Mutiny at The Tower Bar...

Our ironman Scottish barkeep walked tonight. He collected his tips with a peace out. No notice. Nothing. It's so terribly inconsiderate and unprofessional. And yet, we all had his back. The minions at least. He worked eleven hour shifts 6 days a week. Good luck filling that.

Our pastry chef, my Sugarmama, bolted. And Sugarmama…give a shout if you’re still reading this. The minions miss you.

Our GM is on his way out.

I wanted to leave to handshakes, hugs, winks and sweet cheeks. I wanted to come back in a few months to have a drink...to see that the child I partially fathered had grown into a strapping young adult. Now, I'm starting to worry about the welfare of "One of LA's 5 hot restaurants."

Everyone has their breaking point. You have no idea. That’s all I can say. The employees of the Tower Bar are black eyed wives who come crawling back. He struck me with a hand of love, we say. And then we ask HIM to forgive US.

It's as if a domestic abuse consultant paid a visit to 8358 Sunset and began bludgeoning us with positive re-enforcement. You can do better than this...respect yourself, your body...you have the power to change your life...

Okay...It's not quite that serious. Yes, I’m a little concerned about the future of the Tower Bar, but they'll manage. They'll be fine. My child may have a few brush ins with the law...some petty things like underage possession, transportation and mob action...but he'll come out clean on the other end. After all, it's our trials that make us stronger. Trust my words. Write what you know, that's what they say.

What a dustfucking time of year. October...no man's land. The season is about to change. Well, never here...but if you're lucky, you know what I mean. I miss it. It's about that time when the months hold value. The grab hold of the heart variety. But still, they’re quite a ways away.

I'm trying to figure out this standstill. Maybe it's just me. One of my greatest gifflaws is knowing deep down...that I'm an incredibly self-absorbed person. I have to be. Think about it. In this life...in my life, the one and only thing I want to do is tell stories. Touch the masses, reach millions...all that good stuff. If I believe in my path, which I absolutely do, I have to believe that my view of the world is the view for which the masses blindly yearn…

Everyone’s waiting for someone to take their hand. Always.

I sit here, spout my life and know there’s temptation to define. Tell me who I am, go ahead. The thing is...I know my words inside and out. I know every implication behind every word. The little dance every phrase chooses or chooses not to make. If a word takes you by the hand and steps on your toe...it meant to. If it dips you carefully only to lose strength and drop you...it meant to. If it spins you round, makes you fall in love just before kissing you so perfectly sweet...well then you're just giving too much credit. I'm not that good…

In a blog.

The problem is that I'm living to save dimes. It’s expensive to be a free man in LA for December and January. And that’s what I need to be. I wake up every day and slug it out with my first draft. I'm looking at it right now. 87 pages. It's coming. Been a little over three weeks and tomorrow morning, round 18.

But in the back of my mind, I'm guilty of looking forward...slightly. And that's my greatest personal sin. Because dying tomorrow isn’t some bull shit motto to live life by. I absolutely mean it. I’m rarely guilty, but right now, it’s hard not to be. Can you blame? In these months coming, I'll let a heart do what it must...and thinking about it makes me smile.

But that's enough...for now. Cause these next 5 weeks will likely be a slugfest. And when they're gone...I'll miss them. And when they come back…somehow, I’ll be happy to see them again. Ain’t it funny?

You see what I'm saying?

Then don’t just read, listen. I wouldn’t be here if I thought I were wasting your time.

Rent Due...

1078.84. No. Thank you, West Hollywood.

It’s always such a difficult thing…catching up after being away. Though it’s been but a week, it always feels longer. Is that good or bad?

Naturally, the longer I venture away from the nest, the shittier it becomes. Twigs and berries all ruffled about. I want to say so much that instead…I opt to say very little or nothing at all. It’s the same reason I don’t believe much in catch up friends. Why put in so much work to always end where you began? But that’s for another day.

It’s Sunday…so me not speaking would toe the line of personal blasphemy. Let’s not touch that.

I was driving to work on Saturday…early evening. For any of those of you who know, XM radio is road trip road head in a convenient plastic receiver. Especially in the infinite radio abyss that is Los Angeles. There MIGHT be 1 station in town that doesn’t make me want to eat out of dog curbing refuse bags.

Do you ever hear a song and wonder how they got away with it? And right after, wonder what’s happened to the unapologetic, melodramatic rabble that used to glide through our airwaves? Well, that was my exact thought pattern as the early beats hit on Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is.” Wow. Pick that one up on I Tunes and re-discover a side of yourself that went extinct sometime over the past 6-14 years. The part that becomes re-born when that chorus drops. Where you actually reach out in gesture to the lovely lady waiting on red in the range next to you and seductively mouth, “I want you to show me,” and not care. That’s what I’m talking about.

