Come 10:30, things die down at work. Since I breeze through the Times by early morning, it’s customary to place a housekeeping call with intentions to freshen up the Bistro’s magazine stockpile. I sit at the bar and bide time, flipping through Vogue, Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, People, Premiere, W…
In case your bag of tricks excludes reading between the lines, I’ve reached an uber preliminary mid-life crisis doused with this screaming need to broaden personal horizons. And on that similar note, if you fail to read between lines, I have to apologize. My brilliance far exceeds your realization.
Every now and then in the mid-afternoon, we’ll get a walk in. Usually, they’re key.
And by key, I mean they’re in town on “business.” I assure you that “business” in Los Angeles is like business in no other city.
I’ve talked with Grammy winners as they traded dirt on performing with Madonna.
I heard a genius physicist’s pitch on the next billion dollar-advertising breakthrough. Trust me, it’s legit…like shit from Minority Report.
And last week, when a lovely lady stepped into my empty bar, I knew my immediate future would be anything but uneventful. She was a sight, first and foremost…and just booked the swimsuit issue cover of…I probably shouldn’t.
But I will tell that the follow up joke went something like…”how ironic that THIS job for THIS magazine is going to pay off my credit cards.”
…
There’s a certain style of people in this world I instantly adore. Speak to me like you don’t give a fuck about how I’ll judge you…speak to me like you will never see me again for the rest of your life and I’ll give you my ears and more. She did, so I did.
Sure, bonus points are awarded to cover girls, but really…that only gets you off the ground. Again, planes don’t fly themselves. I anchored in. Off we went.
…
Two bites through her chicken wrap, we were dug in. She lives in New York with an actor boyfriend in Los Angeles. I instantly felt for her…braving the distance. She was eating lunch alone at my counter, spilling her heart to a stranger. It’s my genetics. Something in my face that says I’ll do you no damage. You can trust me, you can confide in me. I wouldn’t often advise people to do such things, but they do. She did.
She raised her arms in the air, giddy, “I’m having a kid.” From here on in, perhaps it would be best to work in dialogue. We’ll cut in and out, else it will take too long. And we’ll play one of my most favorite games: Spot the Red Flags.
…
-A kid! Congratulations.
-No, not yet. I came to L.A. to tell him that if he didn’t want to have a kid with me, I would find someone else.
-What did he say?
-He said okay.
-The ultimatum route. That’s…one way to do it.
-I’m 23, I want a kid.
-Does he work? At least enough to, you know?
-Yeah, he works.
-Is he good?
-Yeah. At least I think so. People say he’s pretty good. And he makes a lot of money.
-Throw me a name, maybe I’ve heard of him.
-@@@@@@@@
-The Oscar winner?
-Yeah.
-Yeah…he’s pretty really amazing fucking good.
…
The phones in the restaurant went quiet. She sat there for over an hour, as if waiting for a face we both knew wasn’t going to come. When we hit a snag in the conversation, she would drop gems like, “I can’t believe the pictures we were taking last night. They were out of control.”
She said it once, I laughed. She mentioned it twice, I smiled. After the third drop…
-Show me the fucking snaps!
Which led us into a conversation about the Colin Farrell sex tape. If you haven’t seen it, don’t. I wish I never did. Not that I rush out to see Colin Farrell movies, but I know I’ll never be able to give one an honest chance again. Hilarious.
…
She asked about the wildest thing I had seen at the hotel. Two weeks prior, the porn awards rolled through town. I went up to a room to drop a bottle of champagne and orange juice to three lesbian-ish porn stars. Ten minutes later, they called back, asking for a wine menu. Every ten minutes, they would call back. Sometimes for wine, sometimes for nothing but face time. Sweet girls…at least as far as porn stars go, I imagine.
I told my cover girl that on the last visit, they were all in bed together. It wasn’t much of a surprise. The walls had been slowly crumbling all afternoon. Truth be told, I was expecting it. They knew my shift was ending. I said goodbye with a side note that they brightened my day. Yes, I drop shit like that. As I reached for the door, one of them leapt up, kissed me on the cheek and verbatim…
-Punch out and get that ass up here.
…
-What happened?
