seen in the final video, but also receive bonuses for livening things up.
So it is a couple months later that I am a little too generous and offer my couch for a night to a guy named Bill, a 40ish guy who is one of the “regulars “ at the Barnes & Noble I work at part time. “Regulars” were people who are anything BUT regular members of society, just who regularly hang out at our store reading our books and magazines for free while driving away our REAL customers through a mix of their literally crazy behavior and even more literal mysterious odors.
Bill is one of the cleaner ones, but I see him begging for change outside the AMPM gas station on my way home one Sunday night. He tells me he is due in court at 8 a.m. to see a judge about something. I should ask about what, but instead I tell him I have an extra room or a couch and he can sleep in one of those so he’ll be fresh for the court in the morning.
Bill takes up my offer, which I think will be for one night. But after I come home that night, he turns up on my lawn again, yelling for me to come down. It was after doing so that he informed me of another wrinkle in his situation: the judge won’t let him change halfway houses without deliberating about it for another week.
“Halfway house?” I ask. “Yeah, for drug rehab,” he says. “I’m over the habit, man. Just slipped once and busted my probation.”
Again apparently lacking all reason and sense of self-preservation, I try to empathize with that and so I let him stay a couple more days, telling my landlady and neighbors that Bill is my mom’s cousin so that they don’t think something strange was going on. But then Bill wanders the hall and hangs out on the front porch with his shirt off and his prison tattoos in full sight – tattoos I didn’t know anything about before!
All my landlady can say is, “Your mom certainly has some colorful relatives.”
Great! Now I’ve brought my mother into my secret shame, and have no way of really kicking Bill out because everyone there will think I’m an asshole for kicking out a relative! Maybe most people don’t care about what others would think, but it was firmly rooted in my upper-middle-class, suburban, guilt-tripped Catholic upbringing that we are always to worry about the outside world would think of our actions! Wanna have a woman sleep over? What will the mailman think as she’s leaving?!
But wait, it gets worse: Bill was one of those people who always needs to have a conversation, no matter how asinine. I, on the other hand, watch certain shows with an obsessive focus to detail. What makes this sad is that I admit I watch some really stupid shit sometimes.
So on the fourth night of that week, I’m watching Jay Leno’s monologue on “The Tonight Show” when Bill says he’s gotta tell me something – NOW. What he reveals was that he has killed a man before and gone to prison for it. Though it was an “accident” of course – like every killing in the history of crime. Turns out Bill was on a meth binge “with my old lady” – the only time I’ve ever heard that phrase outside of a “Starsky & Hutch” episode – in some cheap motel in east Pasadena when another friend in the room wouldn’t shut up.
Bill warned him to shut up or he’d punch him. The guy kept talking, Bill punched him and the guy snapped his head back against the TV that was hanging, mounted, out of the wall. He then fell forward and cracked his ribs on the room’s dresser before passing out. Bill and his old lady ran for it, but Bill was eventually caught and sent to prison for involuntary manslaughter.
And now he is on my couch. This is clearly a story designed to say, “I’m fucking staying in your place, as long as I fucking want.”
And that’s where “Adam” really comes into my life. I call literally everyone I know even tangentially – literally about 300 people – and ask them if they know someone who can move in, immediately, that night. My only prerequisite is that the person referred to me not be a killer – accidental or otherwise.
And so “Adam” calls me after hearing about the place, telling me “Cheers!” and agreeing to help me chase Bill out that night. Bill doesn’t believe me when I tell him an English friend of mine is moving in immediately – “You don’t have an English friend. Who does? And I’m not leaving ‘til I see the fucker.”
Well, the fucker shows up on schedule at 7 p.m. that night and the two of us manage to convince Bill to leave without getting the authorities involved. In exchange for saving me from the uncertain terror of impending, looming, ever-present death, “Adam” finagles staying with me for free and paying $200 a month after that.
And for the next six months, we have a blast. He is not only my roommate but my chauffeur and the two of us have access to nearly every party and event we want. Even after he moves out, we stay tight for four more years so far, dreaming up short films to do together, hosting shows together, and just generally serving as each other’s wingmen with women. I get more out of it socially than he did, catching the leftover glow of his socializing glory.
