A Gray Area

Sabotage

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Fri, 21 Feb 2014 03:14:00 +0000

Why does life at times seem so hard, when in actuality it is us who unnecessarily make it that way?

Metro

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 03:34:00 +0000

Sometimes driving can be cathartic, but other times it can be a downright drag. Though Los Angelenos have fewer transit options than other large cities, make no mistake, public transportation beckons.

I started riding the transit bus the summer before my freshmen year in high school. I had sports camp at my soon to be new school but lived about 20 miles away. I had but two choices, being 14 and seeing as my football orientation camp did not begin until the afternoon. I could get up early and go to work with my mom or I could take the bus.

I chose the latter.

My bus experiences after that were limited to rides to and from games. Coincidentally, however, mass transit systems have become integral to my job with respect to the media we provide.

But from time to time I have also taken the local muni bus to work but having places to go and people to see always felt inconvenienced, tethered even to transit as it made difficult any whimsical after-work jaunts to happy hour, the gym or the grocery store. But recently I've rediscovered this vital service to our nation's commerce, independence and mobility.

I have two major bus lines that run by my apartment that happen to take me either close to work or to friends' houses. If I don't want to drive and hassle with parking, $1 each way, I've found, works nicely.

I have ridden the metro train, meanwhile, in cities across the work and have always lamented that There weren't more accessible lines in my area. That is not quite true, I've learned.

The train is still not optimal for my everyday needs but can be very helpful when my plans align with this option. For the first time I rode the LA metro, with a friend this weekend from Hollywood to Union Station to Chinatown. It was cheap, just as fast if not faster than driving and all we had to worry about was getting off at the right stop.

So on a Sunday evening, despite the fact I'm delayed because a motorist clipped our bus, I'll be home soon. My driving or transit decisions will continue to also be made time, which is invaluable to me. But when it makes sense, I'll ride the bus or metro, especially in response to gas prices.

The Worst Homecoming Present Ever

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Sat, 14 Apr 2012 06:04:00 +0000

After a 14-hour work day, on a Friday night no less, I'd like to return home to a welcome sight or sound. Not an abomination such as "ACM Presents: Lionel Richie and Friends."

When I was growing up, I loved singing and listening to Richie's songs. I dug his previous group, The Commodores. I still find "Easy" to be one of the better pop songs of all times. But this travesty of a TV "special" is just, well, a travesty.

Obviously CBS had nothing better to show on a Friday evening than an over-produced show featuring Richie hawking his upcoming release surrounded by, of all people, a bunch of horrible country stars I've barely heard of. I thought Richie was R&B, even in the old days a bit of funk. SO what the funk is this?

I find it amusing, and really a bit sad, that a middle-aged man, albeit still a talented one, has to stoop to this level. I happened to get home and turn on the TV, which happened to be already tuned to CBS. At first I thought, hmm, Lionel. Then, to my surprise, two hill-billy performers come running own carrying a guitar inscribed with the phrase "hee haw." Then, the duo launched into "Brick House." I kid you not.

Needless to say I turned the channel mighty quickly. Sorry Lionel, but it's gut check time. If you need to go country to hawk your new album, something is terribly wrong.

Dealing with A-holes

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 06:11:00 +0000

I try not to but still often times find myself thinking what makes people act like jerks. Is it a shitty home life? Possibly? Do they have low self-esteem, even a deep-seeded sense of self loathing? Quite likely.

But why they have to take that out on others continues to boggle my mind. Life is so much better without being a dick to anyone and everyone.

As best as I try to not judge others, I am only human. So when I cross paths with a bully -- not your garden variety schoolyard kid but an even worse form in my opinion, the dick work associate or, even worse, a client -- I try to take a deep breath and go on with my life. At least in my position I can deal with an in-house bully, but the outside bully who tries to lord fear over you truly suck.

Sometimes you just have to grin and bear it. Fight the good fight, they say. Pick your battles. So when encountering asses who jump to conclusions and try to force their way to get their own way, think before you, yourself, do something stupid that you might regret.

I get it; when it's all about money, people will stoop to the lowest depths to affect the outcome in their favor. But, of course, that doesn't make it right. I won't accept it, and neither should you. So use logic in your favor, calmly and collectively. Nicely reason with the person, or client (or the absolutely worst kind, the "potential" client who really has no intention of doing business with you but will dangle that carrot ... and cry like a baby if they don't get their way or to try and push their agenda.

Now some of you might say, "Well, the client is always right." Yes, but no. Thank god I don't work in sales, although, truth be told, we all sell something. It can be our talent, in my case writing and editorial judgement. I've found that the intangible is actually easier to barter with a client (and bully) because as long as your argument holds up to the litmus test reason should always win out. Not such an easy thing to do with a tangible product.

Many bullies will never be turned, will never see (or admit to) their wrongs. But stay strong, protect yourself and others, embrace and promote reason, and you should be just fine.

After all, the weekend is right around the corner.

Taxing Times

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 05:02:00 +0000

Please, oh please, Ophelia, make me some money! After far too many medical expenses last year (and, well, expenses, period), I am in great need of a nice, fat return this year. If I don't drown under the paperwork first. Keeping receipts and other records of everything from co-payment receipts to mileage to donations forms can be quite mind numbing, and that's not to mention filling out my worksheet that is supposed to give my tax preparer Ophelia enough information to file my return. I just want to be rid of it all, have more money in the bank and pay off my bills! So much for saving money in this economy. I'll gladly pay for my time back ... yes, more bills!

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 22:53:00 +0000

On Top of Old Tony's

But not covered with cheese... Or, perhaps, judging by the patrons, there is a bit of the cheese factor. Still, there are few better places to enjoy a cocktail on a lazy, beautiful Sunday afternoon at the beach, the Redondo Beach Pier to be exact. In February. At a pleasant 65 degrees.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 07:02:00 +0000

Madness, Won't You Get Here Already!

