By Change100 © 2010
I told Meredith I'd pick up the pumpkins because I wanted to drive her car. It wasn't a particularly remarkable vehicle but at the time, her blue-green Subaru might as well have been a Ferrari and Interstate 57 the Cote d'Azur. I wanted to drive. I didn't care where I had to go to do it, I just wanted to get behind the wheel. Only six weeks into fall quarter, I longed for my little red Volkswagen, rusting away in my parents' driveway back in Los Angeles. All summer, I'd driven her just to drive—to Malibu, to Oxnard, to Carpinteria, turning around for home once I'd had enough wind in my hair for that day. I hated the stasis of being confined to only a few blocks of college-town streets. Without a set of car keys, I felt stranded.
Meredith handed a set of directions scribbled on the back of an old flyer for a performance by one of the university's a capella groups. I was supposed to pick up 150 pumpkins that had been donated by a farmer in a small town about eighty miles downstate. I'd fetch the pumpkins, drive them back to campus and we'd sell them the following morning as a fundraiser for the musical Meredith was directing.
"Are you sure 150 pumpkins are going to fit in here?" I asked, looking at her four-door hatchback.
"Just cram in as many as you can," Meredith replied as she tossed me the keys. "Try to be back by five."
All thoughts of attending my 10:00 class evaporated once the keys hit my palm. I pulled out of the driveway of the theatre building, turned out onto Sheridan Road, and made my way through the leafy north shore suburbs on my way to I-94. The locals had names for it that seemed to change every few miles. One minute it was the Edens Expressway. Then the Kennedy. Fall was in full, furious bloom, the burnt orange and red of the dying leaves the last bits of color in the landscape as winter encroached and threatened to turn the entire middle of the country into graying, lifeless tundra.
I found the Dan Ryan Expressway and watched as the skyscrapers of the Loop gave way to the bombed-out south side once I merged onto I-57 south. Charred warehouses. Empty lots. Graffited billboards. Once the street numbers reached the triple digits, it didn't take long for civilization to fall away, concrete and mortar replaced with a patchwork quilt of farmland. For as long as I could take the cold, I rolled down the windows, singing along with a Stephen Sondheim musical on the tape deck. It seemed like no one was out here. Wide open spaces.
Forty miles later, I exited the highway, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The last town I'd seen was Kanakaee, a few miles back. No gas station. No supermarkets. I took the Subaru down a two-lane road, passing a farmhouse every few miles.
"You'll see an enormous yellow tractor parked outside. That's the place. Park out front and ask for Ellen or Henry," wrote Meredith in her loopy scrawl.
Well, there were a lot of tractors in these parts and for a moment there, I felt like I was in the opening scene of a slasher movie, the naïve girl being lured in by seemingly folksy farmers who then proceed to hack her to pieces and sell off her organs to smugglers. But there, over the tiniest ridge, was indeed an enormous yellow tractor, and outside a simple, single-story bungalow sat a woman who reminded me of Sissy Spacek, sitting behind a table making beaded necklaces. I parked the Subaru at the edge of the dirt patch where her lawn should have been, and stepped outside.
"You must be from the university," she said, hardly looking up from her work.
"Yes. How'd you know?"
"We don't see too many new people around here. I'm Ellen. My husband has your pumpkins. He'll be out in a minute."
"Thank you. We really appreciate the donation."
"We really appreciate y'all taking them off our hands. Glad someone will be able to enjoy 'em. You should probably pull your car up to the conveyor."
"The what?"
"The conveyor. Over there," she said, pointing at some contraption I didn't understand the use of.
I nudged the Subaru up toward the device.
"Turn around!"
"What?"
"Turn around! You need to back up towards it!"
"What?"
"You want to load the pumpkins in the back of the car, right, turn around!"
Feeling like a completely inept urbanite, I executed the worst three-point turn of my life and attempted to follow her instructions. Just as I pulled the parking brake, I heard the unmistakable screech of metal-on-metal, followed by a thundering shudder.
What the fuck had I done? Had I hit something? Scraped the bottom of Meredith's car? Would insurance cover farming-related damages.
"Hurry up, open the hatchback. They're coming out," shouted Ellen.
"What?"
"The pumpkins, they're coming on the conveyor."
Just then I saw a mountain of a man emerge from behind the house. Henry wore a flannel shirt and overalls and a muddy green baseball cap. He had a wild gray beard and a sturdy gait that was unfortunately outpaced by the dozens of pumpkins that seemed to emerge from nowhere and rumble toward me down the conveyor belt.
Do I grab the pumpkins? Do I wait for Henry? And which choice will make me look like less of an idiot?
I went for the pumpkins. I went for them fast, and started hurling them in the back of the car as fast as I could. I didn't know how this conveyor worked, if it was like the baggage claim at the airport and I'd have another shot at these suckers, or whether it was like the one in the I Love Lucy episode where Lucy just couldn't keep up with the chocolates and ended up eating most of them. Either way, this wasn't going to turn out well for me. The hatch was already a mess. The pumpkins were getting bruised. And there was the matter of my black combat boots sinking into the mud up to my ankles.
Henry tried not to laugh at the sight before his eyes.
"Whoa there. What's your hurry? You don't have a lot of space there so we're going to have to arrange these just right.”
"So they'll come back around?"
"Of course they will! You think I could get anything off this thing with my back the way it is?"
Henry went to work re-arranging the pumpkins I'd already hurled into the car while I pulled off the remainder of them into the neatest pile I could manage.
"Y'all wanted a hundred and fifty, right?"
"Right, but are we going to be able to get them all in there?"
"Oh, I'll make 'em fit," said Henry with a deep sigh, as he lifted a particularly heavy one. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"How'd you guess?" I replied with a smirk.
"We don't see too many folks wearing leopard-print down this way. Or boots like those. Not too practical."
"No, I'm from Los Angeles.”
"You're from Hollywood? No kiddin'! My niece, she lived there a while. Now she's in New York City. Just got a job writing that Saturday Night Live show."
"Wow, that's amazing. I wouldn't mind doing something like that myself."
"Anything you can put your mind to, I always told her. Anything you can put your mind to, you can do. Me, I like to put my mind to this. My land, my potatoes. You know I mainly grow potatoes. The pumpkins were sort of a special thing for us. Just ended up with too damn many of 'em."
By some feat of exceptional special geometry, Henry crammed 150 pumpkins into Meredith's Subaru hatchback by laying down the back seats and allowing a couple dozen to ride shotgun with me. Somehow I made it eighty miles back up the highway, my rear view completely obstructed by a wall of orange.
Change100 is a writer from Los Angeles, CA.
Showing posts with label Change100. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Change100. Show all posts
March 03, 2010
March 02, 2008
The Drug Store
By change100 © 2008
I got a space in front of a health food store on Santa Monica Boulevard. Squinting against the winter sun, I foraged for change in the tray next to the gearshift and found barely enough to cover the meter's one hour limit. Surely I'd have to re-feed it to avoid a ticket, but nine times out of ten I didn't remember to. The clinic didn't open for ten minutes anyhow. There was a chance I could end up one of the first in line and be out by the time the last minutes ticked away on the meter.
Noon in West Hollywood brought out the lunchtime crowd. Impossibly perfect looking gay men gathered in the sidewalk cafes and coffee shops. A few jogged along the Boulevard, stepping in time with the music blasting through their ear buds. I passed a bookstore, a Russian deli, and a nail salon that I recognized from once living in this neighborhood. But still I couldn't picture the building I was heading to, though it's number and street placed it on a corner I've driven past hundreds of times. It had to be next to the motel. Or maybe the drugstore. I turned up La Cienega and power-walked it's steep incline as I looked for the number on the card.
At first, I walked straight past it. The weeds in front of the tan and white building were so overgrown I just assumed it was closed. But it matched the number, so it at least warranted exploration, even though it looked like some sort of abandoned apartment house straight out of post-war Eastern Europe. I walked down a cement pathway into the shade of unkempt trees and saw a cloudy glass door that led into a deserted elevator lobby. It was open. Someone was here. The lobby walls were covered in cheap faux-oak paneling and the floors in decades-old linoleum. Next to the elevator doors hung a building directory. And there it was. Dr. Jerry Greenblatt, M.D. Fourth floor. I gingerly stepped into the sketchiest elevator in Los Angeles and prayed it wouldn't drop me to the basement.
The smell of smoke hit me as the doors opened on the fourth floor, stale and lingering in the airless hallway. A sign that read "No Smoking or Your Referral Will Be Revoked!”" hung in protest on the door to the restroom. There were no other signs of life or business as I passed by dozens of closed doors. Did anyone else work here? Toward the end of the hallway, I found the door to the doctor's office. Just a closed door, no window, nothing else to tell you that it was, indeed, a doctor's office, except for the crooked sign bearing his name. I gripped the metal knob and turned it.
Inside, fluorescent lighting filled the small waiting room. I wasn't the first here, not even the tenth. A skater kid, complete with his board covered in stickers. A dorky-looking guy in a black turtleneck and glasses. An early-thirties professional woman flipping through Vanity Fair. And about five Latino guys wearing jerseys from various Los Angeles sports franchises. At the reception desk, a young black man with a huge smile beckoned me closer.
"Is this your first time?" he asked.
"Yeah. First time here."
"Well, welcome!" he said cheerily, erasing the sketchy vibes that had haunted me since passing through the building's doors. "Just fill out these forms and the doctor will see you shortly."
Mr. Happy handed me a clipboard with at least 10 pages for me to fill out. I took a seat next to a portly Mexican in a Nomar Garciaparra jersey and went to work. Name, address, Social, height, weight, medications currently taken. Do you have any of these health problems? Family history? Hopitalizations? Date of last menstrual period? Date of last pap smear? Countries visited in the last year? On that one, I actually had to think.
How did you hear about our services? Best friend is a patient.
How often do you use cannabis? As often as I can.
How much cannabis do you use per day? Maybe a gram?
At what age did you start using cannabis? At my junior prom when my date ditched me at the after-party to hook up with a model. (OK, so I really didn't write that even though it's true)
What ailment do you treat using cannabis? (Oh... and here's a list of the ailments that are legally treatable under CA Proposition 215.)
I'd decided weeks ago that I'd go with insomnia. I was no good at faking pain, cancer was out of the question, and headaches were just too, I don't know, vague? I knew enough about insomnia after dating an insomniac for over 2 years. So, I could conceivably and intelligently discuss insomnia with a medical professional. Yup, OK, there it was. I-N-S-O-M-N-I-A. I was officially, in the eyes of the State of California, an insomniac. As I finished off the forms, I wondered what Garciaparra's aliment was. Migraines? Stomach cancer? Glaucoma? Then I saw it on his form. "Neck pain from car accident in '06." Not bad.
I pulled out a novel and read while I waited. Mr. Happy was calling people back three at a time to wait in a second ante-room for the doctor, and they seemed to re-emerge in 15-minute cycles. My thoughts briefly turned to the parking meter when I heard my name called.
I went into the back with Dorky Turtleneck and Ms. Professional. Mr. Happy gave me more forms to fill out and I noticed the smiling, jeweled Buddha graphic on his t-shirt that nearly matched the perpetual grin on his face. Another huge black dude with neat cornrows and a NY Yankees shirt explained the procedure to me, as I was the only first-timer of our threesome. The others were in for their yearly renewals. First I'd talk to Kyle in his office and get my California ID copied and pay the fee up-front. If I didn't get a recommendation, I'd get my money back at the end. Then I'd get to see the doctor.
Kyle told me a lot of what I already knew as he copied my license and handed me more forms to sign. Don't medicate in the car. Always put your medicine in the trunk if you're transporting it. You'll always need your ID and a copy of your prescription to go inside a dispensary. It will take 24 hours to validate your prescription. Unless you need something today. Do you need something today?
"Yeah... sure I need something today."
Kyle pulled out a business card. He flipped it over and wrote "1 free pre-roll" on the back.
"Just tell them I sent you. They know us here and will set you up right away."
I went back into the ante-room and had just re-assumed my seat between Dorky Turtleneck and Ms. Professional, when Mr. Happy opened the door to the waiting room and ushered in two women in business suits. Each wore a badge that said "Investigator." They went directly into the doctor's office and closed the door. Two minutes later, the doctor came flying out of his office and rushed up to Mr. Happy. The two spoke in hushed tones before adjourning to a back room loaded with medical files.
Seriously, could I really be that girl? The one who just happens to be legally getting her medical cannabis referral when the Feds decide to raid the place? Fuck. This is what I get for going to the guy who ended up outed as “L.A.’s Pot Doctor” on a CBS News report.
Cornrows must have seen the panic-stricken look on my face, because he began to reassure me.
“Don’t worry, they’ll be out of here in a few minutes. It’s all good, happens every once in a while but they can’t do nothin’.”
“Seriously, can’t they like, go fight real crime or something instead of bothering people here? It’s legal in our state!” spat Ms. Professional, barely looking up from her magazine.
The Doctor and Mr. Happy re-emerged from the file room, the Doc clutching a file folder. He sped-walk past the three of us and closed his office door. Mr. Happy went back to his perch at the front desk and turned up the radio. Some R&B station was playing “What’s Goin’ On” and Cornrows started singing along as he did a little shuffle.
The investigators were ushered out five minutes later. I never found out what they wanted, because as soon as they were out the door, the Doctor called me back to his office. The room was fairly large, and his desk was positioned at its very center. Two chairs covered in dingy mauve upholstery sat in front of it. On the back wall behind him were perhaps a half a dozen framed diplomas. I cursed myself for not wearing my glasses as I squinted to make out the name of the hospital where he completed his residency. “New York Hospital?” Was there such a thing?