Soon after, I crashed. No, not my car. Nothing like going to work for 13 straight days to kill a buzz. Then, nothing like trading a few words with…and let me preface by admitting these namedrops will be both shameless and unprofessional…Bill Murray and Joaquin Phoenix to help get you through running 100 covers.

Okay. Maybe that was a little misleading. By trading words, I mean…”Well, Mr. Murray, it’s a Japanese Cucumber with a white bean puree and heirloom tomato. Chives, EVO, Balsamic.” Usually, he talks shit about everything I bring to the table. This time, all I got were his eyes…which are the most hilariously tragic things you have ever seen. I am well aware of my habitual choices to use polarizing comparisons, but that’s it…dead on.

He was sitting with a gentleman that was partially to blame for the post I was supposed to write in between this and the last. A cat that was part of the heyday SNL crew. He wrote. That’s where the two of them originally hooked up. He was also the screenwriter for the second greatest Christmas/holiday film ever made. #1 - A Christmas Story. Any guesses on #2???

When I get really inspired, I tend to think irrationally. Or…not irrationally, but something else. I’m making that sound like it’s a bad thing. Irrationality. In truth, I don’t believe there should be any other driving force behind our thoughts or behaviors. We should all be foolish fools, all the time…all the way.

But I have a problem. My greatest “thing” is my fear of being “that guy.” My, oh my…how the quotes are flying this post. If you don’t know what “being that guy” means, then it is very likely that you have either recently, or quite frequently “been that guy” at some point in your life. It’s not something to shoot for.

It would mean asking him to talk shop on turf where it’s completely inappropriate to talk shop. It means that I would have to ask him the most clichéd question there is to ask. How do I write for SNL? Do I do it, or let it lie? Although he may have been asked by one thousand wannabes, he has never been asked by Reilly Smith. In the end…that’s the conclusion I keep coming back to…

So I may write a short letter…or nothing at all. Don’t know yet. I wrote a sample sketch this week to show some quick chops. You know, something fresh and not from the pile. It’s like flipping a coin at this point. I’ll let you know if I ever decide to be that guy. Sometimes, you just have to plug your nose and swallow, you know?

Regardless, I’ll post the sketch up here sometime soon. I think it could be pretty good. And, it’s SNL season again. In case any of your haven’t noticed, it’s still fucking great. It’s ALWAYS been fucking great.

Well, that’s odd. A HUGE tangent. Let’s call it stylistic. Back to the music…

I got home Saturday night and went after Foreigner. How could someone get away with singing a song like that today? It certainly didn’t stop there. When Lou Gramm left, he came out with a chart topper that raised the level of my query to exponential proportions. Ever heard the song, “Juke Box Hero?” Of course you have. Come up with a song like that today and you better be ready for constant, relentless, unstoppable sessions of shitkicking. Taking your dog for a walk? Shitkicking. Grocery shopping? Shitkicking. Donating food and clothes to your local Salvation Army? Gratitude for your generous contribution…then shitkicking. I mean…of course everyone dreams of being a jukebox hero…even today. I understand…and even sympathize with this notion. But you don’t come out and say it. Come on, dude. Lou got his, I know this.

So It’s Sunday night. With this one, I don’t know where I am or where I’m going, so maybe it’s best to cut loose.

I saw 4 movies today. That’s right, 4. This is my life, what can I say? Here’s a quick wrap…

Best Movie: A History of Violence – Solid…notably strong individual performances. One after the other.

Best Movie Moment: Serenity – Must see if you like sci-fi. Surprisingly very good. Fresh tone. Surprisingly…very good. I said it twice.

Most Overdue: Hotel Rwanda – Overdue. Nothing off-guard here. This may sound dick, but to me, there’s no sexy in truth. Cheers to a journalism major.

Ordinarily Pretty Good: Corpse Bride - Safe, entertaining…eh.

At least now I feel caught up. Maybe this week, we can get down in it…that is, if you don’t mind. It’s been two weeks and I’m 50 pages through the be-all, end-all script (at this point in my career). Last week was a tough one…but I have a feeling this one will fly…

And all of it will soon.

Nope. Sorry. Not in the mood to try and close on a pathetic clincher…not tonight.

Dumpy tucker mast, bounce bounce.

The Grind...and Tunnel Lights.

I have it figured out. It being the formula...for now at least.