Growing up, March was my favorite time of year, holding more allure than even the summer months. That's saying a lot for a boy with a July birthday and who spent countless hours in the sun each vacation playing nearly every sport, game, etc., there is.
But it was the dawn of spring each year that was the most exciting because, since the age of about 10, I've been a huge college basketball fan, especially of the University of Arizona, where I would one day attend college and from where I'd graduate.
You see, being a Wildcats fans means looking forward to March Madness, the branded name of the annual NCAA Men's College Basketball Tournament. It's a right of passage and, in my opinion and that of several people I know, the most exciting sporting event — amateur, professional, or in the case of many college players, semiprofessional — that there is.
It always helped that my Wildcats made every NCAA tournament from 1985 through 2009, the second longest streak ever behind only North Carolina.
The 'Cats stumbled in 2010 after Coach Lute Olson, uh, retired but returned in new Coach Sean Miller's second season, a familiar Sweet 16 appearance. Then, last year, the 'Cats came within one shot of heading to their fifth Final Four, losing by two to eventual national champion UConn.
So, here it is, almost the middle of February, and after a slow start Arizona has won four in a row and, despite injuries, is playing with intensity and good defense, even if the free throw shooting leaves something to be desired. The team wasn't and still isn't expected to do much this season, and yet another NCAA berth remains in doubt considering how average Pac-12 teams have played.
But I will hold out hope for another excitement-filled March, when it's much better to be mad.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 04:32:00 +0000

The Fly

Fracoise Delambre famously said of his brother Andre and sister-in-law Helen, "They wouldn't harm anything... not even a fly." Obviously the genetically challenged couple of the seminal 1950s classic horror movie by the same name never hung out with me.
I never was one of those kids who was big into bugs, especially the flying variety. To this day, if a bee or wasp gets within 10 feet of me, my heart rate quickens, my palms become clammy. The anxiety always seems to lure them to me as if I was a honey-coated sunflower on a May afternoon.
Now let's get one thing straight right now. I don't easily back down from confrontation, and I'm hardly a wall flower. But when the attack comes from a flying insect with the ability to sting like a, well you know, the flight always overcomes the fight.
But things are decidedly different when my adversary is benign. That's why I hunt flies, gnats or other such disease carrying vermin. Even Mosquitos better watch out. I hone my skills, apparently, by living at the beach.
Black flies and gnats love beach dunes where it is damp and fungus and decomposition thrives. To test this theory, try running in the sand near beds of washed-up kelp or large beds of ice plants farther from shore. I've been known to karate kick a swarm of gnats while running on The Strand, which let me tell you elicits some strange looks.
Needless to say, these little buggers can be quite irritating, especially when leaving windows open to catch some nice breeze. When spring arrives, the onslaught begins, with the crescendo hitting some time in late summer. I think the real reason they call late August and September the "dog days" is because of the flies.
But, this winter with its recent 80-degree temps has introduced these pests earlier than normal. One particular unwelcome guest I've been chasing for the past day. Every time I think I have it dead to rights, it zigs that way, zags that. Where's Mr. Miyagi when you need him?
It's seemingly a futile attempt every time, but once in a while I realize sweet victory. Infestations are the worst. But I'll stop there, lest no one will ever want to come over again.
Flies really have nothing to do with slovenly living (well, sometimes they do), something that certainly does not describe my lifestyle, but, rather, as with many things in life, circumstance. I choose to live at the beach, so I've accepted certain truths, one of them the occasional fly or gnat infringing on my personal space. So, I make sure the windows are closed when I'm not home, my bananas remain fresh and my house plants not overwatered. And that old, thoroughly read copy of last October's issue of The Atlantic or Men's Fitness within reach.
Splat!

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 06:47:00 +0000

Back in the Fitness Saddle

So 26 days into the new year I venture one again to updating this dastardly deed called blogging. It's all the result of the infamous past time of broken promises: the New Year's resolution.

Some would say three and a half weeks of tardiness constitutes a broken resolution. I say nay. I might be lazy but I'm no quitter.

Perhaps I've been too busy making sure I stay on course with another resolution, that being physical fitness. After a 6 year hiatus I once again joined a health club. I told myself I'd never again belong to one of these meat markets, but, as I have learned, paying a bit more a month for exclusivity makes all the difference. So does never waiting for the ellipitical machine, the stability ball, the dumbbells...underground parking!

It's not like I've been a complete couch potato these past several years, having fully trained for one marathon (and missing the actual race because I tried to register too late but ran the distance on race day to a crowd of seagulls) and completed another (Los Angeles 2010). But try as I may, I just can't seem to fall in love with running distance. I still do from time to time, but I don't have that gene that my friend Sandy's husband has, or that of a college classmate and fellow Daily Wildcat alum and a current Charlotte Observer columnist.

Springsteen had it right that some were just born for it.

I, however, was not.

I proved to myself I can do it, I just don't take particular pleasure in doing it. But I've, relearned, that endorphin rush at the gym is what I've missed.

Now, to get back in the saddle of my non-fiction, away-from-work writing that translates my soul's thoughts. At least I have 11 months ahead of me!

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 07:14:00 +0000

Sorry, Charlie?

I neither say Warner Bros. nor CBS had the last laugh today when Charlie Sheen was summarily dispatched from "Two and a Half Men." Not without knowing what gems the troubled (or is it conniving?) actor is ready to spew forth. Perhaps it's Sheen who is laughing all the way to the bank.

Rumor has it that Dallas Mavericks owner -- and a maverick in his own right -- Mark Cuban is interested in hiring Sheen for a talk show on HDNet. At least a few think this to be a horrible idea. But perhaps it will take Cuban's seemingly bottomless pockets to finally pay what at least Sheen and his goddesses think he's truly worth.

Last June, I wondered aloud (virtually) why Sheen is considered worthy amid all of his repeated nonsense over the years? I'll admit I kind of like "Two and a Half Men," knowing full well that Sheen is simply being himself. There's something so alluring about a train wreck, and every Monday at 9 p.m. for the past 8 years we've been privy to Sheen's gradual self-destruction, albeit a slightly fictionalized version.

But it's not like Sheen is God's gift to actors. Arguably his best film, "Platoon," is in fact carried by Willem Dafoe and Tom Berenger, in my opinion, anyway. Oh, and don't forget Forest Whittaker and John C. McGinley. Johnny Depp, even. Don't get me wrong, much to my dad's chagrin, I think the film is one of Oliver Stone's best. And sure, Sheen got the premier role, thanks to his dad's reputation. But even back then, as a 12-year-old, I never truly bought the performance, which to me seemed forced.

Nothing, however, seems fake about this grand meltdown before the world these past several weeks. Or maybe the joke is on the rest of us and Sheen is really crazy like a fox? He's played the media, his entourage and perhaps some of La-La Land's most prestigious suits. Who's to say we're any different?

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 16:52:00 +0000

Blink 182 -- Per Minute

Nerves are a crazy thing. People show anxiety in a number of ways. Rep. Michelle Bachmann just happens to blink ... a lot!

I was watching "Meet the Press" this morning and was flabbergasted at the freshman congresswoman's penchant for flapping her eyelids so quickly and so often while being interviewed by NBC's David Gregory. There have been numerous articles -- some scientific, many others not -- on how body language can tip off others to a lie. One of the purported ways is excessive blinking. I'm not expert on the subject, so I decided to see if I could find an definitive studies on the topic.

I did what any curious person would do. I consulted Google. While I could find nothing specific and scholarly, I did find link after link on conjecture. It seems studies are ongoing, but the general consensus is that rapid, abnormal amounts of blinking could signal that a person is lying. But the dancing eyelids could also mean the person is extremely nervous or anxious, not necessarily byproducts of a deceitful mind. Excessive blinking could even mean the person is searching for answers, which I'm pretty sure is the case with the curious case of bungling Bachmann. Maybe she's just a poor public speaker/interviewee. Or maybe I'm being too kind.

