CW: Guess who I was just in the elevator with? Ron Howard!
Me: Really? He's here?
CW: Yeah, he works up on the seventh floor. I love him!
Me: Wow ... how bald is he now?
CW: Pretty bald. I'm not gonna lie.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Sorry, Ron
Conversation with a Co-worker
Monday, December 13, 2010
67 Degrees in Hollywood
Midnight, December 13. It's 67 degrees in Hollywood right now. The wind is blowing, but it's just too damn warm to feel cold.
These are the surreal nights that you take for granted after living here for a while and choking on the smog-ridden air every morning while you sit in your car cursing every blighted soul in this cleanliness-forsaken city for an hour waiting just to move five miles. These are the nights that gave me pause the first summer I visited California when I was 16 and thought, "So this is where dreams are born."
No, kid. This is where dreams come to whore themselves out. But goddamn, this is some fucking weather, huh?
I take deep breaths and suck in this air-- air that every reputable environmental study has rated either first or second most polluted in America--but I do it anyway because for once it doesn't taste surprisingly chilly or smell like asphalt and hot dogs.
That's one thing people not from L.A. don't realize about L.A. It gets cold here. Not below-zero with 20 inches of snow cold. More like, "Son of a bitch, wasn't it just 80 degrees half an hour ago? Do I have to go back to my car and get my jacket now?" cold.
On the other hand, anyone who's ever been to a busy, metropolitan city could probably guess it's going to smell here. Asphalt and hot dogs, although I guarantee you that ain't hot dogs we're smelling. That's the smell of progress and culture.
Not tonight, though. Tonight is one of those nights where you text your friends to say, "If you were here tonight instead of that shitty day we sat in traffic for an hour and a half trying to get to Santa Monica, you'd want to move to this city. Tonight you'd forget about the 10% tax here on everything you put in your mouth and the quadruple what you're paying now car insurance rates. Tonight you'd want to come hang out on my nasty balcony that I never clean because I'm always too busy writing, pretending to be writing, stressing over not writing, reading other people's writing, or doing a myriad of other bullshit that won't earn me a fucking quarter for laundry."
Tonight is a good night in Los Angeles. Maybe the best.
Midnight, and still 67 degrees in Hollywood.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Three Interesting Characters South of Hollywood Between La Brea and Highland
1. Old man that goes on daily power walks. It's more like a march the way he lifts his knees high and swings his arms from side-to-side. But this guy is old school. He does his walking while wearing an old man blazer with old man slacks and an old man hat. I can imagine him going home afterwards, cracking open a bottle of scotch, and slapping around his old lady. Just like they did in the old days!
2. Dude with the drumsticks. This guy gets in his big-ass white Chevy Caprice Classic at some random-ass time every day and bangs on his padded steering wheel with drumsticks for what seems like hours. I've seen this guy do it in the early morning, I've seen him at the end of the work day, I've even heard the son of a bitch banging away at 3:00 am once. As far as I can tell, he's not listening to any music, just banging out whatever tunes are in his head. If I put in half the dedication to writing as he does to destroying his steering wheel, I'd have written twice as many crappy screenplays no one wants to read as I have now.
3. Guy waiting for the bus. A few times every week I take our dog out for an evening walk around Hollywood High School, and I'd usually see this guy sometimes wearing thick-ass glasses and always reading a thick-ass book waiting at a bus stop. He'd very politely and patiently ask anyone who passed by for spare change, and when he had enough for bus fare, he'd go home.
Several weeks ago, I saw him completely bugging out. He was screaming to himself while clutching his head and rocking back and forth. It was disheartening to see some guy who was struggling but still managing to keep his shit together suddenly flip out for whatever reason (drugs). I saw him again last night, though, and he seemed fine. He even started a new thick-ass book. Hope he stays on the level.
2. Dude with the drumsticks. This guy gets in his big-ass white Chevy Caprice Classic at some random-ass time every day and bangs on his padded steering wheel with drumsticks for what seems like hours. I've seen this guy do it in the early morning, I've seen him at the end of the work day, I've even heard the son of a bitch banging away at 3:00 am once. As far as I can tell, he's not listening to any music, just banging out whatever tunes are in his head. If I put in half the dedication to writing as he does to destroying his steering wheel, I'd have written twice as many crappy screenplays no one wants to read as I have now.
3. Guy waiting for the bus. A few times every week I take our dog out for an evening walk around Hollywood High School, and I'd usually see this guy sometimes wearing thick-ass glasses and always reading a thick-ass book waiting at a bus stop. He'd very politely and patiently ask anyone who passed by for spare change, and when he had enough for bus fare, he'd go home.