The Doctor was older, maybe 60, and had a thick New York accent. His nose was round like a department store Santa Claus and his face gentle and inviting. He asked me briefly about the insomnia, how long I’d had it, and how long I’d been treating it with cannabis. I gave him some line about discovering its benefits while traveling in the Netherlands and he immediately started writing out my prescription. After a brief lecture on medicating using edibles and vaporizers instead of smoking it, I was back on my way out to Mr. Happy’s enclave, where my prescription was officially stamped, and I was sent on my way. As I walked out the door to the waiting room, Garciaparra was coming in. We gave each other “the nod.”
I immediately headed across the street to the “Zen Wellness Center” per Kyle’s recommendation. I rang a doorbell and was buzzed in to a tiny waiting room. A man sat behind a panel of one-way glass with a tiny slit at the bottom. I could see his lips move but no other part of him.
“First time here?” the lips said.
“Uh, yeah” I said, handing over my ID and prescription.
“Take a seat, it’ll be about 5 minutes. We’re busy today.”
Just then, the door to the back opened, and two fifty-something women emerged, carrying small, plain paper bags stapled closed and headed back out into the afternoon sun, nearly giggling with excitement.
“OK, you can come in now.”
It was like I stepped into an Amsterdam coffee shop. Right here, in the middle of Los Angeles. I couldn’t believe these places really existed. In the U.S. of A. Trippy posters lined the walls, and a Foreigner song played on the stereo. Christmas lights lined the ceiling. A kid in a beanie cap took a long hit off a balloon over in the vapo-lounge off to the side. A tattooed man with olive skin greeted me with a smile as wide as Mr. Happy's as I walked in. He stood in front of a glass display case containing dozens of different strains, all neatly packed into plastic medicine bottles.
"First time here? Don't be shy, welcome to Zen Wellness! What are you looking for today?"
Two minutes later, I was walking back to my car with a plain paper bag containing an eighth of Afghooey and a free joint. I could see the parking ticket flapping off my windshield from half a block away.
But this time, and only this time... I didn't care.
Change100 is a writer from Los Angeles.
I got a space in front of a health food store on Santa Monica Boulevard. Squinting against the winter sun, I foraged for change in the tray next to the gearshift and found barely enough to cover the meter's one hour limit. Surely I'd have to re-feed it to avoid a ticket, but nine times out of ten I didn't remember to. The clinic didn't open for ten minutes anyhow. There was a chance I could end up one of the first in line and be out by the time the last minutes ticked away on the meter.
Noon in West Hollywood brought out the lunchtime crowd. Impossibly perfect looking gay men gathered in the sidewalk cafes and coffee shops. A few jogged along the Boulevard, stepping in time with the music blasting through their ear buds. I passed a bookstore, a Russian deli, and a nail salon that I recognized from once living in this neighborhood. But still I couldn't picture the building I was heading to, though it's number and street placed it on a corner I've driven past hundreds of times. It had to be next to the motel. Or maybe the drugstore. I turned up La Cienega and power-walked it's steep incline as I looked for the number on the card.
At first, I walked straight past it. The weeds in front of the tan and white building were so overgrown I just assumed it was closed. But it matched the number, so it at least warranted exploration, even though it looked like some sort of abandoned apartment house straight out of post-war Eastern Europe. I walked down a cement pathway into the shade of unkempt trees and saw a cloudy glass door that led into a deserted elevator lobby. It was open. Someone was here. The lobby walls were covered in cheap faux-oak paneling and the floors in decades-old linoleum. Next to the elevator doors hung a building directory. And there it was. Dr. Jerry Greenblatt, M.D. Fourth floor. I gingerly stepped into the sketchiest elevator in Los Angeles and prayed it wouldn't drop me to the basement.
The smell of smoke hit me as the doors opened on the fourth floor, stale and lingering in the airless hallway. A sign that read "No Smoking or Your Referral Will Be Revoked!”" hung in protest on the door to the restroom. There were no other signs of life or business as I passed by dozens of closed doors. Did anyone else work here? Toward the end of the hallway, I found the door to the doctor's office. Just a closed door, no window, nothing else to tell you that it was, indeed, a doctor's office, except for the crooked sign bearing his name. I gripped the metal knob and turned it.
Inside, fluorescent lighting filled the small waiting room. I wasn't the first here, not even the tenth. A skater kid, complete with his board covered in stickers. A dorky-looking guy in a black turtleneck and glasses. An early-thirties professional woman flipping through Vanity Fair. And about five Latino guys wearing jerseys from various Los Angeles sports franchises. At the reception desk, a young black man with a huge smile beckoned me closer.
"Is this your first time?" he asked.
"Yeah. First time here."
"Well, welcome!" he said cheerily, erasing the sketchy vibes that had haunted me since passing through the building's doors. "Just fill out these forms and the doctor will see you shortly."
Mr. Happy handed me a clipboard with at least 10 pages for me to fill out. I took a seat next to a portly Mexican in a Nomar Garciaparra jersey and went to work. Name, address, Social, height, weight, medications currently taken. Do you have any of these health problems? Family history? Hopitalizations? Date of last menstrual period? Date of last pap smear? Countries visited in the last year? On that one, I actually had to think.
How did you hear about our services? Best friend is a patient.
How often do you use cannabis? As often as I can.
How much cannabis do you use per day? Maybe a gram?
At what age did you start using cannabis? At my junior prom when my date ditched me at the after-party to hook up with a model. (OK, so I really didn't write that even though it's true)
What ailment do you treat using cannabis? (Oh... and here's a list of the ailments that are legally treatable under CA Proposition 215.)
I'd decided weeks ago that I'd go with insomnia. I was no good at faking pain, cancer was out of the question, and headaches were just too, I don't know, vague? I knew enough about insomnia after dating an insomniac for over 2 years. So, I could conceivably and intelligently discuss insomnia with a medical professional. Yup, OK, there it was. I-N-S-O-M-N-I-A. I was officially, in the eyes of the State of California, an insomniac. As I finished off the forms, I wondered what Garciaparra's aliment was. Migraines? Stomach cancer? Glaucoma? Then I saw it on his form. "Neck pain from car accident in '06." Not bad.
I pulled out a novel and read while I waited. Mr. Happy was calling people back three at a time to wait in a second ante-room for the doctor, and they seemed to re-emerge in 15-minute cycles. My thoughts briefly turned to the parking meter when I heard my name called.
I went into the back with Dorky Turtleneck and Ms. Professional. Mr. Happy gave me more forms to fill out and I noticed the smiling, jeweled Buddha graphic on his t-shirt that nearly matched the perpetual grin on his face. Another huge black dude with neat cornrows and a NY Yankees shirt explained the procedure to me, as I was the only first-timer of our threesome. The others were in for their yearly renewals. First I'd talk to Kyle in his office and get my California ID copied and pay the fee up-front. If I didn't get a recommendation, I'd get my money back at the end. Then I'd get to see the doctor.
Kyle told me a lot of what I already knew as he copied my license and handed me more forms to sign. Don't medicate in the car. Always put your medicine in the trunk if you're transporting it. You'll always need your ID and a copy of your prescription to go inside a dispensary. It will take 24 hours to validate your prescription. Unless you need something today. Do you need something today?
"Yeah... sure I need something today."
Kyle pulled out a business card. He flipped it over and wrote "1 free pre-roll" on the back.
"Just tell them I sent you. They know us here and will set you up right away."
I went back into the ante-room and had just re-assumed my seat between Dorky Turtleneck and Ms. Professional, when Mr. Happy opened the door to the waiting room and ushered in two women in business suits. Each wore a badge that said "Investigator." They went directly into the doctor's office and closed the door. Two minutes later, the doctor came flying out of his office and rushed up to Mr. Happy. The two spoke in hushed tones before adjourning to a back room loaded with medical files.
Seriously, could I really be that girl? The one who just happens to be legally getting her medical cannabis referral when the Feds decide to raid the place? Fuck. This is what I get for going to the guy who ended up outed as “L.A.’s Pot Doctor” on a CBS News report.
Cornrows must have seen the panic-stricken look on my face, because he began to reassure me.
“Don’t worry, they’ll be out of here in a few minutes. It’s all good, happens every once in a while but they can’t do nothin’.”
“Seriously, can’t they like, go fight real crime or something instead of bothering people here? It’s legal in our state!” spat Ms. Professional, barely looking up from her magazine.
The Doctor and Mr. Happy re-emerged from the file room, the Doc clutching a file folder. He sped-walk past the three of us and closed his office door. Mr. Happy went back to his perch at the front desk and turned up the radio. Some R&B station was playing “What’s Goin’ On” and Cornrows started singing along as he did a little shuffle.
The investigators were ushered out five minutes later. I never found out what they wanted, because as soon as they were out the door, the Doctor called me back to his office. The room was fairly large, and his desk was positioned at its very center. Two chairs covered in dingy mauve upholstery sat in front of it. On the back wall behind him were perhaps a half a dozen framed diplomas. I cursed myself for not wearing my glasses as I squinted to make out the name of the hospital where he completed his residency. “New York Hospital?” Was there such a thing?
The Doctor was older, maybe 60, and had a thick New York accent. His nose was round like a department store Santa Claus and his face gentle and inviting. He asked me briefly about the insomnia, how long I’d had it, and how long I’d been treating it with cannabis. I gave him some line about discovering its benefits while traveling in the Netherlands and he immediately started writing out my prescription. After a brief lecture on medicating using edibles and vaporizers instead of smoking it, I was back on my way out to Mr. Happy’s enclave, where my prescription was officially stamped, and I was sent on my way. As I walked out the door to the waiting room, Garciaparra was coming in. We gave each other “the nod.”
I immediately headed across the street to the “Zen Wellness Center” per Kyle’s recommendation. I rang a doorbell and was buzzed in to a tiny waiting room. A man sat behind a panel of one-way glass with a tiny slit at the bottom. I could see his lips move but no other part of him.
“First time here?” the lips said.
“Uh, yeah” I said, handing over my ID and prescription.
“Take a seat, it’ll be about 5 minutes. We’re busy today.”
Just then, the door to the back opened, and two fifty-something women emerged, carrying small, plain paper bags stapled closed and headed back out into the afternoon sun, nearly giggling with excitement.
“OK, you can come in now.”
It was like I stepped into an Amsterdam coffee shop. Right here, in the middle of Los Angeles. I couldn’t believe these places really existed. In the U.S. of A. Trippy posters lined the walls, and a Foreigner song played on the stereo. Christmas lights lined the ceiling. A kid in a beanie cap took a long hit off a balloon over in the vapo-lounge off to the side. A tattooed man with olive skin greeted me with a smile as wide as Mr. Happy's as I walked in. He stood in front of a glass display case containing dozens of different strains, all neatly packed into plastic medicine bottles.
"First time here? Don't be shy, welcome to Zen Wellness! What are you looking for today?"
Two minutes later, I was walking back to my car with a plain paper bag containing an eighth of Afghooey and a free joint. I could see the parking ticket flapping off my windshield from half a block away.
But this time, and only this time... I didn't care.
Change100 is a writer from Los Angeles.
November 08, 2007
Seven Minutes with Olga
By Change100 © 2007
"Need a taxi?" said the bearded man with the leathery skin. He wore shorts and rubber sandals and looked like he spent his days out on a fishing boat rather than inside a cab.
It had been less than two minutes since I'd walked down the stairs from the puddle-jumper to the tarmac at Key West International Airport, the soggy humidity filling my parched lungs after nearly six hours of trans-continental travel at 30,000 feet. Red lettering welcoming me to the "Conch Republic" was perched above the doorway to the tiny terminal, and after crossing a fifteen-foot wide swath of gray carpeting inside, I was back out the door into the sticky heat, looking for a taxi to take me to Duval Street. I don't know if it was the way the cabbie approached me-- emerging from a shadowy corner where he'd been leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette rather than pulling up in a yellow-hued sedan and efficiently hauling my luggage into the trunk-- but it struck a sketchy note. As I followed him to his vehicle (which looked more like a dog-catcher's van) I thought there was a significant chance that I was headed for a scene straight out of The Bone Collector.
I gave the cabbie the address of our hotel and flipped open my phone to call Pauly. There was a lot of bar noise in the background and from the sharp volume and lackadaisical timbre of his voice, I easily deduced that he was in a rowdy drinking establishment and had been there, or a place like it, for some time. He said he'd meet me in ten minutes in front of the hotel.
When I hung up, we were driving along a poorly-lit road next to a military base. Was this where he was taking me? Could I jump out of the cab and make a run for it if necessary?
"Man, I sure was glad that flight of yours was on time. It's almost always late and it's the last one of the day," he said. As he approached a stop sign, he fiddled with a laptop computer that was set up on the dashboard (telling his superiors that he had "the package?")
"This your first time in Key West?"
"Yeah."
"Where'd you fly in from?"
"California" (best to be as vague as possible with potential serial-killer cabbies).
"Y'all have that Nancy Pelosi out there, right?" (oh, God he's going political)
"Yeah..."
"Did she ever get her plane?"
"What?"
"Her plane. The big one to fly her home on weekends."
"Oh... I don't know. I don't think so."
"Pretty stupid thing to ask for."
It was about then that I noticed the sleeping child laying across the front seat. She couldn't have been more than five. She had a Disney-themed coloring book tucked underneath her arm as she slept. Crayons were scattered across the floor. I guess I wasn't in danger after all.
As promised, Pauly met me in front of the Southern Cross Hotel. I stowed my backpack in the room and we headed across the street to Wendy's so I could get a quick bite to eat. I always order the same thing at Wendy's-- the Spicy Chicken Sandwich.
The man in front of us in line was so fucked up he could hardly stand. He had the same leathery skin as the cabbie did, was barefoot, and had his shirt halfway open.
"I'm soooo wasted!" he said to Pauly as we tried not to stare.
Once he got up to the register, he slumped onto the counter and looked as if he might vomit all over the young Jamaican cashier as he slurred his order.
