"Oh my God, I can't feel my lips," Nicky screamed as we drove past the Laurel Canyon Country Store. "That's some awesome blow."
Good thing she drove up through the hills as the Beck blasted on her iPod. We safely navigated windy Mulholland Drive and drove over to Lake Hollywood. Yeah there's an actual lake in LA, the one that was featured in the film Chinatown.
As we drove close to the infamous Hollywood sign landmark, an old hippie woman hitch hiked as she struggled up the hill.
"Gonna stop?" I said.
I goaded Nicky into picking up the sketchy woman who stuck out her thumb out. She wore a purple dress and had on too much Native American jewelry.
"Hell no. She'd probably carjack us and smoke all our weed."
I woke up early despite a previous night of heavy partying. This town is always crawling with people who have nothing better to do other than to get completely fucked up. Even the ones that have 9-5 jobs live in the moment and stay up until sunrise. Change100 had to be at jury duty by 7:30am. After a wake and bake session with Showcase, he headed off to work. I watched the rest of Dawson's Creek and I wrote for a while. Nothing in particular, just clearing my mind about a few things on the cusp of the completion of my extended trip to LA.
I played some poker and won a few bucks. I had been playing random tournaments, something I had not been doing in a long time. During the tournament, I listened to Wil's podcast Radio Free Burrito as I downloaded the rest of a Phil Lesh and Friends show from New York City that featured Trey Anasastio. Anyway, it was a nice change of pace. I read several online newspaper articles that friends had sent me on various topics ranging from Barry Bonds, Dick Cheney, and Iran.
The funniest link I came across was called The Brokeback Butterfly Effect and involved the recent rumors of a fix at the Oscars after Crash came out of nowhere to win Best Picture. I would love to say that I had inside information and that's why I picked Crash to win. In reality, I went with a hunch knowing that writer/director Paul Haggis is a Scientologist. Although Hollyweird is tickled pink with gay being the new chic, the Scientologists still run this town... at least major parts of it.
For all you Phisheads, I got goose bumps watching Phish's 20th Anniversary video. I remember watching that video at the Fleet Center in Boston. Warm memories for sure. Thanks for the link Alea.
On my way to brunch, I spoke to my brother and that conversation got cut short when one of my editors called. He wanted me to have an article written by Friday. I asked him for a Monday extention on my deadline. He quickly gave it to me, noting that it was going to be the feature article. I've written several pieces for this particular magazine over the last six months, but I never got the lead story. I noticed that my articles were slowly moving to the front of the magazine. My first one was the next to last thing in the magazine. And as the issues came out, I slowly made my way to the middle of the magazine. Getting the cover story is my next goal. This article that I have yet to write has a shot of getting there. I'm in the middle of research.
I sat at the counter of Nick's Coffee shop in the back, right in front of the TV. They had on ESPN2 and the World Baseball Championships. I watched Panama take on Cuba. I had money on Panama and was hoping to send them good mojo. They got out to an early 1-0 lead as I sipped my iced tea and skimmed the LA Times which ran two stories rubbing Barry Bonds bald and juiced head into the dirt. You can't help but think if Bonds was a nicer dude to the media and gave interviews and bought everyone free drinks, blow, and hookers for the beat writers... then perhaps they would have left the skeletons in his closet alone. Nobody likes an asshole and people loathe cheaters. Add the two together and you have a huge motherfuckin' pimple on the face of major league baseball that's the size of a bowling ball. As soon as someone pops it, everyone's faces are gonna be covered is pus. They're totally fucked.
Showcase works nearby and came home for lunch and turned on Jerry Springer. We're fixin to go see his play tonight, so I'm bubbling with excitement. He practiced his lines out loud all the time. At this point, I know them by heart. His play is being produced by a freaky Japanese woman who funded the play by selling weed on the side. The more weed that gets smoked, the more plays that this lady can put on. Yeah, only in LA. You gotta appreciate her artistic entrenpeneurship and willingness to contribute to theatre community by generating income from all the stoners in West Hollywood, which pretty much accounts for 91.3% of its residents.
Yesterday, Change100 and I met Joe Speaker and special guest Facty for lunch. Facty was sweet (as always) and brought us girl scout cookies courtesy of her daughter's troop. Joe Speaker took us to his favorite Cuban restaurant tucked away in a lobby of a building a few blocks from the LA Times building. I ordered the chicken mojito that came with Cuban bread, black beans, white rice, grilled onions, and fried plantains. Tasty.
Facty thought she parked in a free lot. When we got back from lunch the gate was closed with her car locked in. She started to freak out a little bit before we walked closer to the gate to inspect. Lucky for her, the minimum wage flunky forgot to lock the gate and it slid right open.
After lunch, the Human Head sent me a text message:
Haiku of a Depressed Employee
That fuckface Pauly,
Basking in the LA sun.
View from the Hollywood Hills
(click to enlarge)