And then it all comes crashing to a halt two Sundays ago.
I go to pick up “Adam” at LAX after he went home to England for two weeks. The reason for the trip is perfect for him and his strange life. He has been approached a few months before by a man who says he might be Adam’s father. Of course, all his life, Adam thinks another guy is his father. The whole thing turns into a real-life, very British version of the Maury Povich show, as the mystery father offers Adam a free trip home if he agrees to take a blood test and settle the question of who is his father.
It turns out the new guy is his dad after all, but Adam manages to make it work out well with everyone involved: new, real dad, fake, old dad and mom – the lady who’d slept with them both, creating a real-life “Mamma Mia’ situation. Adam calls to tell me he has two families now, including a couple of hot half-sisters that he is now thankful he’d never shagged.
But when Adam comes back to LAX, he is acting a little sketchy. He asks me to pick him up, but never gives me the flight number or airline before he hangs up – just a time: 2 p.m. I wait and search for two hours, his voicemail full and his not accepting calls or calling me, before someone suggests I check out the customs office.
There I learn he got busted and is being shipped home. His visa has always been strange – he officially has one year but someone “accidentally” typed in 10 years and he never bothered to complain about it. He’s managed to ride out 5 years here in the States including a different trip home without getting caught, but this time he botches his stories. I always wonder if he made that mistake himself or if he paid someone to make it. But he is my key into a whole other social strata – especially when he starts attending Bel Air Presbyterian Church and starts getting invited to house parties in the ritziest parts of town.
To one customs officer, he says he is a Christian missionary. To another, he says he is a cruise ship entertainer. And when he manages to get on the phone with me for a second, he wants me to tell them we are roommates who are also a duo cruise ship act.
“Why don’t you just get us a marriage license while you’re at it?” I sarcastically reply.
There is an awkward pause on his end just then. I think he has actually considered doing just that.
I realize that those of you reading or hearing this may assume that I have no personal standards, considering I allow a meth-taking killer onto my couch without checking his background. But faking a marriage to my best male friend is indeed where I draw a line in the sand.
It doesn’t matter anyway, because the feds hear “Adam” asking me to make up the roommate/entertainer story and abruptly takes the phone away, ending our call. It is just the last straw in that day’s problems, in which he can’t name what church he is with, or what ship we are on when the officers ask. A moment later, I realize that if I lie to the officials, I’m probably going down the tubes of the legal system with him.
And it’s that realization that troubles me most. Somewhere in the Bible it says that to lay down your life for another is a great thing. But this sacrifice is rooted in dishonesty, what I’ve come to realize is a pattern of constant spin. (And I know I'm no angel: I was a really needy, co-dependent kind of friend much of the time and we had plenty of arguments.)
So, a half-hour later I watch as the dude who is my best friend ever, whom people have always laughed about us having a “bromance” together, is led past me in cuffs by two burly pissed-off customs guards. He is getting a free trip back to the motherland from Uncle Sam, though he is now able to have two families help him through it. As he glides past, he has one of his beloved teas in his hand and a smile on his face, saying “They won’t let me talk now, bro – Cheers!” as if he is a pop star being pushed through by bodyguards. And this time all I can do is watch – like the director of that Kelly Clarkson video originally ordered me to do so long ago.
The most memorable cons he’s carried off have to be the cars. Only one was outright free; the others are an assortment of surprisingly decent-looking beaters that cost an average of $450 and have an average life span of 9 months each before they either conk out in the middle of the 110 freeway or literally catch fire on the Lake Avenue exit ramp off the 134. Each time one dies, he will sit sadly, contemplating for literally just a moment, and say “Oh well, $450 for 9 months of a car? That’s what, $50 a month? AMAZing!” and then it’s on to the next little favor that he rarely seems to return.
People just love the guy due to his saucy British charm, joyful personality and surprisingly decent teeth. Women also love him for being fit, funny and able to think of witty comments on the fly – all factors that make up for the fact he has a quickly receding hairline at just 32 years of age.