Welcome to Thursday night in Key West.
After wolfing down the Spicy Chicken Sandwich and washing it down with Diet Coke, Pauly and I walked over to Irish Kevin's, one of Al Can't Hang's favorite Duval Street watering holes and joined up with the gang. Most had been drinking all day. I met Al's Philly crew-- Landow, Lewey, Big Mike, and JDub-- whom I had read so much about over the years. Gracie and Sweet Sweet Pablo were there. So were Derek, BG, Bacon Bikini Mary and StB. JDub bought me a White Russian. So I drank that. Then Derek bought me a double Soco. So I drank that. Then I bought myself a Stella. And I drank that too. Add a quick trip down the block with Gracie, Pablo, and Derek to smoke a bowl and I was pretty shitty by the time we left Irish Kevin's for the strip club.
I'd been hearing about these two strip clubs ever since Pauly had landed on the island five days earlier. There was "The Classy Joint" which was larger, semi-well maintained, and had decent looking dancers. Then there was "The Dive" which was described to me as "where strippers go to die in Key West." We were going to The Classy Joint, thank God.
Though there were a couple of lap dance virgins on our outing that night, I was not one of them. I vividly remember my first. It was at The Body Shop on Sunset Blvd. during my first or second year in Hollywood. Showcase and I took our friend Seth out for birthday drinks at the Standard Hotel and later adjourned to the strip club for a few dances. Showcase and I each bought Seth a dance and he said I wasn't leaving until I got one myself. I tried waving him off with a laugh, but five minutes later, a curvaceous, raven-haired stripper came up to me and pulled me into the back room where the private dance booths were set up.
"This is from Seth," she cooed into my ear as she ground her crotch into my thigh. Hey, this isn't so bad.
I was hooked. Lap dances were fun. I'd get several more in the years that followed-- from one at Cheetah's where a coked-up blonde poured a shot into my mouth and proceeded to stir it with her tongue, to Showcase's 25th birthday party at Crazy Horse Too when I saw him get a 45 minute lap dance from a six-foot tall black woman with the biggest tits I've ever seen, to that fateful night at Scores when Pauly, Grubby, Benny Hiroshima and I sat in a horseshoe formation, all with breasts both fake and real stuffed into our faces at one point or another, all four of us departing with our nipples burning after being twisted into unnatural formations by these ladies of the pole.
Compared to Vegas strip joints, the Classy Joint was small and really not that classy, which made me wonder just how sketchy "The Dive" was if this was classy. Pauly instantly got a waitress to take care of everyone and we took over three tables in the back corner. Al and Friends were already instant celebrities in these parts and we were treated very well. Many double Socos were consumed and at midnight, AlCantHang turned 40 amidst clinking glasses and a dozen of his friends.
Al had brought a $50 brick of singles with him and by the end of the night all of them ended up in the garters of the panty-less dancers that took the stage. Yes, panty-less. These chicks went the Full Monty. Pablo, StB, Pauly and I rotated in and out of two seats next to the stage. During my turn, I put a couple of the singles in my cleavage and the girls skillfully removed them by mouth.
After another Double Soco, I was approached by a strikingly tall Russian girl. Her name was Olga and she was 6'4” in her Lucite heels. She couldn't have been more than 20 or 21 and had ice-blue eyes, long chestnut hair and a surprisingly innocent face, like she could be the girl who sells you a croissant and a coffee in the morning at some random European cafe.
"Come with me. I give you two dance from him." She pointed at Pauly, who waved at me with a goofy drunken grin before Olga took my hand and led me into the private dance room.
The private room was long, narrow, and mirrored, with a black leather banquette lining the walls on all sides. Six or seven girls were in there, some bottomless, grinding atop sunburnt tourists in t-shirts and cargo shorts. Olga led me all the way to the back and sat me down. She took her top off and grabbed my hands, placing them on her very soft, very real breasts.
"34B..." I thought as she started grinding away.
Midway through my second dance, AlCantHang entered the room with a dark-haired stripper. As Olga gnawed on my nipples through my padded satin Victoria's Secret bra, Al and I gave each other "the nod." That strip-club nod that's like "hey, here we are, being all debauched with dirty dirty paid-for girls at are going to do naughty naughty things to us and well, we're doing it in the same room, and that's a little weird, but we're just going to roll with it, OK?"
After my seven or so minutes with Olga, I emerged from the back room with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin. I could have used a cigarette. Or maybe a shower.
"Oh my God, look at your hair!" laughed Pablo.
I racked focus toward the mirror behind our table and sure enough, it was all over the place. Sticking up, to the side, tangled and frizzy from where Olga had repeatedly run her hands through it.
"So, did you like your dance?" said Pauly, grinning ear to ear as he smoothed out my hair.
"I did. She was very dirty."
"And tall!"
"Dude, I barely came up to her tits."
"Do you want another one?"
"No, I think that's all I can take for one night."
Maybe an hour later we stumbled back to the hotel and passed out. Seven hours later I woke up tasting stale liquor in my mouth as a rooster screamed from the tree outside our window.
And I smelled like stripper.
Change100 is a writer from Los Angeles, CA.
"Need a taxi?" said the bearded man with the leathery skin. He wore shorts and rubber sandals and looked like he spent his days out on a fishing boat rather than inside a cab.
It had been less than two minutes since I'd walked down the stairs from the puddle-jumper to the tarmac at Key West International Airport, the soggy humidity filling my parched lungs after nearly six hours of trans-continental travel at 30,000 feet. Red lettering welcoming me to the "Conch Republic" was perched above the doorway to the tiny terminal, and after crossing a fifteen-foot wide swath of gray carpeting inside, I was back out the door into the sticky heat, looking for a taxi to take me to Duval Street. I don't know if it was the way the cabbie approached me-- emerging from a shadowy corner where he'd been leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette rather than pulling up in a yellow-hued sedan and efficiently hauling my luggage into the trunk-- but it struck a sketchy note. As I followed him to his vehicle (which looked more like a dog-catcher's van) I thought there was a significant chance that I was headed for a scene straight out of The Bone Collector.
I gave the cabbie the address of our hotel and flipped open my phone to call Pauly. There was a lot of bar noise in the background and from the sharp volume and lackadaisical timbre of his voice, I easily deduced that he was in a rowdy drinking establishment and had been there, or a place like it, for some time. He said he'd meet me in ten minutes in front of the hotel.
When I hung up, we were driving along a poorly-lit road next to a military base. Was this where he was taking me? Could I jump out of the cab and make a run for it if necessary?
"Man, I sure was glad that flight of yours was on time. It's almost always late and it's the last one of the day," he said. As he approached a stop sign, he fiddled with a laptop computer that was set up on the dashboard (telling his superiors that he had "the package?")
"This your first time in Key West?"
"Yeah."
"Where'd you fly in from?"
"California" (best to be as vague as possible with potential serial-killer cabbies).
"Y'all have that Nancy Pelosi out there, right?" (oh, God he's going political)
"Yeah..."
"Did she ever get her plane?"
"What?"
"Her plane. The big one to fly her home on weekends."
"Oh... I don't know. I don't think so."
"Pretty stupid thing to ask for."
It was about then that I noticed the sleeping child laying across the front seat. She couldn't have been more than five. She had a Disney-themed coloring book tucked underneath her arm as she slept. Crayons were scattered across the floor. I guess I wasn't in danger after all.
As promised, Pauly met me in front of the Southern Cross Hotel. I stowed my backpack in the room and we headed across the street to Wendy's so I could get a quick bite to eat. I always order the same thing at Wendy's-- the Spicy Chicken Sandwich.
The man in front of us in line was so fucked up he could hardly stand. He had the same leathery skin as the cabbie did, was barefoot, and had his shirt halfway open.
"I'm soooo wasted!" he said to Pauly as we tried not to stare.
Once he got up to the register, he slumped onto the counter and looked as if he might vomit all over the young Jamaican cashier as he slurred his order.
Welcome to Thursday night in Key West.
After wolfing down the Spicy Chicken Sandwich and washing it down with Diet Coke, Pauly and I walked over to Irish Kevin's, one of Al Can't Hang's favorite Duval Street watering holes and joined up with the gang. Most had been drinking all day. I met Al's Philly crew-- Landow, Lewey, Big Mike, and JDub-- whom I had read so much about over the years. Gracie and Sweet Sweet Pablo were there. So were Derek, BG, Bacon Bikini Mary and StB. JDub bought me a White Russian. So I drank that. Then Derek bought me a double Soco. So I drank that. Then I bought myself a Stella. And I drank that too. Add a quick trip down the block with Gracie, Pablo, and Derek to smoke a bowl and I was pretty shitty by the time we left Irish Kevin's for the strip club.
I'd been hearing about these two strip clubs ever since Pauly had landed on the island five days earlier. There was "The Classy Joint" which was larger, semi-well maintained, and had decent looking dancers. Then there was "The Dive" which was described to me as "where strippers go to die in Key West." We were going to The Classy Joint, thank God.
Though there were a couple of lap dance virgins on our outing that night, I was not one of them. I vividly remember my first. It was at The Body Shop on Sunset Blvd. during my first or second year in Hollywood. Showcase and I took our friend Seth out for birthday drinks at the Standard Hotel and later adjourned to the strip club for a few dances. Showcase and I each bought Seth a dance and he said I wasn't leaving until I got one myself. I tried waving him off with a laugh, but five minutes later, a curvaceous, raven-haired stripper came up to me and pulled me into the back room where the private dance booths were set up.
"This is from Seth," she cooed into my ear as she ground her crotch into my thigh. Hey, this isn't so bad.
I was hooked. Lap dances were fun. I'd get several more in the years that followed-- from one at Cheetah's where a coked-up blonde poured a shot into my mouth and proceeded to stir it with her tongue, to Showcase's 25th birthday party at Crazy Horse Too when I saw him get a 45 minute lap dance from a six-foot tall black woman with the biggest tits I've ever seen, to that fateful night at Scores when Pauly, Grubby, Benny Hiroshima and I sat in a horseshoe formation, all with breasts both fake and real stuffed into our faces at one point or another, all four of us departing with our nipples burning after being twisted into unnatural formations by these ladies of the pole.
Compared to Vegas strip joints, the Classy Joint was small and really not that classy, which made me wonder just how sketchy "The Dive" was if this was classy. Pauly instantly got a waitress to take care of everyone and we took over three tables in the back corner. Al and Friends were already instant celebrities in these parts and we were treated very well. Many double Socos were consumed and at midnight, AlCantHang turned 40 amidst clinking glasses and a dozen of his friends.
Al had brought a $50 brick of singles with him and by the end of the night all of them ended up in the garters of the panty-less dancers that took the stage. Yes, panty-less. These chicks went the Full Monty. Pablo, StB, Pauly and I rotated in and out of two seats next to the stage. During my turn, I put a couple of the singles in my cleavage and the girls skillfully removed them by mouth.
After another Double Soco, I was approached by a strikingly tall Russian girl. Her name was Olga and she was 6'4” in her Lucite heels. She couldn't have been more than 20 or 21 and had ice-blue eyes, long chestnut hair and a surprisingly innocent face, like she could be the girl who sells you a croissant and a coffee in the morning at some random European cafe.
"Come with me. I give you two dance from him." She pointed at Pauly, who waved at me with a goofy drunken grin before Olga took my hand and led me into the private dance room.
The private room was long, narrow, and mirrored, with a black leather banquette lining the walls on all sides. Six or seven girls were in there, some bottomless, grinding atop sunburnt tourists in t-shirts and cargo shorts. Olga led me all the way to the back and sat me down. She took her top off and grabbed my hands, placing them on her very soft, very real breasts.
"34B..." I thought as she started grinding away.
Midway through my second dance, AlCantHang entered the room with a dark-haired stripper. As Olga gnawed on my nipples through my padded satin Victoria's Secret bra, Al and I gave each other "the nod." That strip-club nod that's like "hey, here we are, being all debauched with dirty dirty paid-for girls at are going to do naughty naughty things to us and well, we're doing it in the same room, and that's a little weird, but we're just going to roll with it, OK?"
After my seven or so minutes with Olga, I emerged from the back room with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin. I could have used a cigarette. Or maybe a shower.
"Oh my God, look at your hair!" laughed Pablo.
I racked focus toward the mirror behind our table and sure enough, it was all over the place. Sticking up, to the side, tangled and frizzy from where Olga had repeatedly run her hands through it.
"So, did you like your dance?" said Pauly, grinning ear to ear as he smoothed out my hair.
"I did. She was very dirty."
"And tall!"
"Dude, I barely came up to her tits."
"Do you want another one?"
"No, I think that's all I can take for one night."
Maybe an hour later we stumbled back to the hotel and passed out. Seven hours later I woke up tasting stale liquor in my mouth as a rooster screamed from the tree outside our window.
And I smelled like stripper.
Change100 is a writer from Los Angeles, CA.
August 13, 2007
Meeting Mama McGrupp
By Change100 © 2007
"So, how should I introduce you?" Pauly asked, as I drove down Flamingo toward Caesar's Palace. "As my friend? My girlfriend? My roommate?" His mother was in Las Vegas for the Fourth of July weekend and we were meeting her for dinner at Trevi in the Forum Shops.
"At this point, do whatever you want, Pauly. Whatevvvvver is easiest for you" was my reply.
Look, there are no questions as to the status of our relationship. We're together. We have been for well over a year. Pauly has met my family a number of times. He's eaten my father's BBQ, watched the Yankees with my mom, treated Mandy to beers and Mexican food. But that's mainly because he's spent a helluva lot more time in Los Angeles than I have in New York.
Well, that and my parents are "normal" (his words).
Over a year in and I had yet to meet Mama McGrupp. Pauly assured me it was for a good reason. All I knew about this woman was that she was five feet tall, chain-smoked, had a wicked New York accent, was overly fond of Amaretto, and never had anything nice to say about anyone.