-I didn’t go.
-What?! Are you fucking kidding me?! I’m a chick and I would have been up there in three seconds.
-Only one of them was hot.
-So?
-So, I’m tough like that.
-Give me a fucking break. I can’t believe you.
-It wouldn’t have been worth losing my job. I like it here.
-So don’t get caught.
-That’s not the point. And, let’s not forget, they were porn stars.
-Exactly!
-It’s possible we work on different levels.
-So you would never do something like that?
-I didn’t say that.
-What did you say?
-Not unless it’s worth losing my job.
-And how do you know?
-You know. You always know.
-I can’t believe I booked the red eye. I’m stuck here all day.
-Don’t you have any friends out here?
-They’re busy.
-What about @@@@@@@@?
-He’s…look, I’m not a fool enough to pretend he doesn’t see other people.
-Can I get you anything else?
-No, I’m good. I think I’ll just go to my room, 419, watch Fox News for the rest of the day. Kill time. 419.
March 26, 2006
March 21, 2006
In Battle, There Is No Intermission...
Train your eyes. Learn to stare at an image, a symbol long enough and in the end, you’ll land in a reality so distorted it’s difficult to tell from which side you began…from which person you began.
My dreams are no longer, at least not often wild and obscure adventures. They’ve spun to obligations, duties to a world that in spurts…I seem to ignore.
In my dreams I fall in love, waking broken for ten minutes at a time. In my dreams, I am good and considerate. I am selfless, tucking friends under impenetrable wings. In my dreams, it takes me less than ten days to return phone calls. In my dreams, I don’t go missing. I’m a good person.
…
He walked through the city as a darkness covered the faces of buildings. It was a moment to introduce hands and dip heads, begging. A moment he could only hope to will away from eternity. If only…if only…if only.
The sun vanished weeks ago. And hope…a word with the power to mean and be so much or so little…long before that.
He was surrounded by a city of dead. With the swing of life long gone, his breath had grown empty. His smile and laugh and tears, invisible…silent...dry.
Victory was theirs. Defeat, ours.
He looked to the sky and asked forgiveness for all the injustice his heart had endured. He couldn’t speak, only feel. It was huge and overwhelming…nailing his feet to the ground to keep him from floating away.
It was in that moment, the sun burned a hole through its shroud.
The rains fell.
He looked to the Heavens and their tears covered his face. Within his next breath, he knew the pleas of his heart were met by those in the clouds…and beyond.
There was no promise, nor assurance. He asked for neither…
That was enough.
My dreams are no longer, at least not often wild and obscure adventures. They’ve spun to obligations, duties to a world that in spurts…I seem to ignore.
In my dreams I fall in love, waking broken for ten minutes at a time. In my dreams, I am good and considerate. I am selfless, tucking friends under impenetrable wings. In my dreams, it takes me less than ten days to return phone calls. In my dreams, I don’t go missing. I’m a good person.
…
He walked through the city as a darkness covered the faces of buildings. It was a moment to introduce hands and dip heads, begging. A moment he could only hope to will away from eternity. If only…if only…if only.
The sun vanished weeks ago. And hope…a word with the power to mean and be so much or so little…long before that.
He was surrounded by a city of dead. With the swing of life long gone, his breath had grown empty. His smile and laugh and tears, invisible…silent...dry.
Victory was theirs. Defeat, ours.
He looked to the sky and asked forgiveness for all the injustice his heart had endured. He couldn’t speak, only feel. It was huge and overwhelming…nailing his feet to the ground to keep him from floating away.
It was in that moment, the sun burned a hole through its shroud.
The rains fell.
He looked to the Heavens and their tears covered his face. Within his next breath, he knew the pleas of his heart were met by those in the clouds…and beyond.
There was no promise, nor assurance. He asked for neither…
That was enough.
March 06, 2006
On a Night of Golden Statues...
I’m throwing in the towel. I’m giving up. My tail is tucked and I’m headed back to the land from which I came. Okay, not really, but…
I don’t belong in Los Angeles, in the movie business. After all, I have no clue. My gauge is off, my readings are skewed. Worst of all, re-calibration at age 24 is both hopeless and impossible.