To be fair, this phenomenon is not just a trait of the Tea Party, or the Republican Party for that matter. Recall that just a few years ago John Edwards was suspected of lying because he also blinked faster than most people can type words per minute. And on the flip side, a prolonged, stare just as often indicate someone is lying. Any comment, Nancy Pelosi? I thought not.

If anything, this just might be a trait of politicians in general. Blinking, lying, a deer-in-the-headlights stare. Take your pick.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Sat, 19 Jun 2010 02:32:00 +0000

What an idiot! That is my phrase for today, though it's interpretation is open for discussion.

Am I talking about referee Koman Coulibaly, who apparently blew a big call in the 86th minute of today's FIFA World Cup match between USA and Slovenia? Certainly a pivotal mistake, as the TV replays show, but certainly losing out on a couple of extra pool-play points is not going to ruin the world.

Am I talking about the riotous Lakers "fans" who set fire to a parked car after Game 7 of the NBA Finals last night? Bingo. How one, or in this case a group, could be so stupid amid the LAPD ramp-up of the last couple of days to quell any uprisings, not to mention the controversy centering around the Arizona immigration law, be so stupid or so belligerent is beyond me.

I, for one, find the new Arizona policy to allow law enforcement officials to stop at random anyone who they think might not have the proper papers especially perilous not just for the issue of authorizing blatant racism but the glimpse at a potential police state it offers up to our society. We already know the history of racial profiling against blacks that has occurred for centuries in this country. Certainly Hispanics and other "minorities" have suffered the same. But what is especially appalling to me is that, in today's society when we're supposed to be educated and enlightened, this law was perpetuated by today's new fringe of the scared and the over-reactive conservative right, all under the guise of curbing illegal immigration.

You might as well roll the clock back to the mid-19th century when any "foreigner" could be run out of town, whether you be black, brown, yellow or white (can anyone say Irish? What about the Italians?)

What's next? Where do we stop at making a snap judgment about a person by the color of their skin? What about the color of their eyes? "All those with brown eyes and curly hair, get against the wall!" I'd be one of the first picked out undoubtedly along side Hispanics, Muslims, Arabs, Persians, Native Americans... the list goes on and on. (Oh, and I'm of Irish descent, raised Catholic but now agnostic. So much for appearances.)

Still, there we had TV news cameras last night trained on gangs, truly so, as described by Merriam Webster, "A group of criminals or adolescent hoodlums," of young men AND women, many of who were undoubtedly of some kind of Hispanic origin, lighting fires, turning over Cal-Trans equipment and acting like complete idiots. But make no mistake about it: there WERE other races involved. Still, in light of the Arizona law, I shuddered to think of all the "Look, I told you so" and "See, that's why we need an immigration law" comments that I knew were being uttered by many all across the nation. Some TV viewers simply made up their minds that, if there were people with brown skin running around the streets of L.A. starting fires, they were all "Mexicans" or "illegals."

What is even more unfortunate than the racism that still permeates our society are those who help to propagate such hatred by the sheer force of their stupidity.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 03:27:00 +0000

Oysters on an Oil Shale

One of my little pleasures in life has become an occasional order of freshly shucked oysters on the half shell from a favorite eatery, Rock N Fish, in Manhattan Beach. I never gave it much thought as to which ocean waters they were derived; I simply gobbled up the critters with a helping of Tabasco, horse radish and lemon juice.

That was, however, before the BP oil disaster in the Gulf. I must admit I haven't been out for oysters since the deep-sea oil rig aptly named the Deepsea Horizon blew up and began spewing millions of gallons of crude into the ocean. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was all a bad blockbuster movie. I wish.

A mile deep, literally thousands of species from plant to animal to mammal to fish are in danger if not already dead. I'm not positive where Rock N Fish gets its oysters, but The Economist reported this week that the Gulf supplies most of our nation's supply. In fact, some 20.6 million pounds of the fat, sweet stuff worth $60.2 million was pulled from the waters off of Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Florida in 2008. I'm sure Rock N Fish pulled its fair share.

I remember my trip to New Orleans last spring and the awesome oyster houses in the French Quarter. They have all now been harmed to such a degree that the entire region has found itself decimated economically once again for the second time in five years. Like with Katrina, the Gulf states have a long, tough road to hoe before their residents realize any sort of rebound.

The at least $20 billion wrestled from BP's shareholders today by President Obama for an escrow fund will help the locals keep food on the table, and in doing so Obama well may have begun to save some face amid what is generally perceived as all too tardy of a response to the worst ecological disaster in our nation's history. I could have done without Obama's added comment, however, that "BP is a strong and viable company, and it is in all of our interests that it remain so." I agree that what the world economy does not need right now is the collapse of one of the largest employers and most profitable in the world. But this will also make us think a bit more about our environment, consequences and the irresponsibility of big business.

The people in the Gulf have endured all too much and don't deserve this current onslaught of sludge, and neither do the birds, the fish, the sea turtles, the children on the beach who just want to go swimming in the ocean this summer, the generations of animals and humans alike who will be paying dearly for this blunder. But what I really hope comes out of this, is that we wake up and realize that we must find an alternative to big oil and -- certainly -- to deep sea drilling.

That and I can dine on my lovely oysters once more without asking the waiter for unleaded.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 01:26:00 +0000

A Scary Moment That Reaffirmed My Faith in People

New Yorkers are often characterized as the rudest people on Earth, with Parisians perhaps coming in No. 2. I had never been to the Big Apple before my recent trip to attend a media publisher’s conference, but I’d been to Paris twice, just having returned, actually, last month from 10 days in the City of Love.

I’ve known many people, especially Americans, who consider the French rude. I don’t know quite how many of these experts on French culture have actually been to France, but my dealings have for the most part been very memorable. So I wondered what my latest impression would be upon visiting NYC for four days, as I probably have run across even more who can’t stand those from the Five Burroughs. I don’t doubt some of that has to do with the Yankees.

While there were no ballgames in my itinerary (the Mets were in town against the Padres, and the Yankees were down I-495 facing off against the Orioles), the inherent traveler within me made sure to take in the sights, sounds and tastes during my abbreviated trip. Most of my days were spent in seminars, but, as it is the “city that never sleeps,” I took the subway and/or walked everywhere I could. I am lucky enough to have several friends who live in Manhattan, so I enjoyed getting together with them. Plus I had a great tour guide (thanks Caroline!).

But around every corner, I thought to myself, “OK, I’m bound to meet some of these infamous ‘Rude Yorkers’ I’ve heard so much about. I won’t lie, there was a slight “misunderstanding” with a certain “gentleman” at an ice cream parlor in Chinatown who tried to cut in front of us, but, other than that instance, I was pleasantly surprised at how accommodating and darned nice the people were whom I ran across. Part of this had to do with the fact that I’m somewhat travel savvy, having been to 15 countries and counting: definitely not as many as some people but more than many others.