Several weeks ago, I saw him completely bugging out. He was screaming to himself while clutching his head and rocking back and forth. It was disheartening to see some guy who was struggling but still managing to keep his shit together suddenly flip out for whatever reason (drugs). I saw him again last night, though, and he seemed fine. He even started a new thick-ass book. Hope he stays on the level.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
LUCKY vs. GOOD: The Fantasy Football Analogy
Is it better to be lucky or to be good?
I am the first-place team in my fantasy football auction league (7-0-0). This week, I'm playing the second-place team (5-2-0).
Look deeper, though, and you'll find two very different teams.
I've won twice by less than one point and a third time when I had the third-worst score of the week (55.66) and played against the team with the worst (50.88).
Of course, someone from the practical world may say this match-up really comes down to how badly Ryan Torain and Arian Foster will shred the soft Detroit and Indianapolis run defenses, whether Kenny Britt can get it done against a much tougher San Diego pass defense, and if Ryan Fitzpatrick can keep his streak of 20+ point weeks going with defenses now keyed onto him.
Or it could already be over, because he's playing at full strength, and I've got Roddy White and Ray Rice sitting on Byes.
(Probably not. But I'm a whiner, so I have to bring it up.)
Maybe it's because I had to read Heloise & Abelard last week and then spent half an hour on Wikipedia looking up realism and universals, but, to me, this is the age-old battle between Luck and Talent.
Namely, is it better to be lucky or to be good?
I'll let you know next Tuesday.
I am the first-place team in my fantasy football auction league (7-0-0). This week, I'm playing the second-place team (5-2-0).
Look deeper, though, and you'll find two very different teams.
I've won twice by less than one point and a third time when I had the third-worst score of the week (55.66) and played against the team with the worst (50.88).
The guy I'm playing this week has the most total points in the league. I have the second most. But the difference between him at #1 and me at #2 (~80 pts) is almost as big as between me at #2 and the guy at #10 (~90 pts).
Of course, someone from the practical world may say this match-up really comes down to how badly Ryan Torain and Arian Foster will shred the soft Detroit and Indianapolis run defenses, whether Kenny Britt can get it done against a much tougher San Diego pass defense, and if Ryan Fitzpatrick can keep his streak of 20+ point weeks going with defenses now keyed onto him.
Or it could already be over, because he's playing at full strength, and I've got Roddy White and Ray Rice sitting on Byes.
(Probably not. But I'm a whiner, so I have to bring it up.)
Maybe it's because I had to read Heloise & Abelard last week and then spent half an hour on Wikipedia looking up realism and universals, but, to me, this is the age-old battle between Luck and Talent.
Namely, is it better to be lucky or to be good?
I'll let you know next Tuesday.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Dark Days Lie Ahead
Despite the parsimonious nature in which I now conduct my life and the sweeping sacrifice of conventional Epicurean indulgences I have made, I have no doubt that I am living in the halcyon days of my early adulthood. The question now is not whether darkness and turbulence lie ahead--that is unavoidable--nor whether I have the fortitude to weather them--of course I do.
The question now is, when all my prospects are exhausted and potential expired, when the universe of rational thought has dismissed my beliefs with totality, when courage has long since devolved into megalomania, when every relationship has been consumed, every promise abandoned, and not one grain of compassion remains even to counterfeit sympathy, will I capitulate to sense and reason? Will I allow relief and repose to lift me out of the mire and send me down the warm path of contentment? Or will I possess the psychotic obsession necessary to claw my mangled fingers against dirt and stone until I inconceivably grind them into gold?
A knowledgeable man once told me that most people chasing my dream quit not for lack of talent but for an abundance of options. The ones most likely to fail are the ones most able to succeed elsewhere.
When the storm at last clears and the sky opens again, will the sun see me standing on my feet saying, "I'm done," or will it find me lying on my back saying, "I've done it."
The question now is, when all my prospects are exhausted and potential expired, when the universe of rational thought has dismissed my beliefs with totality, when courage has long since devolved into megalomania, when every relationship has been consumed, every promise abandoned, and not one grain of compassion remains even to counterfeit sympathy, will I capitulate to sense and reason? Will I allow relief and repose to lift me out of the mire and send me down the warm path of contentment? Or will I possess the psychotic obsession necessary to claw my mangled fingers against dirt and stone until I inconceivably grind them into gold?
A knowledgeable man once told me that most people chasing my dream quit not for lack of talent but for an abundance of options. The ones most likely to fail are the ones most able to succeed elsewhere.
When the storm at last clears and the sky opens again, will the sun see me standing on my feet saying, "I'm done," or will it find me lying on my back saying, "I've done it."
Thursday, April 22, 2010
I Revel in My Own Pettiness
When I'm disgustingly rich and famous, I'm going take a picture of my balls and send it to everybody who's ever unfriended me or rejected my friend request on Facebook.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)