Hollywood Sunday...

I think I was at the bottom of my Blanche De Chambly, falling asleep in my bed at the condo as the Nelms boys were setting up the first shot of the short they were doing about guys and gals, dating and such. It was already past midnight.

We wrapped around 2:30. I saw them off soon after, found my way to bed by 3:30, dog wrapped around my legs, intent on keeping my stints of sleep on the short.

I showed up at work something around 9, decided again I need to stop working. I got off, got to the gym, burned off service rage before deciding again, I need to stop fucking working. Honestly.

I came home, showered, brought some Sancerre to a place up Beachwood, drank it, ate some cheese, caught up with an old Navigator.

I left, picked up a friend, headed to the wrap party of Sam Raimi's "Drag Me To Hell."

Remember my screen crushes. Met one. This one...


We had a moment. I left.

Drove around the La Brea's and Fairfax's of this town to Arcade Fire before swinging into Grand Lux...my Southwest salad.

Home.

Over my shoulder now, a full, full vouche, this...



I kinda dig this town.

Gisele Bundchen...

I've never really been a fan. At least in the gawker sense, the sense of ever being "struck." I think it's something in the eyes of a gal that gets me, that's just who I am. Then I saw the recent cover of GQ. Didn't really know how to handle this...

And I found it fascinating and beautiful and morbid, reading quotes from the article, snippets from the interview toting her in shades of "The globe's reining symbol of female perfection." And I guess by writing about it too, I make a contribution to what's morbid in obsession.

I read the article (GQ.com) and it's like there's this terrible struggle between the interviewer and Ms. B. And this struggle between Ms. B and herself. And there's this struggle between minority parts of the world that respect certain forms of beauty versus the majority that would prefer to bring them down.

"Look, I know who I am, and I know where I come from. I think there is danger obviously when you’re really young and they make you all glamorous and you start thinking you are that. I have been here for a while, and I do see girls.… You’re playing a role. The important thing for me that helped save me is that I never believed… This is exactly how I would describe my work: I get there, I put on the clothes, I leave it on the hanger, and I go home. And that’s what I do."

Fascinating. Fascinating because you take an 18 year old girl from Brazil, put her in the hands of 81 year old photog Arthur Penn. He comes up with this...

And lands her on the cover of Vogue. Nine years later, she's everything she is...has been for some time. 27 years old.

It's Always Sunny...

Parking Meters...

I have a problem giving money to the city of Beverly Hills. It's an adamant problem. So when I get a ticket, I contest it...no matter what. If I've been parked overnight in a tow away, street cleaning, loading zone...double parking a fire truck, I'll contest it.

Yesterday, when I got off work after midnight, I had a ticket on my windshield. Forty dollars. If a parking cop approached me saying that it's just their job, they're just doing their job, I would likely make a reference to Satan or Hitler while backing away and shaking my judgmental finger, "No no no no no. Thank you. Enjoy your time in this world." It wouldn't be my most composed or proud moments, and I would likely be crueler than I ought to be...but that's life.

When I go to contest, I have this vision, this hope that I'm notorious in the Beverly Hills Parking Citation Office of Appeals. When one of mine come in...like this morning, a bell rings, red lights flash. They all rush to grab it until a winner reads it out loud...

"I arrived at the parking meter ten minutes to 5 in the afternoon, gathered my things, approached the meter with 5 quarters. I knew this would be a sufficient amount of money to provide parking in the space until 6 o'clock, when the meters are no longer enforced. When I dropped my quarters, all five, the meter would not exceed 1 hour paid. Immediately, I realized the malfunction, however, couldn't move my car because I had no quarters left. If you could check the drop logs, you will see that they will validate my story, and prove that this appeal is just and valid. Thank you kindly. Reilly Winburn Smith."

You may think I have better things to do. Or that I know what a drop log is...or if they even exist. Think again.

Jerry Springer's "Lesbian Snowball Fight" is on on the TV over my shoulder.

Team Anderson...

Housesitting...

For the next 10 days, as my two friends trounce through the Tuscan fields, I'll be playing make believe and living in their humble abode above the Sunset Strip. They asked me because their dog is crazy and amazing and because she and I have a developing rapport. Situations like this sometimes make me stop and think about things like trust and why someone would give theirs to me...whether I would give it to me...whether the nightmares will start again now that I'm living in one of the city's tallest buildings.