Yet one incident, on my last day, proved to me that most New Yorkers are caring, concerned citizens. A friend and I were walking on the Upper East Side along 5th Avenue about 68th street when we saw a commotion about 100 feet in front of us. A man as stiff as a board ,his tatted arms locked in the shock pose, forearms close to the body but wrists out, was lying face down on the sidewalk as two people bent over him. As they rolled him over on his back, my first thought was, and I actually said it out loud, “Oh my God, is that guy dead?” The man, who looked to be in his mid-30s, like me, was having a grand mal seizure, and as a woman and an older gentleman turned him over, I could see blood coming out of his mouth and his eyes rolled back in his head.

The woman, his wife, was crying but not quite hysterical though definitely frightened. The first thought to go through my head was not to subdue him. I also looked instinctively looked around for something to put in his mouth so he wouldn’t bite off his tongue, but there was nothing. And by the amount of blood, I thought that might already be a moot point. I knew this because of my personal experience with epilepsy, which was certainly the cause of the man’s seizure. But then again, who knows. I went through a spell when I was about 6 or 7 years old when a team of doctors thought I was epileptic. I had developed a tick one summer and my parents took me to be checked out. EEGs showed what appeared to be a dark spot, possibly a scar, on my brain, often a sign of the disease. For the next year or so I was poked, prodded and tested, put on some pretty harsh medication and trained on how to deal with the condition. Then, one day, poof! The brain shadow disappeared. My tick went away. We still don’t know what happened, but I’ve been “fine” ever since. Well, I guess that depends on who you talk to.

But, back on scene on the Upper East Side, it became apparent that the older gentleman knew what he was doing, simply staying with the man to make sure he didn’t hurt himself.
My iPhone, I had noticed earlier, was teetering on the brink of a dead battery and battling for a signal, but I instinctively reached for it, at the same time calling out to the now 10 or 12 people gathering at the scene amid high-end jewelry stores and clothing boutiques if anyone was calling 9-1-1. An older lady with a thick Jewish or Russian accent I immediately noted indeed was on the phone summoning help, explaining to the dispatcher that the man “was having an attack.”

Others quickly blurted out, “He’s having a seizure,” which the woman relayed, explaining the man’s state. Meanwhile, his wife and now three other men including a delivery worker on a walkie-talkie radio were helping. I heard a siren and stepped out onto 5th Avenue to see if I could tell where it was coming from. Just then, an ambulance appeared but headed west on 67th Street. I yelled out but they didn’t hear me.

I turned my attention back to the man, who was no semi-conscious but still seizing, though the spell was starting to die down. His lips, chin and cheeks were bloodied. By now, tears were streaming down his wife’s face, though her eyes still shielded by designer sunglasses. By her accent, I gauged that she must be Italian, and her husband, now lying on his back and trying to get up but being held down by his Good Samaritans, was asking in broken English, “What happened… let me go…” The scene was surreal, as now a good two dozen people stood around, each new arrival asking, “Did anyone call 9-1-1?” “Is help on the way?”

The man was sweating and still bloody. I was holding a bottle of water, and felt stupidly like a spectator at a ballgame, so the thought entered my head that water might be good to rub on his face. I opened my mouth, and of course it came out like I was suggesting he take a drink of water. That probably would not have been a good idea as he could choke. “No, no, he could choke!” a woman said. I wasn’t about to argue with her that that was not what I meant. I just left it alone as everyone’s nerves were frazzled.

At that point, the worst appeared over as he was now half sitting up telling his wife “No way, you’re not going to the hospital with me. I’m fine, I’m fine.” Then, two female NYPD officers turned the corner and were on scene. Still no paramedics, but things seemed to be in control so we walked on. My friend and I were still in a bit of shock over the events, but we both commented how great it was that so many people showed concern for this man and his wife.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 01:36:00 +0000

Art Imitates Life Imitates Art?

My apologies to Oscar Wilde, but he obviously never met Charlie Sheen. Or watched his TV show, for that matter.

Besides making me laugh out loud, which, let's face it (if you know me), is not that hard to accomplish, much of the allure surrounding the CBS comedy "Two and a Half Men" is the fact that it's obvious to most viewers over the age of 30 that co-star Sheen is not acting when playing the role of Charlie Harper. Aside from the uncanny first-name thing, Sheen also seems to re-enact much of his 20s and 30s (and, so far, his 40s), which he spent in an almost constant Hollywood haze of women, booze and drugs.

Hats off to him for surviving this long, and having a grand old time doing it, but I always suspected that the show's success had a lot to do with our society's love affair with having a front row seat to a train wreck. Except, in this case, we could do so under the guise of good ol' fashioned vaudevillian humor. What made the show ever more cute, besides the precocious young nephew Jake played by Angus T. Jones -- that is until Jake grew into a grunting, disgusting, idiotic teenage sloth, and then he just bugged, which might just be the writers' poking fun at the spiraling downfall of our youth and society (but that's for another blog, another day) -- was that Sheen was obviously playing with his reputation as one of Hollywood's premier bad boys.

The joke was that he was now a respectable husband and father. Kind of.

Regardless of what actress and ex-wife Denise Richards may have to say on the subject, of course, as we all know, Sheen wasn't reformed. Alas, he's headed back to jail after he pleads guilty to misdemeanor domestic violence against his new wife (and apparent party bud) Brooke.

Now I'm not one to judge, just making some observations here like any decent journalist, and for not knowing the guy I find him very likable in a self destructive way. But the Christmas Day incident that gave rise to the charges plus another curious occurrence in February of someone apparently stealing one of his cars and plunging it off of Mulholland Drive into a canyon all curiously unraveled amid a contract renegotiation for a few more seasons of "Two and a Half Men" plus some serious dough to the tune of $1 million per episode. Sheen was using the bargaining chip that he might just walk away from the top-rated show after seven seasons to get back into movies.

Sorry, Charlie, but aside from your cameo in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" as -- tah-dah! -- yourself, (again), and, of course, "Wild Thing" in Major League and "Wall Street," you're not getting a get-out-of-jail-free card because of your two-steps-backward roles (with Emilio) in Men at Work and Terminal Velocity (oh, yes, and Hot Shots! Part Deux).

But, in the end, he renewed for even more money. All despite his legal troubles. Good for him I suppose, but maybe it was all just a ploy to convince the producers that he still had it in him. OK, make no maybe about it. That perhaps was his best acting job of them all. But then again, inspiration comes in many different forms.

I'd bet a round of shots that the beverage Sheen is almost constantly seen pouring for himself on the TV show is, like himself, is very much the real thing. And Sheen is making quite a lucrative living at being himself.

Now, Oscar, that's art.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 21:29:00 +0000

Marathon> Check!

Packed like sardines in the food processing line, aka death, not even a pep talk from Pete Carroll could prepare me for what lay ahead.