"Whatever you say, don't tell her you're Irish. Even a little bit. Just stick with German. She hates Irish people because of my father. She could also blatantly insult you at any moment, so be prepared," Pauly warned.
By this point I was terrified. I almost hoped he would introduce me as his roommate or colleague. I'd be more likely to avoid a barrage of potentially loaded questions.
"Mama's on the warpath" Derek said as we walked up. Pauly mumbled a response laced in a sort of shorthand only brothers bound by over three decades of struggles with this force of a woman could understand. My stomach had been on the floor since we'd parked the car at Bellagio and walked over the bridge to Caesar's Palace. I could see her staring at me from ten feet away. I turned on my Hollywood smile.
"Mom, this is my friend Nicky," said Pauly (ohthankGod).
"It's a pleasure to meet you Mrs. McGrupp" I said as I extended my hand. I got a limp, cold handshake in return. Pauly's aunt and two of his cousins were with her and they seemed far friendlier. We adjourned to a large round table indoors.
I sat between Derek and Pauly, figuring that was the safest seat at the table. I ordered a glass of Shiraz and Mama McG got a whisky sour-- the first of several.
As I glanced over the menu, Pauly's cousin Meg asked me about working at the World Series. I gave some short, happy answers that didn't give away a lot while Mama stared at us from across the table, sipping her drink. After that, I buried myself in conversation with Derek, trying to avoid eye contact with Mama. She looked suspicious and annoyed.
I ordered a nice Chicken Marsala. Pauly and Derek both got the Veal Parmesan and Mama had the lasagna, deciding that she couldn't order the veal, too, since both of the boys had.
"I'll give you a taste of mine when it arrives, OK Mom?" said Derek, attempting to placate her. She mumbled something unintelligible.
"I met your boss today" Mama said to Pauly. "He said you were a good writer."
"He's a great writer!" I piped up.
Mama looked at me like I had stood up, climbed atop the table, and urinated into the bread basket. My face flushed scarlet and I took a long sip of my Shiraz as I looked around for a hole to fall into.
"The Rio was nice. I thought it would be really seedy where you worked. But it's nice. Not as nice as the Wynn, but it's OK."
"You're thinking of Binions, where the World Series used to be. That's downtown where it's really sketchy" Pauly explained.
"I couldn't find a matchbook there-- I looked all over for a matchbook and tried all the bars but they didn't have any. I want to get one from every casino."
"Well I'll make sure to pick one up for you."
"We went in that, that Poker Expo thing ? And they were spraying this cologne I liked, but he wanted to get out of there so I couldn't get any" she said, glaring at Derek.
"Do you want me to get you some of the cologne?" Pauly said, his patience fraying.
"No. Forget it," she spat.
Thank God the food arrived. The chicken was tasty and it came with some lovely fresh green beans-- at least $200 worth if we're talking in Pauly veggie prop bet terms.
Derek, as promised, sliced off a nice piece of his veal parm and reached over to place it on Mama's plate.
"No! I don't want it! Don't do that! You hate it when I mess with things on your plate, so don't you do it to me!" she barked, out of nowhere. Derek put the veal back on his plate with a sigh.
I must have looked a little shocked at this outburst so Derek leaned over and whispered "Dude... this like, isn't even a 1 on the Richter Scale." Wow.
Mama and I didn't really say anything to each other after that. I finished my meal and she downed three more whisky sours. She didn't touch her lasagna, claiming that she had "lost her appetite" after the veal incident with Derek.
"Here, you eat it," Mama said, passing her plate to Cousin Meg. Meg accepted the lasagna with a smile.
"I'll share some with John, too," she said, with a nod to Pauly's other cousin at the table. She sliced the lasagna in half and picked it up with a fork and knife, ready to set it on his plate.
Only it never made it to his plate. Almost in slow motion, the lasagna slipped from the fork-and-knife hold and fell... straight into her purse. Meg buried her head in her hands.
It looked like she might cry, until she started to laugh. Hard. The entire table, even Mama, cracked up as she pulled bits of ground beef and marinara-sauce-stained papers out of her bag.
"So, does anyone want dessert?" inquired the waiter.
"Nojusthebillpleasewhenyougetachance," said Pauly before anyone could interject.
Sixty-five minutes after arriving at Trevi, we made our escape. Mama bid us goodbye with little interest and left with Derek and the cousins to go get show tickets.
Pauly charged out of the Forum Shops in his New Yorker walk that requires me to nearly jog to keep up with him. He blasted past the Caesar's poker room.
"No poker?" I asked.
"No. I need to get off tilt."
We headed back across the bridge to Bellagio. We passed their poker room, the gaming pits, and at least two bars before I realized where we were going.
Gelato is the cure for Mama-tilt. I got Oreo, he got Mint Chip.
"So, now you get it, right? The hell I have gone through with this woman for over thirty years?"
"Pretty much."
"And she wasn't even that bad tonight."
"That's what Derek said."
"So you've met her, you happy now?"
"Yes. And we don't have to do it again, I hope for a very long time. But there is one thing though."
"What?"
"You do look a lot like her."
"Oh God..."
Change100 is a writer from Los Angeles, CA.
"So, how should I introduce you?" Pauly asked, as I drove down Flamingo toward Caesar's Palace. "As my friend? My girlfriend? My roommate?" His mother was in Las Vegas for the Fourth of July weekend and we were meeting her for dinner at Trevi in the Forum Shops.
"At this point, do whatever you want, Pauly. Whatevvvvver is easiest for you" was my reply.
Look, there are no questions as to the status of our relationship. We're together. We have been for well over a year. Pauly has met my family a number of times. He's eaten my father's BBQ, watched the Yankees with my mom, treated Mandy to beers and Mexican food. But that's mainly because he's spent a helluva lot more time in Los Angeles than I have in New York.
Well, that and my parents are "normal" (his words).
Over a year in and I had yet to meet Mama McGrupp. Pauly assured me it was for a good reason. All I knew about this woman was that she was five feet tall, chain-smoked, had a wicked New York accent, was overly fond of Amaretto, and never had anything nice to say about anyone.
"Whatever you say, don't tell her you're Irish. Even a little bit. Just stick with German. She hates Irish people because of my father. She could also blatantly insult you at any moment, so be prepared," Pauly warned.
By this point I was terrified. I almost hoped he would introduce me as his roommate or colleague. I'd be more likely to avoid a barrage of potentially loaded questions.
"Mama's on the warpath" Derek said as we walked up. Pauly mumbled a response laced in a sort of shorthand only brothers bound by over three decades of struggles with this force of a woman could understand. My stomach had been on the floor since we'd parked the car at Bellagio and walked over the bridge to Caesar's Palace. I could see her staring at me from ten feet away. I turned on my Hollywood smile.
"Mom, this is my friend Nicky," said Pauly (ohthankGod).
"It's a pleasure to meet you Mrs. McGrupp" I said as I extended my hand. I got a limp, cold handshake in return. Pauly's aunt and two of his cousins were with her and they seemed far friendlier. We adjourned to a large round table indoors.
I sat between Derek and Pauly, figuring that was the safest seat at the table. I ordered a glass of Shiraz and Mama McG got a whisky sour-- the first of several.
As I glanced over the menu, Pauly's cousin Meg asked me about working at the World Series. I gave some short, happy answers that didn't give away a lot while Mama stared at us from across the table, sipping her drink. After that, I buried myself in conversation with Derek, trying to avoid eye contact with Mama. She looked suspicious and annoyed.
I ordered a nice Chicken Marsala. Pauly and Derek both got the Veal Parmesan and Mama had the lasagna, deciding that she couldn't order the veal, too, since both of the boys had.
"I'll give you a taste of mine when it arrives, OK Mom?" said Derek, attempting to placate her. She mumbled something unintelligible.
"I met your boss today" Mama said to Pauly. "He said you were a good writer."
"He's a great writer!" I piped up.
Mama looked at me like I had stood up, climbed atop the table, and urinated into the bread basket. My face flushed scarlet and I took a long sip of my Shiraz as I looked around for a hole to fall into.
"The Rio was nice. I thought it would be really seedy where you worked. But it's nice. Not as nice as the Wynn, but it's OK."
"You're thinking of Binions, where the World Series used to be. That's downtown where it's really sketchy" Pauly explained.
"I couldn't find a matchbook there-- I looked all over for a matchbook and tried all the bars but they didn't have any. I want to get one from every casino."
"Well I'll make sure to pick one up for you."
"We went in that, that Poker Expo thing ? And they were spraying this cologne I liked, but he wanted to get out of there so I couldn't get any" she said, glaring at Derek.
"Do you want me to get you some of the cologne?" Pauly said, his patience fraying.
"No. Forget it," she spat.
Thank God the food arrived. The chicken was tasty and it came with some lovely fresh green beans-- at least $200 worth if we're talking in Pauly veggie prop bet terms.
Derek, as promised, sliced off a nice piece of his veal parm and reached over to place it on Mama's plate.
"No! I don't want it! Don't do that! You hate it when I mess with things on your plate, so don't you do it to me!" she barked, out of nowhere. Derek put the veal back on his plate with a sigh.
I must have looked a little shocked at this outburst so Derek leaned over and whispered "Dude... this like, isn't even a 1 on the Richter Scale." Wow.
Mama and I didn't really say anything to each other after that. I finished my meal and she downed three more whisky sours. She didn't touch her lasagna, claiming that she had "lost her appetite" after the veal incident with Derek.
"Here, you eat it," Mama said, passing her plate to Cousin Meg. Meg accepted the lasagna with a smile.
"I'll share some with John, too," she said, with a nod to Pauly's other cousin at the table. She sliced the lasagna in half and picked it up with a fork and knife, ready to set it on his plate.
Only it never made it to his plate. Almost in slow motion, the lasagna slipped from the fork-and-knife hold and fell... straight into her purse. Meg buried her head in her hands.
It looked like she might cry, until she started to laugh. Hard. The entire table, even Mama, cracked up as she pulled bits of ground beef and marinara-sauce-stained papers out of her bag.
"So, does anyone want dessert?" inquired the waiter.
"Nojusthebillpleasewhenyougetachance," said Pauly before anyone could interject.
Sixty-five minutes after arriving at Trevi, we made our escape. Mama bid us goodbye with little interest and left with Derek and the cousins to go get show tickets.
Pauly charged out of the Forum Shops in his New Yorker walk that requires me to nearly jog to keep up with him. He blasted past the Caesar's poker room.
"No poker?" I asked.
"No. I need to get off tilt."
We headed back across the bridge to Bellagio. We passed their poker room, the gaming pits, and at least two bars before I realized where we were going.
Gelato is the cure for Mama-tilt. I got Oreo, he got Mint Chip.
"So, now you get it, right? The hell I have gone through with this woman for over thirty years?"
"Pretty much."
"And she wasn't even that bad tonight."
"That's what Derek said."
"So you've met her, you happy now?"
"Yes. And we don't have to do it again, I hope for a very long time. But there is one thing though."
"What?"
"You do look a lot like her."
"Oh God..."
Change100 is a writer from Los Angeles, CA.
July 19, 2007
Decades
By Change100 © 2007
I turned 10 in Belmar, New Jersey. My grandfather had fallen ill and my mother decided to move my sister and I out there with her for most of the summer of 1987 so she could take care of him. The three of us squeezed into the pullout couch at night in the living room of my grandparents' doublewide trailer on Route 71, which was certainly not designed to accomodate five. Mandy and I spent most of our afternoons wandering around town, taking bike rides around Lake Como and hitting the dime stores with Nana, where she'd buy scores of useless trinkets for the already crowded shelves in the trailer.
On my birthday, she came home from her morning jaunt to Shop-Rite with a value-pack of M&Ms and a bag of chicken wings to cook for dinner. Nana's chicken wings were my favorite thing that she cooked... well, really the only thing I would eat that she cooked. And since it was my birthday, I got my meal of choice for dinner. We ate a light breakfast to "save" ourselves for the dinner. The only problem was... Mandy, my mother and I were already starving by about 1 PM. As the three of us zoned out in front of an episode of "Three's Company" with my grandfather, we began to pick at the M&Ms, which had been poured into one of Nana's tacky candy dishes that sat on the coffee table.
"What the hell are you eating those for?! You're going to spoil your dinner! Why am I slaving in this kitchen if you're not going to eat it!" shrieked Nana as she brushed the wings with marinade.
This was always the Catch-22 with Nana and her dishes of candy. Eat the candy, you'll spoil your meal. Don't eat it and why the hell did she bother to go out and buy the candy for us?
So my mom and Nana got into it over the M&Ms, which ended in her storming out of the trailer with the two of us in tow. We piled into Nana's white Ford Escort and took off down Route 71.
My mom pulled up to "The Sundae Times" aka the best ice cream parlor in town. They served their famous ice cream concoctions in plastic mini-baseball caps and you could pick the team of your choice. Mandy got strawberry ice cream in an Angels cap while I opted for mint chocolate chip in a Yankee hat. We were in sweet air-conditioned heaven and the lines across my mother's forehead finally began to relax.
"You're gonna have to hide the hats when we get home" she warned. "DON'T tell Nana I took you here-- this is our secret trip for Nicky's birthday."
Just as we'd rinsed out the hats and stashed them in my mom's purse, we ran into Nana's neighbor walking through the front door. My mom completely froze and tried to look for another way out of there, but we'd been made.
"Jo! What are you all doing here?"
"Patsy... do me a favor and don't tell my Ma you saw us here. It's so bloody hot the kids were gonna pass out if I didn't get them some ice cream."
"No worries, Jo. I get ya" she said with a wink.
Nana still made her chicken wings that night and I savored every one. Though I still got shit for not eating more than I did.