I came back from the gym today, explained to the daytime shift of security that though I am a cretin, I was not there to make a delivery and that I would be staying in spread 802. I wandered, settled in, had a Pellegrino on the deck as the hyper sensitive dog judged me without approach for 30 minutes. 30 minutes! I was here last fucking night.

Did I mention the lighting? Just back from the gym? Or my overabundant self-love...camera in hand? Sometimes, I want to fuck myself. Perhaps one day, a great number of people will want me to do just that...

Ah, Brotherhood...

Do you ever look at children these days and say to yourself something along the lines of please let me die before this generation comes to fruition?




Well, I do.

My Behavior...

I do this thing in the elevator when I see a pod of approaching and aspiring riders...

If they start to make a break for the door, or rush, I go frantic, pretend like I have no idea how to stop the closing doors or how to decipher the semantics behind the "open door" button. Then, as the last inch closes on their hopeless faces, I give off a grunt like, "oh, technology...what can we do?" It's truly a brilliant performance.

The other day, I stepped in with a girl I knew and two strangers. From outside, two hopefuls began to approach. I said something like watch this and launched into my semi-tirade of confusion. When my friend tried to hit the "open door" button, I slapped her hand, watched as the doors closed. I grunted.

As we rode down two floors, I turned to my friend and smiled, in great anticipation of her sure to be admiring reaction. She said something like did you really just do that I'm glad I know that about you. She got out on the second floor with another rider, both disappointed in me, gave a dual hesitant goodbye.

The doors closed on me and another girl, a stranger. We rode down to the third floor, in momentary silence before, "I totally do that too." She smiled.

I wanted to make sweet elevator love to her right there.

Daria Werbowy...

Thank You, H&M Girl.

I walk out the gym, take the escalator down to the first floor, turn, come to face this as a billboard...



Whether people are with me, or if I'm alone, I usually say things like she's my wife or she's waiting for me. I find it helps to clear up any sexual ambiguity, which I find important...in this town.

Also she is...in fact...my wife.

An Evening With Bear Grylls...

I'm pretty sure I'm high. My apartment has no windows, only a sliding door that leads to the back deck. It's open, the fan is on, the AC...but still, I just painted every inch of this shoebox I call home and I think the fumes are getting to me.



Long ago, I stopped going out out on Friday nights...unless something really something shakes my tail feather, which is rare. Instead, you can find me here, spending evenings with a gentleman by the name of Bear Grylls. Also on this night, Mr. Indiana Jones.

You don't know who Bear Grylls is? Well, let me introduce you...



Wait. I'm not finished, nor is he...



...

After I painted my apartment, I cut my hair. I can't sit still. It's Friday and when I sometimes want to take off and pull together a BOTO, I usually find myself wandering to the only true wander worth mention in this town. The lovely, the daunting, the alluring Mulholland.

That's where you'll find me. Now. As a ghost when I'm gone.

The Killers...

A lot of people dumped or dumped on them after Sam's Town came out. Hilarious. I remember reading an article that quoted Brandon Flowers saying something about the smoke clearing, somewhere down the road...Sam's Town would go down as one of the greatest albums ever recorded. Now, I'm not quoting and could be off base, but I remember reading that and applauding. That album was my soundtrack in South Africa. It's what I listened to as I trekked up Lion's Head alone, after it was closed due to fog, battling bouts of Vertigo, thinking I was being hunted/would soon be bit by a death dealing snake with no one to help and I would end on top of that fucking mountain.

Brothers and sisters, those tunes are etched.

That doesn't mean Hot Fuss isn't. It is remarkable, indeed. When I look back on memories tied to songs and albums and find myself picking between roaming the South of Africa and blackout nights in the Hollywood Hills, I gotta give grat that the former holds this heart.

Then they pulled together this album called Sawdust. I was a little hesitant at first, thinking it was mostly comprised of mash ups and cut tracks. It's not. Or, it is...but it's not. While every track deserves a listen, if you aren't going to listen to them at all, please grab tracks 3 and 4. Because I care about you.

The first time I heard the drop, drop in "Bourbon," I wept. It crippled me. A thousand times later, it still does. And though this coming video doesn't hold the exact clout of the studio version, it serves dual purpose in backing that The Killers are possibly the most inspired band playing the world today...and this clip - the exact reason YouFuckingTube was invented.

Please, just watch his hands.

Tom Tykwer...

Thanks Pal...

Last week I went out with this girl...kinda put my head through the ceiling, somewhere short of the moon, but still. No fault of her own.