Nothing the former coach of the USC football team and new coach of NFL's Seattle Seahawks, could say would particularly motivate me, I must admit, but perhaps some stirring words would help propel me the 26.2 arduous miles that still lay before me and my imminent demise.

I tried to remain loose despite being surrounded on all sides by runners lined up for the start of the 2010 LA Marathon: the race labeled "Stadium to the Sea." As our start time of 7:24 a.m. came and went, and the PA announced that we would be delayed by 20, then 30, then 45 minutes, all I could do was thank my friend's lucky potatoes, which were boiled, salted and waiting in a Ziplock baggy, that I wasn't stuck in the parking lot outhouse line.

Having taken care of me, um, business much earlier, I felt nimble and not at all nervous about the approaching gun. That was until the PA also announced that there would be no gun but a simple call of "Runners ready? Go!"

You mean not even Michael Buffer tape delayed? What a buzz kill.

But still, I must admit, as the delay grew, I did start to feel a bit anxious. I felt claustrophobic, pent in. I tried to stay loose, even as the aforementioned potty crew tried to cram their way into the runners stalls, pulling down a side fence in the process.

Finally, after the Star Spangled Banner by a former American Idol castoff and the starts of the wheelchair, crank and elite women's group, it was go-time. My friend Yorba and Clare, the latter whom we most randomly bumped into while trying to get as close as we could to the 4-hour pace group, started off well enough, making the requisite loop around Dodger Stadium before descending Chavez Ravine for downtown. After Clare left us in the dust (she truly is qualified, unlike me, for the 4-hour pace) and after ascending two decent-sized hills, Yorba and I made are way into Echo Park and Silverlake, miles six and seven the race, and at a 9:35 pace. Never mind the stupid signs proclaiming, "Only 19 miles to go! You can do it"

My reply? Use your imagination.

As we made our way onto Hollywood Blvd. two miles later, I still felt OK, but I could not deny I was becoming tired. Not that I felt I started too fast, but I felt the need to conserve energy, unsure of just how warm it might get as we still had five miles of pavement pounding to go before I could turn the corner into Beverly Hills, and I'd have fewer miles still ahead of me that what was already behind. I wish I could also describe to you the sights of Hollywood, not that I haven't seen them a thousand times, but I was merely trying to hold my legs together, keep my breathing pace correct and make it to the next water station.

Then, my true turning point occurred at about mile 16. Any runner with a health odometer knows what I'm talking about. It's when the bear jumps on your back and digs his claws into your side. But, as I ran along Wilshire Blvd. through Beverly Hills, at least I think it was Wilshire, out of the corner of my right eye I saw a body flash before me, and diagonally at that from right to left. Like a bird, like a plane, but definitely not Superman, a fellow runner fell before me onto the pavement, arms and legs flailing. As if in shock of what was transpiring, my legs kept pumping until my mind alerted to the rest of my body that I better stop lest I trample the poor guy. Instantly, I felt twinges in both hamstrings as I fell forward, arms outstretched.

Luckily for me and unluckily for the other guy, I landed on top of him with full force. He emitted a muffled "Ughhhhhh." Except for a nice raspberry road rash on his arms, from what I could see, the guy said he was OK. I didn't stop for an explanation of what happened. I got up and continued. One stride, two strides, three, and then I knew I was in trouble.

My legs hurt, undeniably. Not just my hamstrings, but my quads and, to my horror, my right Achilles. When I began training for the Seattle Rock 'n Roll Marathon last summer, the same Achilles tendon hurt for the better part of a month before I finally got over it. I chalked up the injury to one of those things that happens to runners. I hadn't felt a twinge there since, but now it was back. And it hurt.

For the next four miles, as I left Beverly Hills for Century City and then West Los Angeles, I'll admit, I wanted to quit. "Screw this," I told myself. "What if I'm really hurt bad? This is NOT worth it."

I walked. I jogged. I felt sorry for myself. Then it happened.

As I was negotiating one of the many hills along Santa Monica Blvd. that taunted and haunted many of us as we entered the leg, I heard someone laughing. The man sounded jovial, like Santa Claus. "Coming through on the white stripe!" the man yelled to those of us ahead of him. I turned to my right and saw an older gentleman with a full white beard pushing himself along in his wheelchair, taking full advantage of the downgrade. But what most struck me were the blue jeans, and green T-shirt he was wearing.

Now that I think about it, I don't remember seeing him wearing a runner's bib, and his race attire was definitely interesting. He could have been one of the many people who jump into the field without registering. But at that moment, I knew I had to finish. I had two legs that worked, although at that point just barely.

Then something else happened: Los Angeles firefighters were opening up water hydrants every mile or so and showering the racers. That also served to somewhat revive me.

Making my way to the Veteran's Administration building was tough, and so was making that last hill into Brentwood. But I did it. My time suffered, as I now found myself a full two miles off the 4-hour pace. But I was going to finish dammit.

And I did, in 4:35:11 and in 6,056th place out of the 13,233 men running! As for next time? Well I'm not so sure I want to put my body through this pain again anytime too soon, especially as I can barely walk. Maybe a 10K is more my speed, or even a half marathon. But I proved to myself that I can do it. And that's all I can really ask of myself.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 00:37:00 +0000

The Sound of Silence

Work life has a way of eating at the soul of your other more important existence. 12 hour days can make me want nothing more than to sink into my couch and watch a baseball game on TV, especially as I've spent a good part of my day writing for my day job, not to mention bouncing from meeting to phone calls to production process massages. No, not the good kind of massages.

But I've made a pledge to reform the way I spend my extra-curricular hours.

Reform, ah yes, a segue. Reform, from the Merriam-Webster's Dictionary: to put or change into an improved form or condition; to amend or improve by change of form or removal of faults or abuses. My abuses of late have been too little exercise for a guy who was in marathon shape at the beginning of the summer and too much fast food (and maybe an alcoholic drink or two too many here and there). I'm still in pretty decent shape, so it won't take me long to get - ahem - back in the stride of things.

There's nothing like good old exercise to ward off stress. Less stress means a happier, healthier person. I like happy, and in this economy and growing national deficit, I figure living a healthy life is the best choice to enable me to remain in working shape well into my 70s so I can continue eating, another of life's pleasures I've grown accustomed to.

And, yes, I think you know in what direction I'm headed. This meandering essay brings us to the thème du jour ... health care.

Let me predicate this by stating that I'm NOT 100% sold on ObamaCare, as there are some very, very big loose ends. I actually found myself chuckling during the President's speech to the joint sessions of Congress two weeks ago when he admitted as much.

Now, let the record also show that I am neither a Democrat nor a Republican, but the Republicans consistently speak of this as a health care revolution. Maybe they think it might as well be one, as reform is a bad word to the conservative right. But that's not what reform means. Still, I constantly hear and read others' distortion of the truth, (at best), when they say Americans don't favor health care reform. They in fact do, in some way, shape or form. The figures being cited in the media, blogs, the supermarket check out line like to confuse the latest poll numbers of American support/disapproval of the current Democratic plan with actual support of doing the right thing to make health insurance more affordable, regulate the insurance companies from dropping coverage with no reason, reform malpractice insurance, etc.