I watched as Crash was given a golden statue as the year’s best picture and my heart fell. My stomach, my lungs…and if you’ll allow, my soul.
I have lost faith in the Academy.
I’m not shy. I fucking hated Crash. So much that I have to irresponsibly lead with profanity in an attempt to paint my disdain.
Excuse me while I stage the dramatic, but I must get this point across…
Say you grew up believing in God. For as long as you can remember, your faith has been absolute, unwavering. You have trusted his guidance without question or suspicion. One thing leads to another, which leads to another. General, I know…but such is life. You find yourself at the county fair in Milton, Arkansas. Don’t look up Milton, Arkansas. Chances are, it doesn’t exist. You walk the rounds and find 5 ride tickets crumpled up on the ground. Lovely. So you buy a funnel cake and hit the Tilt-A-Whirl. Next thing you know, you’re alone at the front of the line. Thousands of people, none sharing a desire to tilt OR whirl, apparently. The operator calls your name and invites you to come aboard, which you reluctantly do. “But how did you know my name?” you ask. By which he responds, “Actually, it’s quite simple. I am God. Though, my true passion lies in the carnie arts. Six months out of the year, I please riders to their heart’s content…”
Suddenly, every word God speaks distances his proximity from being absolute. He stands not on rock, but ice. He can no longer face the tornado, but is blown off by a gentle gust. You watch as he wavers and feel loneliness greater than any you have previously known. All because of an inescapable, faith-murdering curiosity…
God runs the Tilt-A-Whirl?
…
Next time our paths cross, I want you to ask me a question. I’ll even include unisex formalities. It’s the kind of guy I am. Goes a little something like…
“Hey Reilly, how’s it going? It would pleasure me greatly to state this: you inspire my life. And let me also add, as a side note, that if our world met the fate of a near apocalyptic catastrophe and only one man could be selected to re-populate the entire species of man, I would be honored to spearhead your election committee. Now that I got that off my chest, I have a query. Would you rather, a) Purchase the movie Crash, allow it into your home and watch it for a second time, or b) Fuck a barbed wire mannequin?”
I can assure that in the seconds following…if you watch closely…you will bear witness to a pondering mind. Yes, that IS sincerity talking.
…
Trailers began popping up early April leading into the May 6th release. It was gripping. In fact, I drove all the way out to Universal City for the 12:01 show on Friday morning just to see it. I was ready for Paul Haggis to blow me back. I was ready to build upon my layers of love for Don Cheadle. I was ready to be pleasantly surprised by Sandra Bullock. I was even ready to look past the fact that Brendan Fraser is the most regrettable lead this town has ever lent stardom.
And beyond the eye rolling and face burying, I couldn’t help but feel as if someone were cashing out. This irresponsible thing was rolling out in front of me, exploiting race cards like trying to take a dive in Jenga. It was a “top this” of absurdity.
As the end credits rolled, I heard applause. As we were herded out, I listened as praises filled the halls. I looked around and thought to myself, “It’s a dupe. You’ve all been played.”
…
I despised Crash, yes. But I want to make very clear that I have NO problem with the millions who apparently made it their darling. After all, what’s art if not that? And although it is admittedly in my nature to at times fly against the grain for the pleasure of, I assure this is not one such instance.
Which brings me back to the Academy…
There is no greater way to cap off this year in film than to see Crash take home best picture. It felt like the 2004 Presidential Election. Certainly, this can’t be it. Or can it?
Can it?
…
I’m not going anywhere. Nights like this cement my foot into the ground. Nights like this lock me in for the long haul, so that I may never send accusations of hypocrisy to, well, myself for not being the agent of change I preach.
Because at some point, someone is going to have to stand up and fight for a town that has let go of its foundation. Someone who realizes it’s about more than exclusively taking the heart or mind for a successful ride, but having the decency and capability to take both. I know, it’s a rarity…but the time, it’s coming.
If history is any guide, I have little to lose sleep over on this troubled night. Change like this, it usually occurs in waves. They’re large. They’re violent. They’re sweeping…
And all they know to do…carry us away.
I don’t belong in Los Angeles, in the movie business. After all, I have no clue. My gauge is off, my readings are skewed. Worst of all, re-calibration at age 24 is both hopeless and impossible.