You see, if there is one thing I have learned since coming to Los Angeles, it's that everyone is full of shit. And the only remedy for this cynical perception is proof that they are, in fact...not full of shit.

But it's great because every asshole in this town has got "something" going for them. Some kind of a light at the end of their tunnel. I've got two starting in 2006. The first is an in house writing job for one of the major studios. When I say major, there are less than a handful, so it's a pretty big deal...all riding on the word of two of its executives who actually believe I have something to say...something worth giving a listen.

The other is as the head writer/floor director of a TV show set to go on the air 1st quarter next year. I'd send the link to watch the pilot online...but my heart isn't in it.

And there isn't just that. I have these flickers of light along the way. A recently finished screenplay has been clawing its way up the totem pole of scriptdom. Everyone that has read it has come back with, "this is really great, let me give it to my friend...he just wrapped directing (insert: some shitty but very A-list movie that I pretend to respect), or she just wrapped producing (insert some movie that was disgustingly re-made into a 25 million dollar opening weekend)." And man...let me tell you, having people go to bat for some kid (still me) is an amazing thing. It's the kind of thing that when you look back from higher places...you remember every drop. Ah, but that's the stuff for acceptance speeches. Another day...

Because until it hits, until that phone rings, I got nothing. Scratch. It's still and always a pipe dream until it isn't.

That brings me to my grind. See, you can't sit around and wait for the tunnel to end. I work as a runner at the Argyle Hotel's Tower Bar. 5 days a week, I am clocked in from 430-1130...later on weekends. I can't complain. It's blocks from my apartment and the crew is nothing short of stand-up. Not a single douche bag among us. And that's a damn difficult task to pull off. Especially in this city...trust me. I'll get into the specifics somewhere along the way, as well as introduce you to our cast of characters, but for now, let's keep this thing as a basic overview. After all, I am only trying to catch you up on my story.

But tonight was great. Great. It began with a toast of Roederer for a glowing review in the LA times (which is the Super Bowl and the World Series rolled into one for LA restaurants) and it ended when I had to drag someone out of our establishment. That's right, I said drag...as in across the marble floor...as in kicking and screaming. I'll get to that.

Copy. Paste. http://www.calendarlive.com/dining/cl-fo-review7sep07,1,4393138.story?coll=la-headlines-food. Two stars out of a possible four. The best way for me to describe it is that if you were to ask the critic (who is a renowned backbreaker if you deserve it) what a good to very good restaurant would deserve, she would say 2 stars. A 4 star review is nearly unattainable. It means we will be slammed starting tomorrow until who knows. And that means more coin for everyone.

Let me just say that we hold a very high standard for clientele. Very cream of the crop music and movie industry people. Some royalty...seriously. If you decide to come in wearing a backpack, do check it at the door. If you don't, it means you have elected to wander into what will soon turn out to be the R Smith Danger Zone. Yes. I give that caps.

Now...our bartender is a hell of a guy. He's got this really sweet layer if you peel 16 or 17 back. He's Scottish. Or Irish. Maybe Skirish...who cares? He used to play professional soccer and I guarantee that when his playing days were over, he was the guy throwing beer bottles at David Beckham from the stands.

So he's talking to this guy and it's obvious trouble's coming. Because some people just don't have, "it." How do I explain? Okay...if I'm ever in or around a hostage situation where the aim is to preserve life, our bartender is NOT the one going in for the talk down. He was pretty awful. Once I stepped in and failed, I knew it was going to get ugly. After all, I talk sweet like you wouldn't believe. Just ask...nevermind.

So this guy says that if we touch him, he's going to fight back...while demonstrating a sweet fist to chin fighting position. With one look, we each grabbed an arm and were off as if chasing Barney the white rabbit out of the gate at Greyhound Park. He slid marvelously across our buffed and glossy floors. He kicked over tables and chairs...spatting terrible obscenities while we dragged him down the stairs, going limp as a dead fish after the fourth punishing thud against his tailbone. Once out the front door, he had a nice police escort to take him on his merry way. I thought it was just an expression. "They had to drag me out of the bar." Goes to show that behind everything sits a small plate of truth.

And as I walked to my car, I laughed a little laugh. Sure, it's not completely fun to have to do that to a man. And, being fair…it’s not exactly like I am a “tough guy.” I’m not pretending to be. He may have had stability issues...or drunken issues. It was difficult to tell. I guess my point is that it's an adventure...and this is my grind. I have to say that when I go to bed at night and wake up in the morning, I'm quite content with where this life is going. What more can one ask? The tunnel will end when it's good and ready. But there's nothing like a rabid will to saw it down...