I became his best friend when he realized that through my entertainment reporting job, I have access to tons of free events and the occasional meeting with a celebrity. He wants to meet Sam Jackson or Ewan McGregor while seeing “Star Wars” films earlier than anyone else? Fine, I need a ride to said premieres because a sleep disorder leaves me unable to drive. It is a match made in heaven, and like Ferris Bueller and Cameron we are pretty much inseparable. We are like-minded souls looking to coast our way through life in LA getting as many free and cheap opportunities as possible together.
I meet him the first time on the set of a Kelly Clarkson video where we are hired to portray paparazzi. It is perfect symbolism for our lives and our takes on LA: pretending to be the most obnoxious hangers-on in LA society for a fictional storyline. But what makes us stand out is that we are supposed to take a couple of photos with flashing fake cameras and not show our faces, pretending to snap pictures at a movie premiere Kelly is attending.
Only I am determined to be noticed, dammit! So I take a couple of snaps and then would pull my camera down and yell, “Kelly!” Or “Work it, girl!” and occasionally yell out at one of the extras that looks like a celebrity, like the dude who is a dead ringer for Ted Danson. “Yo, Ted! Danson! Becker!” I yell and make the crowd around me burst out laughing. “Adam” quickly slips in behind me and starts doing the same thing. Even though it drives the director nuts, it bumps the crowd’s energy up on an overnight shoot and we not only get our faces seen in the final video, but also receive bonuses for livening things up.
So it is a couple months later that I am a little too generous and offer my couch for a night to a guy named Bill, a 40ish guy who is one of the “regulars “ at the Barnes & Noble I work at part time. “Regulars” were people who are anything BUT regular members of society, just who regularly hang out at our store reading our books and magazines for free while driving away our REAL customers through a mix of their literally crazy behavior and even more literal mysterious odors.
Bill is one of the cleaner ones, but I see him begging for change outside the AMPM gas station on my way home one Sunday night. He tells me he is due in court at 8 a.m. to see a judge about something. I should ask about what, but instead I tell him I have an extra room or a couch and he can sleep in one of those so he’ll be fresh for the court in the morning.
Bill takes up my offer, which I think will be for one night. But after I come home that night, he turns up on my lawn again, yelling for me to come down. It was after doing so that he informed me of another wrinkle in his situation: the judge won’t let him change halfway houses without deliberating about it for another week.
“Halfway house?” I ask. “Yeah, for drug rehab,” he says. “I’m over the habit, man. Just slipped once and busted my probation.”
Again apparently lacking all reason and sense of self-preservation, I try to empathize with that and so I let him stay a couple more days, telling my landlady and neighbors that Bill is my mom’s cousin so that they don’t think something strange was going on. But then Bill wanders the hall and hangs out on the front porch with his shirt off and his prison tattoos in full sight – tattoos I didn’t know anything about before!
All my landlady can say is, “Your mom certainly has some colorful relatives.”
Great! Now I’ve brought my mother into my secret shame, and have no way of really kicking Bill out because everyone there will think I’m an asshole for kicking out a relative! Maybe most people don’t care about what others would think, but it was firmly rooted in my upper-middle-class, suburban, guilt-tripped Catholic upbringing that we are always to worry about the outside world would think of our actions! Wanna have a woman sleep over? What will the mailman think as she’s leaving?!
But wait, it gets worse: Bill was one of those people who always needs to have a conversation, no matter how asinine. I, on the other hand, watch certain shows with an obsessive focus to detail. What makes this sad is that I admit I watch some really stupid shit sometimes.
So on the fourth night of that week, I’m watching Jay Leno’s monologue on “The Tonight Show” when Bill says he’s gotta tell me something – NOW. What he reveals was that he has killed a man before and gone to prison for it. Though it was an “accident” of course – like every killing in the history of crime. Turns out Bill was on a meth binge “with my old lady” – the only time I’ve ever heard that phrase outside of a “Starsky & Hutch” episode – in some cheap motel in east Pasadena when another friend in the room wouldn’t shut up.
Bill warned him to shut up or he’d punch him. The guy kept talking, Bill punched him and the guy snapped his head back against the TV that was hanging, mounted, out of the wall. He then fell forward and cracked his ribs on the room’s dresser before passing out. Bill and his old lady ran for it, but Bill was eventually caught and sent to prison for involuntary manslaughter.