I thought she was a beautiful, admirably guarded…for stretches potentially remarkable. Though my years are few, my woes in the game of love weigh heavy. You could say it has left me somewhat colder, hesitant, apathetic. Others call me fucking bastard. Beauty of the game -- many can relate, none in the same. But this girl, something in her left me unwound.

And not just because I’m a seasonal lover.

We went out last week. I believed it to be borderline electric. You know, when a kiss is enough because there’ll be another day. Another day…I don’t often think in such a manner.

When that another day finally came (62 minutes ago), something in the air seemed heavy, significantly heavier than it was during our previous encounter. She was prepping for this tumble and I could feel it. Every line and word falling from our lips was only there as filler, something to dance around the scent of inevitable and it was maddening.

Now that hindsight is my friend, I can say I was hoping her confession to be anything other than what it was. You're a bigot? Passionate. Intolerant? Focused. Monger for power? Determined. Moral shortcomings? Join the team...hell, I'm captain.

But alas and of course, it was something else, something that took a knife to my Achilles and cut it through. Her confession, her word…

Celibacy.

Celibacy? Celibacy. Celibacy? Celibacy... ... ... Celebacy? Celebacy.

Again…thanks pal.

This Town Ain't What It Used To Be...

Two nights ago, my friend Benny, a cook, was taking a break at my house of employment. He stepped out the side door to make a phone call, have a smoke, drink a beer…whatever. Three men approached. They asked about the food, the scene, cornered him against the wall of our pricey Beverly Hills boutique hotel. One of the men pulled a gun, pressed it against his forehead, took what he had.

No shots were fired.

As they drove away, Benny picked up one of our buffed deco stones and threw it at the fleeing car. And missed.

Los Angeles has long been known for its outstandingly bloody history. Our true pillars of violent excellence take up residence in the East and Southern lands. Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings...

But Beverly Hills? Our steaks go for 45. Martinis come in at 15. And about 20 yards from a table of two with a two hundred dollar check, some shithouse with a gun was taking Benny’s breath away. The math? Pretty fucky fucky.

It all started me thinking. I thought about dying…again. I thought about the idea of a drifting soul, one with the consciousness to look back on a life. I thought about the possibility of losing mine to men like this, after cooperating, after doing everything they asked of me. It made me want to scream, put my fist, face and foot through a wall. It made me want to tear the world apart.

I don’t know what I would have done if Benny and me swapped spots that night. Suppose no one can. But I imagined it. I imagined myself with a knife, the same pocketknife that sticks out from the wood in my desk, inches from my fingers that type as we speak. I saw this man on me with a gun...

He looks away for a second and I stab him in the neck. I put the knife away as he goes down, clutching his gaping and blood-spewing throat. But I don’t call for help…and I'm not exercised. I take his gun, turn it around and smash his face over, over, over. I get bored. I pull my clicky pen, the same pen I use to take orders and I stab his thighs, puncture them until the pen breaks. I go through a dozen pens. Then I stand over him, spit onto him until I can no longer. I kick dirt in his face, into his wounds before washing them clean with my urine. Out of breath, I call for help, to save him…so he can feel it all.

I’m not an angry person.

The Announcement...

Caffeine Inspiration: The Announcement from Folly Films on Vimeo.

Coldplay...

Saw this performance the other night. Actually, saw it on YouTube since I find anything MTV rather despicable these days and for some time. My, how refreshing, a summer coming with Coldplay.

Even if they weren't as impressive as they are...even if they weren't this generation's Beatles, Chris Martin is still married to Gweneth Paltrow, and they're giving their kids weird cool names. World conquering band aside, either one of those factors is merit enough to win mention here.

To me, though, there's something else - seeing someone handle grandeur so effortlessly...what a sight.

This album will be a soundtrack...coming back from Malibu or beyond on the PCH, sun setting, skin glowing, wind blowing...pretty young thing riding shotgun.

And judging by the dig from Team Apatow, the whole world's about to be gay again.

The Fall...

I should be sleeping. I haven't really slept in days. Tonight, I ran out for a 10:40 show of the movie The Fall. It's directed by a visual wizard named Tarsem. Yes, he's of the one name sort. After seeing this tonight, I'll allow any calling he chooses.

Utterly majestic. There's a little girl you wont forget. Lee Pace is the lead - a name you should know if you don't. He'll win an Oscar. Not for this, but something else down the line - one of the very few riveters in town. I'll talk endlessly about Pushing Daisies come Autumn...but for now, we'll stop here.

By the time you read this, it's Sunday. If you trust me then go find a matinee. If it's Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday, find a theater.