Americans, at least the ones I know, very much favor health care REFORM but want to make sure Congress gets it right (or as close as possible by these morons) because such a law will be PERMANENT. There won't be any rolling back. Ask any one if we need to find a solution to health costs that are spiraling out of control and you'll hear a hearty "Amen." I have health care and, hell no, I don't want to lose it ... but do I think it can be better? Hell yes. I welcome constructive change to a $45 co-pay on every doctor's visit (and I have a PPO plan that more and more is looking and acting like an HMO). If you don't think that such high costs incurred just in walking in the office door don't keep sick (and poor) people away, I have a boat load of tea in Boston Harbor to sell ya.

Reform is very much needed, so for Rep. Boehner and his Republican cronies to say Americans don't want reform shows how out of touch the party remains with the American people, or at least how manipulative they can be. I'm the first to admit I don't have the answers, but I do know that a comprehensive bill that makes sense is mandatory... I'm not sure sure that's ObamaCare. In fact I'm quite skeptical of a plan that promises to not raise taxes yet shares no specifics how it would work aside from health care rationing, which is even worse than what we have now. But I do know that the Republicans haven't brought to the table one viable solution. How can they when they don't favor reform in the first place?

And here we are stuck in a world of white noise. It might as well be silence, which is not always golden. It wouldn't be so bad if such condition didn't indicate to me that I might be losing my hearing. That would require another trip to the doctor. Here's hoping I can pay for it.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Mon, 11 May 2009 05:37:00 +0000

JT, Samberg Bring Sexy (Mothers) Back

Editor's note, April 27, 2010: I was dusting out my posts and noticed this one that some how I had yet to publish. This was too good of an episode to leave it as a draft, plus Mama's day is right around the corner!

If you missed Saturday Night Live this past weekend, by all means find it on the web. Most notably, the show marked the return of the comic brilliance of cast member Andy Samberg and today's young blue eyes: Justin Timberlake.
You might remember the duo collaborating on the SNL Short "Dick in a Box" a crass tale of two cheeseball boy band rejects complete with feathered hair, matching goatees and parachute pants who show the women in their life how they truly feel. Their Christmas presents were, well, hipoxtic.
If it was possible to outdo themselves, they succeeded on Saturday with "Mother Lover," a tale woven by the guys as they leave a Brooklyn Correctional Center after 5 months of incarceration, a result oftheir Christmas present stunt, and they realize they don't have proper gifts for their mothers.
So they concoct, so to speak a plan: they'll each show each other's respective mothers real love. The result are some side-splitting scenes between the two and Susan Sarandon and Patricia Clarkson. If you haven't seen it ... be warned. It's taboo AND hysterical.
True comedy, after all, is about pushing the envelope. And this one tastes mighty fine when you lick the glue.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 06:58:00 +0000

Thoughts on a New President

I asked someone about an hour ago simply, "Ten years ago, could you have even considered a black president was even possible?
What a corner America has turned, and it took a magnetic, thoughtful, inspiring, pragmatic, scholar to man the rudder.
All arguments aside on the validity of an age-old electoral ballot system to modern-day society, the great George F. Will said it best by commenting that President-elect Obama tonight received a "mandate" from the American people. Indeed, especially when compared with the last two elections.
But soon, when the honeymoon ends, all eyes will acutely center on him to see what he does with it.
Change has already happened, already being written into the history books. But to what extent? Who'd have thought that a black man actually winning the presidency could truly be the easiest part? "Yes We Can" will soon become "How?" and "When?"
Hope certainly abounds across the nation, and at the same time genuine fear oozes from the red Earth. The economy teeters; consumer confidence is shaken. We grapple with a health care system in desperate need of repair. And a Democratic Congress is licking its lips to finally exert its power in doing something about it. Energy, immigration, education ... the list goes on.
It is up to Obama to reach across the aisle, across America, and continue not only the thoughtful discourse that has highlighted his campaign but also implement positive, collaborative steps to unite the nation. Like perhaps no president before him, perhaps only Lincoln during the Civil War or FDR following the Great Depression, Obama ascends the front steps to open the door on a house of horrors. To even want such a job should be reason enough for Obama, or McCain for that matter, to achieve instant sainthood. But it was Obama who stayed the truer course. He seized upon a genuine desire of the public to realize America as a better place than it already was by introducing transcendental ideas, progressive plans that, if implemented, could change the course of the United States for generations to come.
But he must remain vigilant and fair to all in how he commands the country through these troubling times. He can not allow Congress to bully him but must lead as the executive statesman he has been for the past six years. He should not be shy with flouting the mandate, not to brandish a big stick at Republicans but to direct traffic and improve the flow of communication not only between social and economic programs but with respect to our nation's stature in the world, the wars it fights and all the interests it protects at home and abroad.
The question must be asked, "What will be possible for us 10 years from now?"

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 05:19:00 +0000

Another Lame Money-Making Scheme at the Expense of Mother Nature

What better topic with which to knock the dust off my neglected blog than bronzed beach beauties. Hermosa Beach this past weekend was at mid-summer form with a a bevy of toned booties not to mention the high, mostly cloudless sky of azure that hypnotized me through my faux designer shades. Because, you know, things break at the beach. There's the surf, an occasional bone as the pier rats bludgeon each other or a hapless tourist who ventures down the wrong alley.
And on Saturday, my heart.
I was heading down the strand with friends at approximately 8:30 a.m. to play in a volleyball tournament when we noted a metal eyesore of a center stage with surrounding courts on the sand. It was a few weeks too late for the AVP Ugly Plastic Shoes (aka Crocs) Hermosa Open or for that matter its red-headed, abused stepbrothers and sisters the EVP, or the Extreme Volleyball Professionals, tour. But it certainly looked like some sort of professionally laughable beach promotion.
Then I read the sign: the SoCal Series Slam.
That could mean anything. An MMA match, a raucous game of Beer Pong. Either of those would be awesome. Tennis was the furthest thing from my mind.
But there it was, the seventh stop on the BeachTennisUSA 2008 Tour. Never mind that Phil Whitesell and Chris Henderson of Charleston, S.C. defeated Mike Edison and Brett Johnson from Clearwater, Fla., to win their first major tour event since the 2006 National Championship. Or that those zaney Maloney sisters Laura and Lisa from San Diego remained undefeated this season by dropping neighbors Joslynn Burkett and Lee Whitwell of La Jolla.
I know, how you missed it on SportsCenter is any one's guess.
My question was, "Beach tennis? Really?" As my friends and I headed back up the strand following a fun albeit failed run at emerging out of pool play, the shtick at the beach tennis court was right out of the AVP's playbook the fulsome and plain stupid. There was the myelitis-inducing techno, an obnoxiously ranting emcee and those God-awful inflatable thunder clappers. And those stupid pre-game activities that pit fat, pasty white fans against each other in blindfolds stumbling and bumbling along searching for a Wii. Or those pumps that launch T-shirts into the crowd.
Don't get me wrong: pro beach volleyball players are skilled studs, and several are very cool people. I don't mean to trash them at all. But if I have to attend another manufactured sporting event with sunburned fans/tourists waving and hitting themselves silly like clown cavemen, I'm going to puke out my spleen. Or open fire on each and every one of those oversized yellow inflatable dildos with a B-B gun.
And I might just miss on purpose. You don't need two eyes; just look how successful Stuart Scott is.
This beach tennis thing amounted to yet another example of some wannabe-smooth promoter without a clue trying to cash in oh a half-baked scheme. "Hey, if it works for the AVP, why not me?" I can just imagine this reject saying. The beach has become rife with them.
Not only has the AVP single-handedly ruined a great game by turning it into a circus, when at one time it rang of a counter-cultural party (and I might add it still can be if you know the right people), now we're seeing other "sports" like BeachTennisUSA making shit up by biting off of the same piece of crap as the last guy. What's next? The national beach snow board finals?
Hell if I know, the king of sleaze himself Leonard Armato might be behind this one as well. Looking at BeachTennisUSA's schedule and scheduled stops, you have to wonder as it comes damn close to mimicking the AVP. They're both one and the same. In one word: Lame.
Hey, I rhymed. Maybe I can entertain the beach crowd at the next stupid event some idiot concocts.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 06:34:00 +0000