* * * * *
I turned 20 in New York City. College in the frozen midwest didn't agree with me and I'd defied my parents' wishes and moved to Manhattan for the summer of 1997 instead of coming home to L.A. They thought it was just to work a theatre internship, but I was more interested in converting that temporary gig to a full-time job I could take in lieu of finishing my last two years of school. My birthday was my eleventh day in my sparsely furnished studio apartment in Chelsea. I had a futon I'd borrowed for the summer, one end table, a twin bed I'd purchased for $10 from a sorority that was getting rid of old furniture, and a 13-inch television. I'd arrived in New York with $55 in cash in my pocket and only about $4-- all of it in change-- remained. I'd been eating most of my meals at the Seventh Avenue Papaya on the corner of 23rd Street where they sold 50 cent hot dogs. I could eat about three a day along with a 32 ounce Diet Coke and get by without any serious hunger.
Two days before I'd auditioned to be a singing waitress on a cruise ship. Showcase and a number of our theatre major friends had done it before as a summer job and it paid well. It was one of those touristy boats that took brunch and dinner cruises around the lower tip of Manhattan, passing the Twin Towers along its way to the Statue of Liberty, turning back north to the South Street Seaport, and ducking under the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges before making a wide U-turn and heading back to Chelsea Piers. All the waitstaff took one solo turn a night along with performing a hideous group disco number. I thought I'd had a good audition, but not having heard from them for 48 hours, panic had set in. I needed a paycheck in the worst way.
At about 7:00 that evening, my phone rang. It was them. I got the job! And could I start tomorrow? Visions of cash tips and food other than hot dogs danced in my head.
I called up Sarah, my best friend from high school who was also living in the city for the summer with the good news. She zipped over to my apartment and took me out for happy hour at a bar on 16th Street where she knew we wouldn't get carded. Elation and relief spread over me as I drank my glass of Merlot.
Because if I could make it there, well, I could make it anywhere.
* * * * *
I turned 30 in Las Vegas, Nevada at the World Series of Poker. I was covering a PLO8 event inside the Poker Pavillion Sauna Wind Tunnel Death Trap Freezer and was watching Chau Giang's teeth chatter as he tucked his arms inside his shirt to fend off the chill when Pauly instant-messaged me a Happy Birthday. I hadn't even noticed the time. Or the day it had suddenly become. Such was my focus on the task at hand. 30 had come quietly. Even unnoticed.
I worked on my 30th birthday. It was like any other day at this seven-week circus of gamblers. I didn't make a big deal out of celebrating it, nor did I have the time to. I've always had an odd relationship with this day and I've celebrated the occasion on every point of the spectrum. From my 13th birthday that I spent grounded and locked in my room to my 16th birthday when my closest friends threw me in the car blindfolded and surprised me with a trip to Disneyland, to my 25th birthday where my party took over a chic Hollywood club and boasted 150 guests, to my 27th birthday that I spent bent over the porcelain god ravaged with food poisoning.
I'm 30 now but I don't feel it. I don't look it. And I certainly don't live like it. I smoke weed, date a 34-year old homeless man, gamble every day, travel a lot and share an apartment with a borderline homosexual actor-slash-dog walker. When my parents were my age, they owned our house and I was spitting up applesauce in the crib. I'm still many years away from anything like that.
So like the many women who have gone before me, I think I'll remain 29 forever. I think it suits me well.
Change100 is a writer from Los Angeles, CA.
I turned 10 in Belmar, New Jersey. My grandfather had fallen ill and my mother decided to move my sister and I out there with her for most of the summer of 1987 so she could take care of him. The three of us squeezed into the pullout couch at night in the living room of my grandparents' doublewide trailer on Route 71, which was certainly not designed to accomodate five. Mandy and I spent most of our afternoons wandering around town, taking bike rides around Lake Como and hitting the dime stores with Nana, where she'd buy scores of useless trinkets for the already crowded shelves in the trailer.
On my birthday, she came home from her morning jaunt to Shop-Rite with a value-pack of M&Ms and a bag of chicken wings to cook for dinner. Nana's chicken wings were my favorite thing that she cooked... well, really the only thing I would eat that she cooked. And since it was my birthday, I got my meal of choice for dinner. We ate a light breakfast to "save" ourselves for the dinner. The only problem was... Mandy, my mother and I were already starving by about 1 PM. As the three of us zoned out in front of an episode of "Three's Company" with my grandfather, we began to pick at the M&Ms, which had been poured into one of Nana's tacky candy dishes that sat on the coffee table.
"What the hell are you eating those for?! You're going to spoil your dinner! Why am I slaving in this kitchen if you're not going to eat it!" shrieked Nana as she brushed the wings with marinade.
This was always the Catch-22 with Nana and her dishes of candy. Eat the candy, you'll spoil your meal. Don't eat it and why the hell did she bother to go out and buy the candy for us?
So my mom and Nana got into it over the M&Ms, which ended in her storming out of the trailer with the two of us in tow. We piled into Nana's white Ford Escort and took off down Route 71.
My mom pulled up to "The Sundae Times" aka the best ice cream parlor in town. They served their famous ice cream concoctions in plastic mini-baseball caps and you could pick the team of your choice. Mandy got strawberry ice cream in an Angels cap while I opted for mint chocolate chip in a Yankee hat. We were in sweet air-conditioned heaven and the lines across my mother's forehead finally began to relax.
"You're gonna have to hide the hats when we get home" she warned. "DON'T tell Nana I took you here-- this is our secret trip for Nicky's birthday."
Just as we'd rinsed out the hats and stashed them in my mom's purse, we ran into Nana's neighbor walking through the front door. My mom completely froze and tried to look for another way out of there, but we'd been made.
"Jo! What are you all doing here?"
"Patsy... do me a favor and don't tell my Ma you saw us here. It's so bloody hot the kids were gonna pass out if I didn't get them some ice cream."
"No worries, Jo. I get ya" she said with a wink.
Nana still made her chicken wings that night and I savored every one. Though I still got shit for not eating more than I did.
I turned 20 in New York City. College in the frozen midwest didn't agree with me and I'd defied my parents' wishes and moved to Manhattan for the summer of 1997 instead of coming home to L.A. They thought it was just to work a theatre internship, but I was more interested in converting that temporary gig to a full-time job I could take in lieu of finishing my last two years of school. My birthday was my eleventh day in my sparsely furnished studio apartment in Chelsea. I had a futon I'd borrowed for the summer, one end table, a twin bed I'd purchased for $10 from a sorority that was getting rid of old furniture, and a 13-inch television. I'd arrived in New York with $55 in cash in my pocket and only about $4-- all of it in change-- remained. I'd been eating most of my meals at the Seventh Avenue Papaya on the corner of 23rd Street where they sold 50 cent hot dogs. I could eat about three a day along with a 32 ounce Diet Coke and get by without any serious hunger.
Two days before I'd auditioned to be a singing waitress on a cruise ship. Showcase and a number of our theatre major friends had done it before as a summer job and it paid well. It was one of those touristy boats that took brunch and dinner cruises around the lower tip of Manhattan, passing the Twin Towers along its way to the Statue of Liberty, turning back north to the South Street Seaport, and ducking under the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges before making a wide U-turn and heading back to Chelsea Piers. All the waitstaff took one solo turn a night along with performing a hideous group disco number. I thought I'd had a good audition, but not having heard from them for 48 hours, panic had set in. I needed a paycheck in the worst way.
At about 7:00 that evening, my phone rang. It was them. I got the job! And could I start tomorrow? Visions of cash tips and food other than hot dogs danced in my head.
I called up Sarah, my best friend from high school who was also living in the city for the summer with the good news. She zipped over to my apartment and took me out for happy hour at a bar on 16th Street where she knew we wouldn't get carded. Elation and relief spread over me as I drank my glass of Merlot.
Because if I could make it there, well, I could make it anywhere.
I turned 30 in Las Vegas, Nevada at the World Series of Poker. I was covering a PLO8 event inside the Poker Pavillion Sauna Wind Tunnel Death Trap Freezer and was watching Chau Giang's teeth chatter as he tucked his arms inside his shirt to fend off the chill when Pauly instant-messaged me a Happy Birthday. I hadn't even noticed the time. Or the day it had suddenly become. Such was my focus on the task at hand. 30 had come quietly. Even unnoticed.
I worked on my 30th birthday. It was like any other day at this seven-week circus of gamblers. I didn't make a big deal out of celebrating it, nor did I have the time to. I've always had an odd relationship with this day and I've celebrated the occasion on every point of the spectrum. From my 13th birthday that I spent grounded and locked in my room to my 16th birthday when my closest friends threw me in the car blindfolded and surprised me with a trip to Disneyland, to my 25th birthday where my party took over a chic Hollywood club and boasted 150 guests, to my 27th birthday that I spent bent over the porcelain god ravaged with food poisoning.
I'm 30 now but I don't feel it. I don't look it. And I certainly don't live like it. I smoke weed, date a 34-year old homeless man, gamble every day, travel a lot and share an apartment with a borderline homosexual actor-slash-dog walker. When my parents were my age, they owned our house and I was spitting up applesauce in the crib. I'm still many years away from anything like that.
So like the many women who have gone before me, I think I'll remain 29 forever. I think it suits me well.
Change100 is a writer from Los Angeles, CA.
March 06, 2007
Everything You Ever Needed to Know about Driving in Los Angeles
By Change100 © 2007
I have the same strange thought at least once a day while I'm behind the wheel of my 1993 blue-green Saturn. It usually springs forth as I'm tailgating some poor asshole at 15 MPH in the right lane of a busy thoroughfare as he fruitlessly looks for street parking at a peak time of day. Precious minutes of my life are sucked into the ether every single day of my life by these morons' insistence that somehow, today, they will luck into that perfect metered space on Beverly Drive during the industry lunch rush even though experience and simple common sense dictate that like yesterday, like the day before and like tomorrow -- it ain't gonna happen. That's when I start to fantasize about a world where I could push a button on the dashboard and my front windshield would turn into a programmable neon sign that can read my thoughts and express them to the idiot drivers around me in a clear, concise manner. I dream of tailing right behind these fuckers, my windshield ablaze with the message, "YOU'RE NEVER GONNA FIND A SPACE ON THIS BLOCK AND YOU KNOW IT! SO FUCKING DRIVE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"
I am a Los Angeles driver. And by conservative mathematical estimates, I have driven over 150,000 miles inside the City of Angels in the last decade and a half. That translates into almost one solid year of my life spent operating a motor vehicle in heavy traffic populated by yuppies, criminals, high school kids, industry douchebags, Hollywood slicksters, and hundreds of thousands of illegal immigrants without licenses or insurance. I have an average of 1.5 near-death experiences in L.A. traffic every day. At this point, I'm immune to them. A minivan full of preschoolers could shoot out of an alleyway at 40 MPH, it's bimbo-mom driver yapping on her cell phone instead of watching the road and my heart will scarcely quicken as my foot hits the brakes with automatic, instinctive precision. Smoking a lot of pot may also contribute to this almost eerie sense of calm, and is a highly recommended practice especially when venturing out into the concrete jungle at the witching hours of 7-10 AM and 3-7 PM.
If there is one fundamental rule about driving in Los Angeles, it is this. Be the asshole or be the asshole's victim. See an opportunity and take advantage of it, whether it's a lane change, a parking space, or a quickie left-turn. Otherwise, be prepared to waste your life waiting.
Driving in Los Angeles is made infinitely easier if one understands that there will always be traffic. Even at 2 AM, there can (and will be) freeway traffic as you are now entering prime high speed chase time and cop cars will frequently be used to slow down the pace of freeway traffic by driving in a serpentine pattern across all lanes when a criminal is being chased perhaps miles ahead. Understanding that traffic will always exist is half the battle toward becoming an effective L.A. driver.
Be prepared to execute the "right-lane swerve-around" at a moment's notice, especially when trapped behind a slow vehicle. For an average commuter, this will happen on an average of over a dozen times per day. Appropriate situations for this maneuver include:
A few droplets of rain falling out of the sky make Los Angeles drivers infinitely more retarded than they are on dry land. Even a very slight drizzle moistens the roads just enough so that L.A. is temporarily turned into a giant oil slick where pissed-off people in luxury cars crash into each other because they can't handle even the slightest of weather-related delays. Instead of becoming frustrated at the rain and ensuing traffic, use this opportunity to thicken your "ohmygod traffic was hell," excuse for being late into the rock-solid alibi of "ohmygod I'm so sorry I'm late -- nothing was moving in the rain." Relax and accept the rain delay. Turn up your iPod. Smoke a bowl of medicinal marijuana. It doesn't rain much here so why not enjoy it, especially when it comes with a built-in excuse for tardiness.
When driving in L.A.'s tonier neighborhoods (i.e. Beverly Hills, Brentwood, Malibu), understand that those douchebags with small penises that drive Mercedes Benzes tend to feel that by virtue of their ostentatious purchase, they have more of a right to the road than you do. Rude gestures are encouraged toward these asshats, including but not limited to: the finger, the double finger, the mouthed, "Fuck you asshole!" and my personal favorite, the "chase and yell," which involves chasing said douchebag's vehicle to the next red light, pulling alongside of him and tossing a choice sound bite out the window as he pretends not to see you. Don't worry. He does. And he's pretty scared now since you decided to chase him half a mile just to get that off your chest. But that's OK. He deserves to be scared. And has a $70,000 Nazi sled to protect him.
Aggression is the key to successful Los Angeles driving. Be aware of who is in your lane, and what their driving personality is. Is this driver aggressive? Passive? Patient? In a rush? Are they aware of their environment or paying more attention to their buzzing wireless communications device? Is this driver someone who, like me, is eager to get from Point A to Point B in the most efficient way possible or are they lost, struggling, or unfamiliar with their route? It is perfectly acceptable to swerve around and/or cut off these people for no reason other than the fact that they deserve it. Know where you're going or get the fuck off my road.