And now he is on my couch. This is clearly a story designed to say, “I’m fucking staying in your place, as long as I fucking want.”
And that’s where “Adam” really comes into my life. I call literally everyone I know even tangentially – literally about 300 people – and ask them if they know someone who can move in, immediately, that night. My only prerequisite is that the person referred to me not be a killer – accidental or otherwise.
And so “Adam” calls me after hearing about the place, telling me “Cheers!” and agreeing to help me chase Bill out that night. Bill doesn’t believe me when I tell him an English friend of mine is moving in immediately – “You don’t have an English friend. Who does? And I’m not leaving ‘til I see the fucker.”
Well, the fucker shows up on schedule at 7 p.m. that night and the two of us manage to convince Bill to leave without getting the authorities involved. In exchange for saving me from the uncertain terror of impending, looming, ever-present death, “Adam” finagles staying with me for free and paying $200 a month after that.
And for the next six months, we have a blast. He is not only my roommate but my chauffeur and the two of us have access to nearly every party and event we want. Even after he moves out, we stay tight for four more years so far, dreaming up short films to do together, hosting shows together, and just generally serving as each other’s wingmen with women. I get more out of it socially than he did, catching the leftover glow of his socializing glory.
And then it all comes crashing to a halt two Sundays ago.
I go to pick up “Adam” at LAX after he went home to England for two weeks. The reason for the trip is perfect for him and his strange life. He has been approached a few months before by a man who says he might be Adam’s father. Of course, all his life, Adam thinks another guy is his father. The whole thing turns into a real-life, very British version of the Maury Povich show, as the mystery father offers Adam a free trip home if he agrees to take a blood test and settle the question of who is his father.
It turns out the new guy is his dad after all, but Adam manages to make it work out well with everyone involved: new, real dad, fake, old dad and mom – the lady who’d slept with them both, creating a real-life “Mamma Mia’ situation. Adam calls to tell me he has two families now, including a couple of hot half-sisters that he is now thankful he’d never shagged.
But when Adam comes back to LAX, he is acting a little sketchy. He asks me to pick him up, but never gives me the flight number or airline before he hangs up – just a time: 2 p.m. I wait and search for two hours, his voicemail full and his not accepting calls or calling me, before someone suggests I check out the customs office.
There I learn he got busted and is being shipped home. His visa has always been strange – he officially has one year but someone “accidentally” typed in 10 years and he never bothered to complain about it. He’s managed to ride out 5 years here in the States including a different trip home without getting caught, but this time he botches his stories. I always wonder if he made that mistake himself or if he paid someone to make it. But he is my key into a whole other social strata – especially when he starts attending Bel Air Presbyterian Church and starts getting invited to house parties in the ritziest parts of town.
To one customs officer, he says he is a Christian missionary. To another, he says he is a cruise ship entertainer. And when he manages to get on the phone with me for a second, he wants me to tell them we are roommates who are also a duo cruise ship act.
“Why don’t you just get us a marriage license while you’re at it?” I sarcastically reply.
There is an awkward pause on his end just then. I think he has actually considered doing just that.
I realize that those of you reading or hearing this may assume that I have no personal standards, considering I allow a meth-taking killer onto my couch without checking his background. But faking a marriage to my best male friend is indeed where I draw a line in the sand.
It doesn’t matter anyway, because the feds hear “Adam” asking me to make up the roommate/entertainer story and abruptly takes the phone away, ending our call. It is just the last straw in that day’s problems, in which he can’t name what church he is with, or what ship we are on when the officers ask. A moment later, I realize that if I lie to the officials, I’m probably going down the tubes of the legal system with him.
And it’s that realization that troubles me most. Somewhere in the Bible it says that to lay down your life for another is a great thing. But this sacrifice is rooted in dishonesty, what I’ve come to realize is a pattern of constant spin. (And I know I'm no angel: I was a really needy, co-dependent kind of friend much of the time and we had plenty of arguments.)