The Republic of Chad

It was about 1:15 p.m. on Super Tuesday as I drove back to the office, my “I Voted 2008” sticker in hand. And I was incensed.
A four- (and a half) year college graduate, I’m generally an intelligent person. But it took me months to figure out how I’d vote in this year’s presidential primary. I knew precisely for whom I wanted to vote, as an earlier blog explains, but I wasn’t precisely sure how I’d do it. I reiterate that I’m a fairly smart man.
The confusion arose over my preferred political affiliation. Having learned a thing or two at university, I’ve been a proud GDI – or God Damn Independent – for most of my adult life. Having shunned the Greek system, I’ve so far turned up my nose at the Republicans and Democrats.
But the way our voting system works, if you’re non-affiliated, at least for the first couple years – or in this case elections – you’re basically a loser. Luckily I did my homework and discovered I could request a crossover ballot and vote for a Democrat, but countless others in Los Angeles County weren’t quite as lucky.
Or smart. And it’s not entirely their fault.
I was still fuming on my commute back to the rock quarry because I had to make a minor scene at my polling place due to confusion from the workers over my right to vote someone else besides another non-affiliated candidate. It was shades of freshman year in college all over again.
Los Angeles County has a rule that allows us non-affiliates to cross the party lines to Democrat, but it seems you have to explicitly ask permission. So much for our inalienable rights, as long as you say “pretty please.”
My situation turned out OK, but I must wonder about the other 780,000 un-affiliated voters in Los Angeles County alone. Were they able to decipher the madness?
It’s pretty bad when Dean Logan, the acting county registrar, doesn’t even have a clue what’s going on. As I still muttered under my breath the ridiculous situation I just found myself in, Logan himself told journalist Warren Olney on KCRW’s “To the Point” radio show that his office had issued several PSAs in recent weeks to inform voters of the situation. I’m a fairly discerning citizen, a journalist myself, who stays abreast of such things. Granted, I don’t watch much TV, but I never once heard a whisper of such ads. My bad for not watching “American Idol.”
So there I sat in traffic as I listened to Logan hem and haw his way through the interview, as other panelists voiced their concern over Los Angeles’ system. Logan told Olney that the registrar's office had forecasted that the unaffiliated voter fiasco wouldn’t be an issue and that polling place staffers had been extensively trained to deal with the issue. Oh really?
Then two of the other interviewees corrected him with their own assertions that it could very well affect the Democratic primary. One even brought up the 780,000 unaffiliated voters who could be affected. Olney asked Logan if this number sounded right.
A long pause ensued. Logan responded that such a figure wasn’t at his immediate disposal, only to be answered by another interview subject that indeed the number was correct, taken straight from the state registrar’s web page. A simple Google search will turn up some 3 million voters statewide who are also unaffiliated. I’m so glad we have someone in charge who knows what he’s talking about. Or not. But isn’t that apropos with G.W. Bush still in the Oval Office? He, after all, got there (twice) amid shady happening in the polling booth.
And you think our country’s messed up voting system is only confined to Florida and Ohio?

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Sat, 02 Feb 2008 03:01:00 +0000

Man on Fire

Being a man who loves women, and especially hot women who love women, I've been known to tune into "the L word," Showtime's dramatic interpretation and revelation of lesbian culture in America. Whilst I know nothing of what it's like to be a lesbian, I am friends with lesbians and have a cousin who hails from this side of the sexuality fence. But, to me, the series seems realistic. After all, how much better can a Friday night get when you're going to a club called "She Bar."
Believe me, I've used my imagination.
The several episodes I've seen have been good enough, most well remembered for the sex scenes. They've been filled with good acting and the subject matter provocatively entertaining and oftentimes humorous. No offense to the good writers, but I'll never watch again.
If I portray myself as a typing dichotomy, here's precisely why: one bad apple ruined it for the whole orchard.
For men, "bros before hos" is not only a pithy saying but a mantra. It's the Book of Proverbs for single guys, and there should be nothing sexist about it despite the connotations. Quite simply, your male friends come first because, most likely, they were there long before she came along. And most likely they'll still be there long after she's gone.
I welcome women to think likewise. Power in numbers, I say.
So when you witness a pretty bird peck out the heart of one of your best boys, it's on sister.
This is neither TMZ.com nor a plug for the Tom Leykis Show. I'm a journalist, so far be it from me to resort to gossip or serve as a publicist for a self-described woman hater. After all, I love women. But I refuse to allow myself or my friends be taken advantage of.
What an L word regular did recently to one of my friends, while not uncommon or completely reprehensible, forces me to say something. In an all-too-common occurrence, especially in Los Angeles, a beautiful woman mesmerized a man and strung him along until he was nothing more than a heap of used yarn strewn about the gutter. Yes, men use women all the time. It's not right, but it happens. So, you ask, what's wrong with a woman using a man every once in a while for an expensive dinner, or much more?
Basically, two wrongs don't make a right. Say what you will about my friend -- and believe me I along with others have already -- but he no more deserved this treatment than a woman does from a man. End the double-standard!
It's time to stand up for our brothers -- and sisters -- and put an end to this age-old game of deception. I recognize as much as anybody that shit happens and things change. For all I know, or my friend for that matter, this certain actress might have very good reason for pushing him away. It could be another man, or woman. Maybe this person's career and schedule will be taking her out of the country and the timing's just not right. That's life. I know this and accept it. But this situation reminded me of something much larger which deserves all of our attention.
For the love of God be a real man -- or a woman -- and be truthful with each other! We all can easily fall in and out of love or like and want to cut and run, but what's with all the dishonesty? As Elvis Costello wrote, "What's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding?"
Wouldn't the world be a much better place if we all just leveled with each other and said what's really on our minds? Why the need to illicitly draw things out with $200 sushi dinners or booty calls when all the while you know it's going nowhere but the recycling bin? People, we have more dignity than that. So treat your fellow man -- and woman -- with the same respect you'd expect. Whether straight or gay, we all deserve the same consideration. It might well be a Utopian view but one that's been nagging at me for a while.
End the game of charades.
It took my friend's ego being broken these two weeks before Valentine's Day to finally do something about it. Because "the L word" I think is not simply about lesbianism but love.
So let's spread it. It's Friday night, and guess what TV show is on.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 04:27:00 +0000