In order to become a true L.A. driving warrior, you will sometimes have to be the asshole. This doesn't mean you're a bad person-- it only contributes to your overall savviness. By understanding that this attitude is just an unfortunately necessary part of your own survival, inner peace will come much easier.
Look at it as acting if you have to. After all, this is Hollywood.
Change100 is a writer and former D-girl from Los Angeles, CA.
I have the same strange thought at least once a day while I'm behind the wheel of my 1993 blue-green Saturn. It usually springs forth as I'm tailgating some poor asshole at 15 MPH in the right lane of a busy thoroughfare as he fruitlessly looks for street parking at a peak time of day. Precious minutes of my life are sucked into the ether every single day of my life by these morons' insistence that somehow, today, they will luck into that perfect metered space on Beverly Drive during the industry lunch rush even though experience and simple common sense dictate that like yesterday, like the day before and like tomorrow -- it ain't gonna happen. That's when I start to fantasize about a world where I could push a button on the dashboard and my front windshield would turn into a programmable neon sign that can read my thoughts and express them to the idiot drivers around me in a clear, concise manner. I dream of tailing right behind these fuckers, my windshield ablaze with the message, "YOU'RE NEVER GONNA FIND A SPACE ON THIS BLOCK AND YOU KNOW IT! SO FUCKING DRIVE, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"
I am a Los Angeles driver. And by conservative mathematical estimates, I have driven over 150,000 miles inside the City of Angels in the last decade and a half. That translates into almost one solid year of my life spent operating a motor vehicle in heavy traffic populated by yuppies, criminals, high school kids, industry douchebags, Hollywood slicksters, and hundreds of thousands of illegal immigrants without licenses or insurance. I have an average of 1.5 near-death experiences in L.A. traffic every day. At this point, I'm immune to them. A minivan full of preschoolers could shoot out of an alleyway at 40 MPH, it's bimbo-mom driver yapping on her cell phone instead of watching the road and my heart will scarcely quicken as my foot hits the brakes with automatic, instinctive precision. Smoking a lot of pot may also contribute to this almost eerie sense of calm, and is a highly recommended practice especially when venturing out into the concrete jungle at the witching hours of 7-10 AM and 3-7 PM.
If there is one fundamental rule about driving in Los Angeles, it is this. Be the asshole or be the asshole's victim. See an opportunity and take advantage of it, whether it's a lane change, a parking space, or a quickie left-turn. Otherwise, be prepared to waste your life waiting.
Driving in Los Angeles is made infinitely easier if one understands that there will always be traffic. Even at 2 AM, there can (and will be) freeway traffic as you are now entering prime high speed chase time and cop cars will frequently be used to slow down the pace of freeway traffic by driving in a serpentine pattern across all lanes when a criminal is being chased perhaps miles ahead. Understanding that traffic will always exist is half the battle toward becoming an effective L.A. driver.
Be prepared to execute the "right-lane swerve-around" at a moment's notice, especially when trapped behind a slow vehicle. For an average commuter, this will happen on an average of over a dozen times per day. Appropriate situations for this maneuver include:
(1) getting stuck behind the Mexicans in pickup trucks who drive 20 MPH below the speed limit on Olympic Blvd.Brake, signal, swerve, and if the spirit moves you, give a little "curse & sneer" just to solidify your contempt.
(2) getting stuck behind old Jewish ladies on their way to the Fairfax Glatt Mart on Sunday mornings.
(3) getting around bottle blondes with cell phones in their ears trying to find street parking on Robertson.
A few droplets of rain falling out of the sky make Los Angeles drivers infinitely more retarded than they are on dry land. Even a very slight drizzle moistens the roads just enough so that L.A. is temporarily turned into a giant oil slick where pissed-off people in luxury cars crash into each other because they can't handle even the slightest of weather-related delays. Instead of becoming frustrated at the rain and ensuing traffic, use this opportunity to thicken your "ohmygod traffic was hell," excuse for being late into the rock-solid alibi of "ohmygod I'm so sorry I'm late -- nothing was moving in the rain." Relax and accept the rain delay. Turn up your iPod. Smoke a bowl of medicinal marijuana. It doesn't rain much here so why not enjoy it, especially when it comes with a built-in excuse for tardiness.
When driving in L.A.'s tonier neighborhoods (i.e. Beverly Hills, Brentwood, Malibu), understand that those douchebags with small penises that drive Mercedes Benzes tend to feel that by virtue of their ostentatious purchase, they have more of a right to the road than you do. Rude gestures are encouraged toward these asshats, including but not limited to: the finger, the double finger, the mouthed, "Fuck you asshole!" and my personal favorite, the "chase and yell," which involves chasing said douchebag's vehicle to the next red light, pulling alongside of him and tossing a choice sound bite out the window as he pretends not to see you. Don't worry. He does. And he's pretty scared now since you decided to chase him half a mile just to get that off your chest. But that's OK. He deserves to be scared. And has a $70,000 Nazi sled to protect him.
Aggression is the key to successful Los Angeles driving. Be aware of who is in your lane, and what their driving personality is. Is this driver aggressive? Passive? Patient? In a rush? Are they aware of their environment or paying more attention to their buzzing wireless communications device? Is this driver someone who, like me, is eager to get from Point A to Point B in the most efficient way possible or are they lost, struggling, or unfamiliar with their route? It is perfectly acceptable to swerve around and/or cut off these people for no reason other than the fact that they deserve it. Know where you're going or get the fuck off my road.
In order to become a true L.A. driving warrior, you will sometimes have to be the asshole. This doesn't mean you're a bad person-- it only contributes to your overall savviness. By understanding that this attitude is just an unfortunately necessary part of your own survival, inner peace will come much easier.
Look at it as acting if you have to. After all, this is Hollywood.
Change100 is a writer and former D-girl from Los Angeles, CA.
April 29, 2006
Outfitting the Doctor
By Change100 © 2006
"I want to get this over with."
You'd think he was facing dental surgery or something, but we had only been in the Ceasar's Palace Forum Shops for about twenty minutes. I had convinced Pauly that none of the nearly-identical lightly wrinkled button-down shirts that comprised a good portion of his traveling wardrobe would cut it at the Playboy Mansion, and that he should suck it up and pull out the MasterCard in the name of all that is good and holy and buy a hot outfit for the party.
"Do it for Hef," I pleaded.
Our first stop was Hugo Boss, where Pauly declared everything gay. Next was Armani Exchange, where he took a liking to a textured blue button-down, but not the indigo hipster jeans that were paired along with it.
"$115 for jeans? Are you crazy?"
"These ones I'm wearing right now? $145."
"Working in Hollyweird has warped your brain."
We declared that the "fail-safe" outfit, the one you go back to if nothing else in the mall suits your fancy, and continued onward. We hit Ralph Lauren next. Sending an unemployed studio executive with a fashion-induced credit card addiction into Ralph Lauren is like handing Robert Downey Jr. the keys to a suitcase full of blow. The temptation is almost too much for one human being to handle. I buckled down and fixated on men's shirts. A snazzy violet-hued one caught my eye, but Pauly looked nauseous when I pointed it out to him.
"Fine then, what would you pick?"
His eyes tracked along the rows of shirts, stopping on a white one with blue stripes.
"What about this?"
"It's exactly like the JCrew one you already have."
"Or this one?"
"Dude, it's exactly like the one you have on RIGHT NOW."
Ralph Lauren was a bust. So was Diesel. Pauly grew anxious and I was resigned to the Armani Exchange shirt when the Kenneth Cole store peeked out at me. Showcase always seemed to find cool shirts there. I led the Doctor inside.
Our salesman was tall, black, handsome, and very very gay. Pauly gravitated toward one shirt almost instantly-- a soft linen button-down with light green stripes accented with silver and navy-- while I tried to tear my gaze away from a flawless lightly ruffled eggshell trenchcoat that would look so good aginst my $145 jeans. The shirt fit him perfectly and I smiled my approval. The MasterCard came out, the shirt was purchased, and he'd go on to grumble about the $198 price tag all afternoon.
Pants were next. I'd been hard-selling the virtues of perfectly torn hipster jeans, but Pauly wanted nothing but class. How could I disagree with that? We settled on some slick black pants and a matching belt from Banana Republic.
"Try them on with the shirt," I pleaded.
"Come on, we can do that later. I'm hungry."
"Just do it. You have to see the whole picture. You won't regret it."
Two minutes later, a changed man emerged from the dressing room. The same mischief flashed in his eyes, but the scruff of his Old Navy checks and schwag-bag T-shirts had evaporated, replaced by $400 worth of couture. He stepped up to the three-way mirror and took a look at his new, improved self.
"Now this is a man ready for the mansion!" I declared.
And I swear I saw him blush.
Change100 is a former D-girl from Hollywood, CA.
"I want to get this over with."
You'd think he was facing dental surgery or something, but we had only been in the Ceasar's Palace Forum Shops for about twenty minutes. I had convinced Pauly that none of the nearly-identical lightly wrinkled button-down shirts that comprised a good portion of his traveling wardrobe would cut it at the Playboy Mansion, and that he should suck it up and pull out the MasterCard in the name of all that is good and holy and buy a hot outfit for the party.
"Do it for Hef," I pleaded.
Our first stop was Hugo Boss, where Pauly declared everything gay. Next was Armani Exchange, where he took a liking to a textured blue button-down, but not the indigo hipster jeans that were paired along with it.
"$115 for jeans? Are you crazy?"
"These ones I'm wearing right now? $145."
"Working in Hollyweird has warped your brain."
We declared that the "fail-safe" outfit, the one you go back to if nothing else in the mall suits your fancy, and continued onward. We hit Ralph Lauren next. Sending an unemployed studio executive with a fashion-induced credit card addiction into Ralph Lauren is like handing Robert Downey Jr. the keys to a suitcase full of blow. The temptation is almost too much for one human being to handle. I buckled down and fixated on men's shirts. A snazzy violet-hued one caught my eye, but Pauly looked nauseous when I pointed it out to him.
"Fine then, what would you pick?"
His eyes tracked along the rows of shirts, stopping on a white one with blue stripes.
"What about this?"
"It's exactly like the JCrew one you already have."
"Or this one?"
"Dude, it's exactly like the one you have on RIGHT NOW."
Ralph Lauren was a bust. So was Diesel. Pauly grew anxious and I was resigned to the Armani Exchange shirt when the Kenneth Cole store peeked out at me. Showcase always seemed to find cool shirts there. I led the Doctor inside.
Our salesman was tall, black, handsome, and very very gay. Pauly gravitated toward one shirt almost instantly-- a soft linen button-down with light green stripes accented with silver and navy-- while I tried to tear my gaze away from a flawless lightly ruffled eggshell trenchcoat that would look so good aginst my $145 jeans. The shirt fit him perfectly and I smiled my approval. The MasterCard came out, the shirt was purchased, and he'd go on to grumble about the $198 price tag all afternoon.
Pants were next. I'd been hard-selling the virtues of perfectly torn hipster jeans, but Pauly wanted nothing but class. How could I disagree with that? We settled on some slick black pants and a matching belt from Banana Republic.
"Try them on with the shirt," I pleaded.
"Come on, we can do that later. I'm hungry."
"Just do it. You have to see the whole picture. You won't regret it."
Two minutes later, a changed man emerged from the dressing room. The same mischief flashed in his eyes, but the scruff of his Old Navy checks and schwag-bag T-shirts had evaporated, replaced by $400 worth of couture. He stepped up to the three-way mirror and took a look at his new, improved self.
"Now this is a man ready for the mansion!" I declared.
And I swear I saw him blush.
Change100 is a former D-girl from Hollywood, CA.
March 20, 2006
Paging Dominic Leare
By Change100 © 2006
Charlie was in early. He rarely, if ever beat me into the office and it was especially unusual given that today was a half-day Friday leading into Memorial Day weekend. These were the lazy days we lived for at the studio– a welcome reprieve from an endless string of 14-hour days. I was already dreaming of driving off the lot at 2PM, firing up the joint I had in my glove compartment, and turning on a Carlos Santana album for the drive home, up Cahuenga Pass, over the 101 freeway and through the leafy groves of the Hollywood Hills. I was dressed in jeans and a hooded cotton sweater that advertised my blissfully causal attitude about the day. Charlie, though, was standing up at his desk, trying to close the top button of a dress shirt. He looked like he hadn’t slept all night.
“What happened? You look like hell,” I said, handing him his Café Americano with three sugars.
“He’s flipping out.”
“Who is?”
“Tubby,” as he invoked our private name for the studio chief.
“What now? Universal scooped us on some teen comedy spec du jour?”
“No. He’s flipping out about Dominic Leare.”
Charlie grabbed a yellow tie off the hook on the back of his door.
“Dominic Leare has been late on every draft he’s ever turned in.”
“Yeah, but not this late. Six months is like, sicko late.”
“He sort of won an Academy Award. Doesn’t that, like, let you get away with shit like that?”
I took the yellow tie away and gave him the red one out of his desk drawer.
“Usually. But not when the absence of a draft is going to lose you your director.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“Right.”
“You sat with him at Dan Tana’s a month ago, right?”
“Yeah. For three fucking hours. He pitched out the whole thing, beat by fucking beat. He even brought his goddamn laptop.”
“So you know he has it in there, he’s just being all precious and writerly about it and won’t let it go. I mean, this is an epic. It’s a huge undertaking.”
“A 100 million dollar movie.”
“A lot of pressure.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll get it out of him.”
“Right. And while I tell Tubby that, you’re going to actually have to do it.”
“What?”
“Get it out of him.”
“Seriously?”
“I have to placate Tubby and then go to the weekend read meeting. You’re gonna have to find him, go over to his house if you have to, and not leave until there are 120 pages in your hands.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“OK.”