So, a half-hour later I watch as the dude who is my best friend ever, whom people have always laughed about us having a “bromance” together, is led past me in cuffs by two burly pissed-off customs guards. He is getting a free trip back to the motherland from Uncle Sam, though he is now able to have two families help him through it. As he glides past, he has one of his beloved teas in his hand and a smile on his face, saying “They won’t let me talk now, bro – Cheers!” as if he is a pop star being pushed through by bodyguards. And this time all I can do is watch – like the director of that Kelly Clarkson video originally ordered me to do so long ago.
FROM "STINKFIST" TO FINE WINE SCENTS: The story of Tool singer Maynard James Keenan
If you wanna know why a guy who sold 13 million albums with a band called Tool and songs about "Stinkfist" (if you don't know what that means, you don't wanna!) and "Prison Sex" (ditto!) is now making fine wines and asking you to sniff it, then go to my "Wide World of Film" blog http://famousfunnypeople.blogspot.com/2008/09/from-stinkfist-to-fine-wine-scents.html and check it out!!!
Monday, September 15, 2008
WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF SAMUEL L. JACKSON MOVED IN NEXT DOOR?
Read all about Jackson's fantastic performance as the Neighbor from Hell in the new thriller "Lakeview Terrace" at my other blog, "Wide World of Film." Up now, movie's out Friday- good flick! Its at http://wildfilm.blogspot.com/2008/09/how-scared-would-you-be-if-samuel-l.html Then stick around and read other celeb profiles! If you like what you see, let other blog fans know! Thanks!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
GOOD GOD, AM I TURNING MIDDLE-AGED ALREADY!? (aka a rare, brief moment of personal reflection and self-awareness)
So this has been an interesting year so far: sold my first essay to MSN.com, been headlining storytelling shows all over LA, now taking a class with one of the best story/performance teachers in the country and just landed a radio show on a big time station (KRLA - AM, home of Dennis Miller!) after 2 years of trying to break through.
But with that radio break, being picked up by a conservative radio station (even if we are trying to be funny on it) has completely made me wonder just what the hell has happened to me in the past few months.
I'll be exploring some of the things that i've been going through since June in another essay, but let's just say I bottomed out on a few levels (nothing to do with drugs or alcohol). Since then i've been working harder than i ever have before to become a good human being and more importantly a healthy one. But as I've gone through hypnotherapy (its OWN ball of wax, you'll see that too!) I've come to reclaim the passions and attitudes i had been ignoring for years at my core. It's made me more spiritual, got me back into music more than ever, set my movie habit on fire, and... apparently turned me into a right-wing jerk again.
It began with a vague distrust of Obama and grew and grew (there's other essays about that on this site). But now that i"m actually gonna make money doing my political harangues (along with my good friends Jake and Brant), I've been watching as much Obama-ness as i can (i.e. hs Letterman appearance last night) and then watched Bill O'Reilly's four-night showdown with the O-man on the "Factor" show.
This is the first time i've actually WATCHED the "O'Reilly Factor" on purpose (as opposed to seeing it on monitors in airport lounges where i couldn't change the channel). And I've come to think of a few things.
I'd heard O'Reilly is just a horrible human being, when in reality i think he's a compelling presence (again, i don't know if something's wrong with me!). But the thing is, I also don't understand what's wrong with the guy! As in, not that there's NOTHING wrong, but what the hell IS it with him?!
I've seen "The Colbert Report" plenty, and know that it mocks O'Reilly. But i had no idea that the real-life, ostensibly serious Bill actually has nearly everything he says appear in writing on the screen next to his face - AS HE"S SAYING IT!!!!
Does he think we're f-ing retarded?! Is HE?!
WHY would someone have the very thing they're saying put in writing next to his head while he's saying it?! Does he think we're all deaf from the shouting he does each night?
The other thing that makes me worry that i've crossed the line into middle age-ness is that I don't understand technology (I've never played XBox, Playstation, Guitar Hero, Dance Dance Revolution or any of that s***! And i hate the concept of IPhones forcing us all to be sheep in lines (see other essay in this blog for more on THAT). And I only got my first real cell phone 2 years ago, at age 35!!! I just bought an MP3 player two months ago, loaded it up with CDs (none of which were from this decade, I assure you! Another old man trait!!!) and then proceeded to LOSE it!!!!!