I watched as Crash was given a golden statue as the year’s best picture and my heart fell. My stomach, my lungs…and if you’ll allow, my soul.
I have lost faith in the Academy.
I’m not shy. I fucking hated Crash. So much that I have to irresponsibly lead with profanity in an attempt to paint my disdain.
Excuse me while I stage the dramatic, but I must get this point across…
Say you grew up believing in God. For as long as you can remember, your faith has been absolute, unwavering. You have trusted his guidance without question or suspicion. One thing leads to another, which leads to another. General, I know…but such is life. You find yourself at the county fair in Milton, Arkansas. Don’t look up Milton, Arkansas. Chances are, it doesn’t exist. You walk the rounds and find 5 ride tickets crumpled up on the ground. Lovely. So you buy a funnel cake and hit the Tilt-A-Whirl. Next thing you know, you’re alone at the front of the line. Thousands of people, none sharing a desire to tilt OR whirl, apparently. The operator calls your name and invites you to come aboard, which you reluctantly do. “But how did you know my name?” you ask. By which he responds, “Actually, it’s quite simple. I am God. Though, my true passion lies in the carnie arts. Six months out of the year, I please riders to their heart’s content…”
Suddenly, every word God speaks distances his proximity from being absolute. He stands not on rock, but ice. He can no longer face the tornado, but is blown off by a gentle gust. You watch as he wavers and feel loneliness greater than any you have previously known. All because of an inescapable, faith-murdering curiosity…
God runs the Tilt-A-Whirl?
…
Next time our paths cross, I want you to ask me a question. I’ll even include unisex formalities. It’s the kind of guy I am. Goes a little something like…
“Hey Reilly, how’s it going? It would pleasure me greatly to state this: you inspire my life. And let me also add, as a side note, that if our world met the fate of a near apocalyptic catastrophe and only one man could be selected to re-populate the entire species of man, I would be honored to spearhead your election committee. Now that I got that off my chest, I have a query. Would you rather, a) Purchase the movie Crash, allow it into your home and watch it for a second time, or b) Fuck a barbed wire mannequin?”
I can assure that in the seconds following…if you watch closely…you will bear witness to a pondering mind. Yes, that IS sincerity talking.
…
Trailers began popping up early April leading into the May 6th release. It was gripping. In fact, I drove all the way out to Universal City for the 12:01 show on Friday morning just to see it. I was ready for Paul Haggis to blow me back. I was ready to build upon my layers of love for Don Cheadle. I was ready to be pleasantly surprised by Sandra Bullock. I was even ready to look past the fact that Brendan Fraser is the most regrettable lead this town has ever lent stardom.
And beyond the eye rolling and face burying, I couldn’t help but feel as if someone were cashing out. This irresponsible thing was rolling out in front of me, exploiting race cards like trying to take a dive in Jenga. It was a “top this” of absurdity.
As the end credits rolled, I heard applause. As we were herded out, I listened as praises filled the halls. I looked around and thought to myself, “It’s a dupe. You’ve all been played.”
…
I despised Crash, yes. But I want to make very clear that I have NO problem with the millions who apparently made it their darling. After all, what’s art if not that? And although it is admittedly in my nature to at times fly against the grain for the pleasure of, I assure this is not one such instance.
Which brings me back to the Academy…
There is no greater way to cap off this year in film than to see Crash take home best picture. It felt like the 2004 Presidential Election. Certainly, this can’t be it. Or can it?
Can it?
…
I’m not going anywhere. Nights like this cement my foot into the ground. Nights like this lock me in for the long haul, so that I may never send accusations of hypocrisy to, well, myself for not being the agent of change I preach.
Because at some point, someone is going to have to stand up and fight for a town that has let go of its foundation. Someone who realizes it’s about more than exclusively taking the heart or mind for a successful ride, but having the decency and capability to take both. I know, it’s a rarity…but the time, it’s coming.
If history is any guide, I have little to lose sleep over on this troubled night. Change like this, it usually occurs in waves. They’re large. They’re violent. They’re sweeping…
And all they know to do…carry us away.
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