“You can do this. I trust you. Time to step up and be a hero. How do I look?”
“You have food on your shirt.”
“I know. I don’t have any others.”
I had developed a pretty easygoing relationship with Dominic Leare. We’d talked on the phone plenty over the last few months as Charlie tried to pry the script out of him. After his first deadline passed, Dominic began to elude us for weeks at a time. After Charlie would leave a string of unanswered voicemails, he’d call up Leare’s agent, Stanley Greenberg and let him know that Dominic was AWOL, once again. It would take a couple of days, but Greenberg would somehow get him out from under the bed, and we’d get a hurried, sketchy phone call from him, where he’d frantically and profusely apologize and assure Charlie that everything was, indeed, progressing just fine. Leare probably liked me because I was by far the calmer half in the professional union between me and Charlie. Most of the time I felt like a hostage negotiator when I had him on the line and was trying to stall him with conversation long enough for Charlie to get there and pick up. I put on a calm, throaty voice. Step away from the ledge, Mr. Leare. Put down the gun...
My first call was to Stanley Greenberg’s office. His assistant picked up and I weaseled Leare’s home address out of her. Poor thing had only been there a month, she didn’t know any better and she’d certainly be in trouble when all this was through. Then I dialed Leare’s home number. It was only 9:30 in the morning. Someone had to be there. A female voice picked up. It was Maggie, Leare’s girlfriend. It sounded like I had woken her up.
“Maggie, it’s Nicky from Charlie Brewster’s office. I apologize for calling so early.”
“Mmmm, no it’s OK... How are you?”
“I need to speak to Dominic, is he around?”
“Yeah, he’s...” I could already hear Dominic shushing her.
“Right next to you... I can hear him.”
Maggie cupped her hand over the phone as Dominic started protesting in a steely grumble. “She can fucking hear you, idiot!”
“Just put him on the phone please, Maggie.”
I heard the phone clatter to the ground and the sound of Maggie’s heavy footsteps stomping away before Leare picked up.
“Hey, hey Nicky. What’s going on?” he spat, with false bravado.
“Listen, I know you told Charlie you needed more time, but we need to see whatever you have.”
“I.. I...”
“We need it today. It doesn’t matter how much you have left to finish, just print out what you’ve got and I’m even going to make it easy and come over to your house and get it so you don’t have to call a messenger.”
“Well it’s gonna take me hours to format everything properly.”
“That’s fine. Start now and I’ll wait if I have to. I’m getting in my car.”
“Really, you don’t have to do this.”
“But I do. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
I sped off the lot toward the 134 freeway, the studio’s legendary water tower in my rear view mirror. As I gazed at its blue and yellow logo the corners of my lips curved up in bemused bewilderment as I wondered how the fate of the studio’s next summer blockbuster managed to fall into my tiny, inexperienced hands.
Leare’s place was halfway up a steep one-lane road in Los Feliz. With some care and a decent landscape architect, it would have been a spectacular showpiece Spanish hacienda– the epitome of old Los Angeles. But this place was straight out of Sunset Boulevard, overrun with ivy growing wild up its stained limestone walls. A pair of eucalyptus trees shed leaves into onto the overgrown lawn and formed an ever-growing layer atop the kidney-shaped pool. I picked up five days worth of the LA Times as I walked up the driveway toward the enormous wooden door. I set them down in a pile before ringing the bell.
Maggie answered. I hadn’t met her face to face until that moment. She wore a pink terry cloth bathrobe over white cotton pajamas and looked like Stevie Nicks. A cigarette burned between her long slender fingers which waved me inside.
“Sorry about the stuff on the phone. He’s in a mood.”
Her valley-girl voice echoed off the hardwood floors in the vast foyer. She shuffled down two steps into the sunken living room, done up in a Southwest motif. Fancy saddles sat on display and I set my purse down on one of those tables that was made out of a wagon wheel. I took a seat on a brown leather couch while Maggie straddled the piano bench and picked out a few chords. Her long blonde hair fell in her eyes and threatened to singe from the cigarette that still hung from her lips.
“I didn’t sleep well last night. I just kept hearing music, you know. Had to keep playing.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I wrote like all these songs. You wanna hear one?”
“I do, but I need to see Dominic first.”
“He’s upstairs printing out all that shit for you. Just sit. Listen to the music.”
She started playing something very Lilith Fair. After about ninety seconds I began to deflate with relief that this was an instrumental composition. But then she started singing. And not well. It didn’t stop for quite a while. There were at least five verses and two bridges.
I politely applauded when she was done and she excused herself to the kitchen for some coffee for the both of us. Once she disappeared around the corner, I inched myself out of the living room toward the bottom of the spiral staircase, listening for the sound of a printer. I couldn’t hear a thing.
Maggie returned with the coffees and we sat down on the couch. She seemed a little more awake and with it, so I did what I could in the way of small talk. She was from Encino, so we babbled about being natives in this city of transplants. Then I asked her where she went to high school. And of all the small, snotty private girls’ schools in L.A. County, this crazy bitch went to mine. She practically squealed at the coincidence of it all.
“Oh. My. GOD! No way! Did you have Miss Miller for English? She was soooo awesome! What about crazy Dr. Todd for bio?”
Maggie put out her cigarette and padded over to the bookshelf, where she opened a small wooden box and took out a joint.
“This was so fated to happen, I mean, we’re like sisters on like some cosmic level or something. It was like, you were MEANT to come here this morning.”
She took a drag and offered me a toke. Every professional instinct I had told me to decline, but if getting high with this train wreck of a woman could get me any closer to that script, well, in the name of cinema I had to accept.
I sat with Maggie for over an hour, querying as to Dominic’s whereabouts at least three times over the course of our increasingly loony conversation. Each time she assured me he’d be right out and immediately changed the subject. It was going on 11:30. Charlie was out of the meeting by now.
I asked Maggie where the bathroom was. She pointed around the corner as she shoveled Cinnamon Toast Crunch straight from the box into her mouth. I ducked out, leapt up the stairs two at a time, and started searching for Dominic.
His office was a cluttered, tiny cave of a room at the end of the hallway. Dark purple curtains blocked out any sunlight and the stench of stale American Spirits hung in the air. Dominic sat immobile in an easy chair with corduroy upholstery, staring at the ceiling fan that spun overhead. Black leather pants clung to his matchstick legs, his long, matted hair the color of the bottom of an ashtray. He hadn’t showered in weeks. A poster of his Oscar-winning film hung behind his desk, itself buried within a hurricane of paper while an outdated laptop sat atop the mess, displaying a page of text.
“I’m sorry I have to do it this way, Dominic. But I need you to give me the pages. You’ll get tons more chances to rewrite it. We just have to see where you are.”
“I’m nowhere.”
“Just show me what you’ve got.”
“I’m telling you, I’m really nowhere.”
“What page are you on?”
He was silent for a moment. I saw a tear come to his eye.
“Nine.”
“Nine?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re on page nine?”
He nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Oh my God, Dominic.”
He leaned forward and sighed. His hands shook as he ran his fingers through his greasy curls.
“I really fucked it up. This might be it for me. I’ll never get another job.”
“We’ll figure something out. But right now I need you to give me those nine pages.”
He slowly stood and handed me an envelope. It was covered in coffee stains and had an old Universal Studios mailing label from the 1980's affixed to the outside. Whatever had been sent to him in that envelope was sent to him when he was a young Oscar winner on top of the industry, as well as his own game. Now he was too strung out and jacked up to function.
“Please take care of yourself, Dominic.”
It was a feeble closing line, but all I could muster at the moment. My own high was wearing off and I had a lot of explaining to do to Charlie, not to mention Dominic’s agents. Maybe they could get him some help.
It turned out that the tattered envelope with the Universal label carried the last pages Dominic Leare would be paid to write in Hollywood. I told the whole sordid tale to Charlie, and then to Tubby himself. Dominic was fired off the film and Stanley Greenberg got both him and Maggie checked into Promises Malibu a few months later. I’m really not sure what happened to either of them beyond that.
As for the film, word of the stunt Leare had pulled filtered up to the highest echelons of the studio, lighting a fire under the corporate brass to push even harder to get the film made in a timely manner. The director, now truly impatient, but still invigorated with the idea (especially now that the studio was firmly behind him) got to hire his own million-dollar writer, a notoriously fast veteran, and the two of them had a draft and a star within six weeks.
Cameras rolled twelve months later. The studio wrote off a $100 million loss on the film after it bombed twelve months after that. And if Dominic Leare hadn't done enough coke to get himself fired, the damn thing might have never been made.
Change100 is an unemployed studio executive in Los Angeles, CA.
Charlie was in early. He rarely, if ever beat me into the office and it was especially unusual given that today was a half-day Friday leading into Memorial Day weekend. These were the lazy days we lived for at the studio– a welcome reprieve from an endless string of 14-hour days. I was already dreaming of driving off the lot at 2PM, firing up the joint I had in my glove compartment, and turning on a Carlos Santana album for the drive home, up Cahuenga Pass, over the 101 freeway and through the leafy groves of the Hollywood Hills. I was dressed in jeans and a hooded cotton sweater that advertised my blissfully causal attitude about the day. Charlie, though, was standing up at his desk, trying to close the top button of a dress shirt. He looked like he hadn’t slept all night.
“What happened? You look like hell,” I said, handing him his Café Americano with three sugars.
“He’s flipping out.”
“Who is?”
“Tubby,” as he invoked our private name for the studio chief.
“What now? Universal scooped us on some teen comedy spec du jour?”
“No. He’s flipping out about Dominic Leare.”
Charlie grabbed a yellow tie off the hook on the back of his door.
“Dominic Leare has been late on every draft he’s ever turned in.”
“Yeah, but not this late. Six months is like, sicko late.”
“He sort of won an Academy Award. Doesn’t that, like, let you get away with shit like that?”
I took the yellow tie away and gave him the red one out of his desk drawer.
“Usually. But not when the absence of a draft is going to lose you your director.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“Right.”
“You sat with him at Dan Tana’s a month ago, right?”
“Yeah. For three fucking hours. He pitched out the whole thing, beat by fucking beat. He even brought his goddamn laptop.”
“So you know he has it in there, he’s just being all precious and writerly about it and won’t let it go. I mean, this is an epic. It’s a huge undertaking.”
“A 100 million dollar movie.”
“A lot of pressure.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll get it out of him.”
“Right. And while I tell Tubby that, you’re going to actually have to do it.”
“What?”
“Get it out of him.”
“Seriously?”
“I have to placate Tubby and then go to the weekend read meeting. You’re gonna have to find him, go over to his house if you have to, and not leave until there are 120 pages in your hands.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“OK.”
“You can do this. I trust you. Time to step up and be a hero. How do I look?”
“You have food on your shirt.”
“I know. I don’t have any others.”
I had developed a pretty easygoing relationship with Dominic Leare. We’d talked on the phone plenty over the last few months as Charlie tried to pry the script out of him. After his first deadline passed, Dominic began to elude us for weeks at a time. After Charlie would leave a string of unanswered voicemails, he’d call up Leare’s agent, Stanley Greenberg and let him know that Dominic was AWOL, once again. It would take a couple of days, but Greenberg would somehow get him out from under the bed, and we’d get a hurried, sketchy phone call from him, where he’d frantically and profusely apologize and assure Charlie that everything was, indeed, progressing just fine. Leare probably liked me because I was by far the calmer half in the professional union between me and Charlie. Most of the time I felt like a hostage negotiator when I had him on the line and was trying to stall him with conversation long enough for Charlie to get there and pick up. I put on a calm, throaty voice. Step away from the ledge, Mr. Leare. Put down the gun...
My first call was to Stanley Greenberg’s office. His assistant picked up and I weaseled Leare’s home address out of her. Poor thing had only been there a month, she didn’t know any better and she’d certainly be in trouble when all this was through. Then I dialed Leare’s home number. It was only 9:30 in the morning. Someone had to be there. A female voice picked up. It was Maggie, Leare’s girlfriend. It sounded like I had woken her up.
“Maggie, it’s Nicky from Charlie Brewster’s office. I apologize for calling so early.”
“Mmmm, no it’s OK... How are you?”
“I need to speak to Dominic, is he around?”
“Yeah, he’s...” I could already hear Dominic shushing her.
“Right next to you... I can hear him.”
Maggie cupped her hand over the phone as Dominic started protesting in a steely grumble. “She can fucking hear you, idiot!”
“Just put him on the phone please, Maggie.”
I heard the phone clatter to the ground and the sound of Maggie’s heavy footsteps stomping away before Leare picked up.
“Hey, hey Nicky. What’s going on?” he spat, with false bravado.
“Listen, I know you told Charlie you needed more time, but we need to see whatever you have.”
“I.. I...”
“We need it today. It doesn’t matter how much you have left to finish, just print out what you’ve got and I’m even going to make it easy and come over to your house and get it so you don’t have to call a messenger.”
“Well it’s gonna take me hours to format everything properly.”
“That’s fine. Start now and I’ll wait if I have to. I’m getting in my car.”
“Really, you don’t have to do this.”
“But I do. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
I sped off the lot toward the 134 freeway, the studio’s legendary water tower in my rear view mirror. As I gazed at its blue and yellow logo the corners of my lips curved up in bemused bewilderment as I wondered how the fate of the studio’s next summer blockbuster managed to fall into my tiny, inexperienced hands.
Leare’s place was halfway up a steep one-lane road in Los Feliz. With some care and a decent landscape architect, it would have been a spectacular showpiece Spanish hacienda– the epitome of old Los Angeles. But this place was straight out of Sunset Boulevard, overrun with ivy growing wild up its stained limestone walls. A pair of eucalyptus trees shed leaves into onto the overgrown lawn and formed an ever-growing layer atop the kidney-shaped pool. I picked up five days worth of the LA Times as I walked up the driveway toward the enormous wooden door. I set them down in a pile before ringing the bell.