But the thing that REALLY pisses me off to no end is tattoos. I've never seen so many of 'em til i moved out to LA, so maybe it's a geographical anger rather than an age-related one. But because everyday is a beach-worthy day in Southern California (i'm not kidding!!! 24/7/365!!!) people seem to flaunt them more than other places.
Seriously, WTF are you thinking when you cover your entire shaved head in tattoos? Do you just plan on never working a day in your life again?! Do these nitwits ever have second thoughts? Do they ever have thoughts, PERIOD!?! Last night i saw some amorphous blob of a human being (i seriously couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, and I"M 300 pounds so I can judge!!!) asleep on the red line train to Union Station, who had what looked like an open bloody wound on their cheek but in reality was...Tada! A tattoo of two dripping cherries! Right on their friggin' cheek!! Their CHEEK!!!! WHY?????? And then on their throat area, in ever-so-tasteful cursive font that mostly Latino tattoo recipients seem to favor, were the words "Candy Shop." Oh, and i almost forgot the two piercings jutting out of his/her/ITS lip and the indeterminate, also-cursive tattoo just above their eyebrows?
Would you hire that person? Or run the other way?
Yet i'm always thinking "I guess they dont' want to ever work again." Or "good luck getting a decent job with that!?"
But now, in my increasing moments of clarity about my own faults and weaknesses, I'm starting to realize these pinheads probably DO have jobs, and they're probably making a lot more than me.
Journalism don't getcha rich.
Maybe I'm just jealous. I'll get a picture of Obama tattooed on my a**.
But with that radio break, being picked up by a conservative radio station (even if we are trying to be funny on it) has completely made me wonder just what the hell has happened to me in the past few months.
I'll be exploring some of the things that i've been going through since June in another essay, but let's just say I bottomed out on a few levels (nothing to do with drugs or alcohol). Since then i've been working harder than i ever have before to become a good human being and more importantly a healthy one. But as I've gone through hypnotherapy (its OWN ball of wax, you'll see that too!) I've come to reclaim the passions and attitudes i had been ignoring for years at my core. It's made me more spiritual, got me back into music more than ever, set my movie habit on fire, and... apparently turned me into a right-wing jerk again.
It began with a vague distrust of Obama and grew and grew (there's other essays about that on this site). But now that i"m actually gonna make money doing my political harangues (along with my good friends Jake and Brant), I've been watching as much Obama-ness as i can (i.e. hs Letterman appearance last night) and then watched Bill O'Reilly's four-night showdown with the O-man on the "Factor" show.
This is the first time i've actually WATCHED the "O'Reilly Factor" on purpose (as opposed to seeing it on monitors in airport lounges where i couldn't change the channel). And I've come to think of a few things.
I'd heard O'Reilly is just a horrible human being, when in reality i think he's a compelling presence (again, i don't know if something's wrong with me!). But the thing is, I also don't understand what's wrong with the guy! As in, not that there's NOTHING wrong, but what the hell IS it with him?!
I've seen "The Colbert Report" plenty, and know that it mocks O'Reilly. But i had no idea that the real-life, ostensibly serious Bill actually has nearly everything he says appear in writing on the screen next to his face - AS HE"S SAYING IT!!!!
Does he think we're f-ing retarded?! Is HE?!
WHY would someone have the very thing they're saying put in writing next to his head while he's saying it?! Does he think we're all deaf from the shouting he does each night?
The other thing that makes me worry that i've crossed the line into middle age-ness is that I don't understand technology (I've never played XBox, Playstation, Guitar Hero, Dance Dance Revolution or any of that s***! And i hate the concept of IPhones forcing us all to be sheep in lines (see other essay in this blog for more on THAT). And I only got my first real cell phone 2 years ago, at age 35!!! I just bought an MP3 player two months ago, loaded it up with CDs (none of which were from this decade, I assure you! Another old man trait!!!) and then proceeded to LOSE it!!!!!