Maggie answered. I hadn’t met her face to face until that moment. She wore a pink terry cloth bathrobe over white cotton pajamas and looked like Stevie Nicks. A cigarette burned between her long slender fingers which waved me inside.
“Sorry about the stuff on the phone. He’s in a mood.”
Her valley-girl voice echoed off the hardwood floors in the vast foyer. She shuffled down two steps into the sunken living room, done up in a Southwest motif. Fancy saddles sat on display and I set my purse down on one of those tables that was made out of a wagon wheel. I took a seat on a brown leather couch while Maggie straddled the piano bench and picked out a few chords. Her long blonde hair fell in her eyes and threatened to singe from the cigarette that still hung from her lips.
“I didn’t sleep well last night. I just kept hearing music, you know. Had to keep playing.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I wrote like all these songs. You wanna hear one?”
“I do, but I need to see Dominic first.”
“He’s upstairs printing out all that shit for you. Just sit. Listen to the music.”
She started playing something very Lilith Fair. After about ninety seconds I began to deflate with relief that this was an instrumental composition. But then she started singing. And not well. It didn’t stop for quite a while. There were at least five verses and two bridges.
I politely applauded when she was done and she excused herself to the kitchen for some coffee for the both of us. Once she disappeared around the corner, I inched myself out of the living room toward the bottom of the spiral staircase, listening for the sound of a printer. I couldn’t hear a thing.
Maggie returned with the coffees and we sat down on the couch. She seemed a little more awake and with it, so I did what I could in the way of small talk. She was from Encino, so we babbled about being natives in this city of transplants. Then I asked her where she went to high school. And of all the small, snotty private girls’ schools in L.A. County, this crazy bitch went to mine. She practically squealed at the coincidence of it all.
“Oh. My. GOD! No way! Did you have Miss Miller for English? She was soooo awesome! What about crazy Dr. Todd for bio?”
Maggie put out her cigarette and padded over to the bookshelf, where she opened a small wooden box and took out a joint.
“This was so fated to happen, I mean, we’re like sisters on like some cosmic level or something. It was like, you were MEANT to come here this morning.”
She took a drag and offered me a toke. Every professional instinct I had told me to decline, but if getting high with this train wreck of a woman could get me any closer to that script, well, in the name of cinema I had to accept.
I sat with Maggie for over an hour, querying as to Dominic’s whereabouts at least three times over the course of our increasingly loony conversation. Each time she assured me he’d be right out and immediately changed the subject. It was going on 11:30. Charlie was out of the meeting by now.
I asked Maggie where the bathroom was. She pointed around the corner as she shoveled Cinnamon Toast Crunch straight from the box into her mouth. I ducked out, leapt up the stairs two at a time, and started searching for Dominic.
His office was a cluttered, tiny cave of a room at the end of the hallway. Dark purple curtains blocked out any sunlight and the stench of stale American Spirits hung in the air. Dominic sat immobile in an easy chair with corduroy upholstery, staring at the ceiling fan that spun overhead. Black leather pants clung to his matchstick legs, his long, matted hair the color of the bottom of an ashtray. He hadn’t showered in weeks. A poster of his Oscar-winning film hung behind his desk, itself buried within a hurricane of paper while an outdated laptop sat atop the mess, displaying a page of text.
“I’m sorry I have to do it this way, Dominic. But I need you to give me the pages. You’ll get tons more chances to rewrite it. We just have to see where you are.”
“I’m nowhere.”
“Just show me what you’ve got.”
“I’m telling you, I’m really nowhere.”
“What page are you on?”
He was silent for a moment. I saw a tear come to his eye.
“Nine.”
“Nine?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re on page nine?”
He nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Oh my God, Dominic.”
He leaned forward and sighed. His hands shook as he ran his fingers through his greasy curls.
“I really fucked it up. This might be it for me. I’ll never get another job.”
“We’ll figure something out. But right now I need you to give me those nine pages.”
He slowly stood and handed me an envelope. It was covered in coffee stains and had an old Universal Studios mailing label from the 1980's affixed to the outside. Whatever had been sent to him in that envelope was sent to him when he was a young Oscar winner on top of the industry, as well as his own game. Now he was too strung out and jacked up to function.
“Please take care of yourself, Dominic.”
It was a feeble closing line, but all I could muster at the moment. My own high was wearing off and I had a lot of explaining to do to Charlie, not to mention Dominic’s agents. Maybe they could get him some help.
It turned out that the tattered envelope with the Universal label carried the last pages Dominic Leare would be paid to write in Hollywood. I told the whole sordid tale to Charlie, and then to Tubby himself. Dominic was fired off the film and Stanley Greenberg got both him and Maggie checked into Promises Malibu a few months later. I’m really not sure what happened to either of them beyond that.
As for the film, word of the stunt Leare had pulled filtered up to the highest echelons of the studio, lighting a fire under the corporate brass to push even harder to get the film made in a timely manner. The director, now truly impatient, but still invigorated with the idea (especially now that the studio was firmly behind him) got to hire his own million-dollar writer, a notoriously fast veteran, and the two of them had a draft and a star within six weeks.
Cameras rolled twelve months later. The studio wrote off a $100 million loss on the film after it bombed twelve months after that. And if Dominic Leare hadn't done enough coke to get himself fired, the damn thing might have never been made.
Change100 is an unemployed studio executive in Los Angeles, CA.
January 30, 2006
December 24, 2005
Lost Time
By Change100 © 2005
Room 235 was in a remote, forgotten corridor of the Imperial Palace adjacent to what looked like a crack alley. The clueless lady with the bad dye job at the front desk obviously had no idea where it was either, because I managed to go up and down every freakin' elevator in this two-star maze of a hotel, while dragging my heavy, overpacked suitcase behind me before wearily asking for a second set of directions from one of the pit bosses. I finally found the right elevator after about 20 minutes and squeezed inside along with about a dozen Stetson-clad cowboys.
When I opened the door to my room, the scent of stale unfiltered Camels nearly knocked me all the way back to the elevator bay. The walls were yellowish and my king bed was covered in a garish floral comforter. After setting down my suitcases and hanging up the garment bag I wouldn't touch again all weekend, I rummaged through my makeup bag for the cheap bottle of Gap Scents: Dream that I knew was in there. Cheaper than perfume and more pleasantly scented than Lysol, it comes in handy in removing offensive and/or illegal scents in confined spaces. I doused the room in Dream and flung open the curtain, revealing a small balcony. There is a God. And some much-needed ventilation. After a quick smoke break on the balcony, I changed clothes, sorted through my cash, and decided it was about time to find the poker room and meet some bloggers. Somehow I had left Los Angeles without any phone numbers. Aside from Pauly and the Murderer's Row gang, I hadn't met anyone and was relying on posted photos and a little faith to hook me up with the group. I suppose this was my first real gamble of the weekend.
*****
The G-Vegas crew made a grand entrance into the MGM poker room straight out of "Swingers" and I met its three legendary ringleaders. Otis and CJ greeted me with huge hugs. Man, do these bloggers loooove their women. G-Rob's hair is, indeed perfect. After chatting it up with everyone for a while, I realized I did have chips on the table and I should probably play at least a little bit. Daddy had quit the game and Helixx needed company.
Here's where things start getting a little fuzzy. Here's where rumors begin.
I was playing a hand. I couldn't tell you what the cards were. I think I got outdrawn and I let an f-bomb escape from my lips as the tall, irritable floor-lady passed by our table.
"Please watch your language. I'm going to have to warn you."
"I can't fucking believe this." (Uh oh).
"OK, now that's two. One more and I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
Helixx's head dropped into his hands and he let out a small sigh. Was it really gonna be one of those nights? The floor lady walked away and my tablemates laughed at my mini Matusow blow-up. I played a few more hands before getting up and taking another walk-and-chat. Or should I say stumble-and-chat.
Here's where the time-space continuum parts ways with my memory.
I remember being in the bar behind the poker room with Iggy, Pauly, and Joe Speaker. I remember making plans for a smoke break with two of those three gentlemen. I remember Pauly telling me that Phil Gordon was sitting at the 5-5NL table with Hank and some of the Full Tilt crew. I remember the blue shirt Phil wore that perfectly matched his dreamy eyes.
Then I remember being in the Ava Gardner stall in the ladies room where I may or may not have temporarily passed out. The booze just hit me so fast. I didn't think I had drank enough to do this sort of damage.
The next thing I remember is being in a cab sandwiched between two big black hookers. The hookers were talking to each other about my state of conciousness and I think one of them sort of poked me to see if I was at all alive or cogent.
"Man, this 'lil thing is WASTED!"
"How'd she get like this?"
"She don't even have no coat on!"
"Damn!"
The hookers' banter brought me around a little bit, and as my head lolled from sideways to upright, I noticed that one of Hooker #2's two-inch fuschia acrylic nails was touching my gold purse. That brought me around a little bit more, and I told myself that I needed to wake the fuck up and pay enough attention to get myself back to the Imperial Palace without being robbed by these ladies of the night.
That's really the last thought I remember having before crashing out in the wee hours on Saturday morning. I have no recollection how I paid the driver. Or how I navigated the IP maze and found the correct elevator. Or how I got up to my room, took off and untangled six necklaces, and ordered myself a 9:20 AM wakeup call.
At dawn, I woke up in a panic, believing that I still had chips on the table at the MGM Grand. I must have had over $150 still in my stack. There was nothing I could do about that right now. "I'll just write it off as a loss," I muttered to myself before rolling over and falling back into a fitful sleep as the sun rose over Sin City.
Change100 is a D-Girl and degenerate gambler in Los Angeles, CA.
Room 235 was in a remote, forgotten corridor of the Imperial Palace adjacent to what looked like a crack alley. The clueless lady with the bad dye job at the front desk obviously had no idea where it was either, because I managed to go up and down every freakin' elevator in this two-star maze of a hotel, while dragging my heavy, overpacked suitcase behind me before wearily asking for a second set of directions from one of the pit bosses. I finally found the right elevator after about 20 minutes and squeezed inside along with about a dozen Stetson-clad cowboys.
When I opened the door to my room, the scent of stale unfiltered Camels nearly knocked me all the way back to the elevator bay. The walls were yellowish and my king bed was covered in a garish floral comforter. After setting down my suitcases and hanging up the garment bag I wouldn't touch again all weekend, I rummaged through my makeup bag for the cheap bottle of Gap Scents: Dream that I knew was in there. Cheaper than perfume and more pleasantly scented than Lysol, it comes in handy in removing offensive and/or illegal scents in confined spaces. I doused the room in Dream and flung open the curtain, revealing a small balcony. There is a God. And some much-needed ventilation. After a quick smoke break on the balcony, I changed clothes, sorted through my cash, and decided it was about time to find the poker room and meet some bloggers. Somehow I had left Los Angeles without any phone numbers. Aside from Pauly and the Murderer's Row gang, I hadn't met anyone and was relying on posted photos and a little faith to hook me up with the group. I suppose this was my first real gamble of the weekend.
*****
The G-Vegas crew made a grand entrance into the MGM poker room straight out of "Swingers" and I met its three legendary ringleaders. Otis and CJ greeted me with huge hugs. Man, do these bloggers loooove their women. G-Rob's hair is, indeed perfect. After chatting it up with everyone for a while, I realized I did have chips on the table and I should probably play at least a little bit. Daddy had quit the game and Helixx needed company.
Here's where things start getting a little fuzzy. Here's where rumors begin.
I was playing a hand. I couldn't tell you what the cards were. I think I got outdrawn and I let an f-bomb escape from my lips as the tall, irritable floor-lady passed by our table.
"Please watch your language. I'm going to have to warn you."
"I can't fucking believe this." (Uh oh).
"OK, now that's two. One more and I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
Helixx's head dropped into his hands and he let out a small sigh. Was it really gonna be one of those nights? The floor lady walked away and my tablemates laughed at my mini Matusow blow-up. I played a few more hands before getting up and taking another walk-and-chat. Or should I say stumble-and-chat.
Here's where the time-space continuum parts ways with my memory.
I remember being in the bar behind the poker room with Iggy, Pauly, and Joe Speaker. I remember making plans for a smoke break with two of those three gentlemen. I remember Pauly telling me that Phil Gordon was sitting at the 5-5NL table with Hank and some of the Full Tilt crew. I remember the blue shirt Phil wore that perfectly matched his dreamy eyes.
Then I remember being in the Ava Gardner stall in the ladies room where I may or may not have temporarily passed out. The booze just hit me so fast. I didn't think I had drank enough to do this sort of damage.
The next thing I remember is being in a cab sandwiched between two big black hookers. The hookers were talking to each other about my state of conciousness and I think one of them sort of poked me to see if I was at all alive or cogent.
"Man, this 'lil thing is WASTED!"
"How'd she get like this?"
"She don't even have no coat on!"
"Damn!"
The hookers' banter brought me around a little bit, and as my head lolled from sideways to upright, I noticed that one of Hooker #2's two-inch fuschia acrylic nails was touching my gold purse. That brought me around a little bit more, and I told myself that I needed to wake the fuck up and pay enough attention to get myself back to the Imperial Palace without being robbed by these ladies of the night.
That's really the last thought I remember having before crashing out in the wee hours on Saturday morning. I have no recollection how I paid the driver. Or how I navigated the IP maze and found the correct elevator. Or how I got up to my room, took off and untangled six necklaces, and ordered myself a 9:20 AM wakeup call.
At dawn, I woke up in a panic, believing that I still had chips on the table at the MGM Grand. I must have had over $150 still in my stack. There was nothing I could do about that right now. "I'll just write it off as a loss," I muttered to myself before rolling over and falling back into a fitful sleep as the sun rose over Sin City.
Change100 is a D-Girl and degenerate gambler in Los Angeles, CA.
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