But the thing that REALLY pisses me off to no end is tattoos. I've never seen so many of 'em til i moved out to LA, so maybe it's a geographical anger rather than an age-related one. But because everyday is a beach-worthy day in Southern California (i'm not kidding!!! 24/7/365!!!) people seem to flaunt them more than other places.
Seriously, WTF are you thinking when you cover your entire shaved head in tattoos? Do you just plan on never working a day in your life again?! Do these nitwits ever have second thoughts? Do they ever have thoughts, PERIOD!?! Last night i saw some amorphous blob of a human being (i seriously couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, and I"M 300 pounds so I can judge!!!) asleep on the red line train to Union Station, who had what looked like an open bloody wound on their cheek but in reality was...Tada! A tattoo of two dripping cherries! Right on their friggin' cheek!! Their CHEEK!!!! WHY?????? And then on their throat area, in ever-so-tasteful cursive font that mostly Latino tattoo recipients seem to favor, were the words "Candy Shop." Oh, and i almost forgot the two piercings jutting out of his/her/ITS lip and the indeterminate, also-cursive tattoo just above their eyebrows?
Would you hire that person? Or run the other way?
Yet i'm always thinking "I guess they dont' want to ever work again." Or "good luck getting a decent job with that!?"
But now, in my increasing moments of clarity about my own faults and weaknesses, I'm starting to realize these pinheads probably DO have jobs, and they're probably making a lot more than me.
Journalism don't getcha rich.
Maybe I'm just jealous. I'll get a picture of Obama tattooed on my a**.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
WOW THIS IS ONE WEIRD ELECTION!!! JOKES...
Before I get into anything substantive, I thought I'd throw a few news jokes at ya. These are by me, for good and bad (or bad and worse):
Did you hear about McCain's choice for Vice President? He picked a real hottie, Sarah Palin, the Governor of Alaska. Who knew the VP could be a MILF? Better watch what I say, or the FBI's gonna be after my A.S.S.
Everyone took one look at her and finally agreed Alaska's a great place to go drilling.
I've heard of swing states, but who knew Alaska's a "Schwing!" state?
Her husband is part Eskimo. So you know he'll be rubbing his nose in everyone's business.
Hillary's pissed that the Republicans picked a woman. Bill just wants to know if he can trade Hillary in for her.
Geez, this has happened so fast and dramatically, I have to ask if she's supposed to lead the free world, or if this is simply a new reality series for Lifetime?
Palin's one tough cookie, though. She hunts, fishes, snowmobiles - and i think i just saw her behind the wheel on "Ice Road Truckers."
I don't know about Obama, though. He wants to be leader of the free world with just two years' experience. Come on! You need five years if you wanna manage a Circuit City.
They're telling everyone to flee Gustav. Who's naming the hurricanes these days? Gustav doesn't sound like a threat - it sounds like an old German. What's next - Hurricane Klink?
Shannen Doherty's coming back to he new "Beverly Hills 90210". She 's now so old, that's not just her ZIP code. It's her age.
Did you hear about McCain's choice for Vice President? He picked a real hottie, Sarah Palin, the Governor of Alaska. Who knew the VP could be a MILF? Better watch what I say, or the FBI's gonna be after my A.S.S.
Everyone took one look at her and finally agreed Alaska's a great place to go drilling.
I've heard of swing states, but who knew Alaska's a "Schwing!" state?
Her husband is part Eskimo. So you know he'll be rubbing his nose in everyone's business.
Hillary's pissed that the Republicans picked a woman. Bill just wants to know if he can trade Hillary in for her.
Geez, this has happened so fast and dramatically, I have to ask if she's supposed to lead the free world, or if this is simply a new reality series for Lifetime?
Palin's one tough cookie, though. She hunts, fishes, snowmobiles - and i think i just saw her behind the wheel on "Ice Road Truckers."
I don't know about Obama, though. He wants to be leader of the free world with just two years' experience. Come on! You need five years if you wanna manage a Circuit City.
They're telling everyone to flee Gustav. Who's naming the hurricanes these days? Gustav doesn't sound like a threat - it sounds like an old German. What's next - Hurricane Klink?
Shannen Doherty's coming back to he new "Beverly Hills 90210". She 's now so old, that's not just her ZIP code. It's her age.
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