Freeloading Gluttons for Punishment …
… Or why writers write for free

I’ve been matchmaking pen with paper since I was knee high to a cactus, and for almost as long I’ve been whoring myself out as a working writer in Los Angeles.
My brethren at the WGA should whip me with a No. 2 pencil, or perhaps, in Web 2.0 world, inflict upon me a cerebral hemorrhage with a computer keyboard upside my noggin. The lost income I’ve suffered since college, when I left the confines of academia and a promising albeit minimum-wage paying career as a sports reporter for the hand-to-mouth existence of an ad agency copywriter and a freelance journalist, is most likely Exhibit A in my inability until just recently to pay off my student loans.
If I ever have children, I’ll have but one piece of sage advice: DON'T EVER become a writer.
The greatest scribes are alcoholics. Now that I think about it, so are the untalented. Attend your local high school basketball game, at least the competitive ones, and from 19 feet, 9 inches you’ll be able to target the bed-headed, mumbling-to-himself newspaper reporter from the otherwise normal crazed high school hoops fan.
Yup, he’s (or she in today’s ethno-sex equal, smoke- and booze-free newsroom) the one wearing the holey, all-area football camp T-shirt beneath the 1976 faded-red Garfield High windbreaker and Birkenstocks over wool socks. Hopefully he remembered to wear pants amid reciting the 10 best quarterbacks during the 1991 season – in Tulsa, Okla. – and telling anyone within earshot why Banning will go all the way this year and how in disarray the Roosevelt girls volleyball team was this season.
He could never be mistaken for an actual athlete. Basically he’s a junkie but a lot less cool.
Then you have your music reviewer, who probably is on drugs or at least wants people to think he is. You can usually spot them at the club, undoubtedly channeling beatnik down to the black turtleneck and horned-rimmed glasses, swaying to the beat almost disapprovingly with hands jammed in his trench coat pockets. No one would blame you for thinking he was fingering the hidden candy of his next intended victim, but he’s most probably stroking his member – that being his trusty tape recorder. After the show, you’ll spot him chain smoking and waxing on about post-punk debauchery in minor E and 1990s grunge band Failure’s “Fantasic Planet” as early dialogue about the crushing weight of capitalism and the resulting slowly implosion of America.
Let’s no mince words. He’s a groupie, though his orgasm comes at the conclusion of 1,000 bombastic clauses describing varieties of music theory stolen from the pages of Rolling Stone. He reads like a piss poor philosopher..
As they say, those who can do, and those who can’t write. And worse, yet, many times we write for free.
But more to heart of the problem with writing is that welfare can seem a step up the social ladder to a new college graduate when compared to making your living for the next 50 years with the written word. Few jobs pay less upon graduation this side of unclogging toilets. But hell, even plumbers have knee-capping Mob-owned unions in their corner. Writers have the WGA, which is poised to finally collapse in its “negotiations” with the big studios on revenue sharing from, among other things, the Internet and reality TV.
Not that it’s there fault. They are writers after all. If they had true talent, they’d be reciting the lines in the script rather than writing them. They’d have the Italian Mafia in their corner, not the gay Mafia.
Us poor writers, unshaven and living hand-to-mouth as we drive to work in cars with oxidized paint jobs that fart screeches and engine knocks alongside suits in leather upholstered BMW 7 Series. We’re all going to the same office, mind you. The only difference is the suit gets the personalized parking spot in the covered parking garage, while we hike six blocks and play Frogger dashing across the boulevard only to return 12 hours later with a paycheck 1/1,800th the size of normal people. And our car, if you can call it that, is newly anointed with a $65 parking ticket or, worse, the boot.
So you wanted to become a writer, eh? Bollocks.
That’s what the WGA has fought for. Unfortunately, for every Academy Award or Pulitzer winning writer there’s a hundred thousand others living paycheck to paycheck. What’s worse, like chasing the dragon is to the heroin addict, writers will spit out volumes on spec or agree to non-paying gigs in exchange to free admission to The Viper Room in the hopes someone somewhere will notice our art and snatch us from clutches of poverty.
And there’s a plethora of predators out there under the guise of “e-zines” and blogs. Visit Craigslist and try searching for Writing and Editing gigs. You’ll find dozens of sites and schemes to lure penniless writers into freely submitting art reviews or, worse yet, handing over their scripts amid promises of “networking with professionals” and “getting your foot in the door.”
Yet we continue to write, no matter the fraudulent offers, the names we’re called or how bad we smell because our water’s been turned off and we’ve resorted to “showering” with used sheets of fabric softener. (A word of advice: you, too, can put to good use to those samples of cologne glued to the fashion magazine ads. Just be wary of the paper cuts.)
But then again, Van Gogh was a pauper and cut off his ear. It’s rumored he did so because he went crazy for the lack of appreciation from his peers. But most likely he found a guy who paid him a couple of bucks for it.
Then there’s the rare yet alluring tales of writers who were this close to vanishing into debtor’s prison – or putting a bullet in their brain and their brain all across the wall – only to hit it big. I often recall the story a friend of mine from one of those big studios told me about the guy, or at least one of them, who wrote “The Net” with Sandra Bullock. The week before Columbia Pictures snatched the script, he was supposedly washing his clothes outside with a garden hose and Dawn. I suspect it was actually a bottle marked “Dish Soap” purchased – or filched – from the 99 cent store.
So, us writers put our head down and trudge on, reminding ourselves it is truly an art form to be able to pump out 1,000 beautiful words woven into a stirring narrative in a mere 15 minutes, even if we net only 15 cents of free parking for the effort.
Still, somehow, we live on. I like to think it's the Irish whiskey that fights off infection, but us writers shuffle on in search of our Walden Wood, in search of that one perfect muse that will uplift us onto a throne of public acceptance.
We like the punishment. And we’re also all slightly crazy, and most of us are still trying to even get accepted into the WGA. And if that doesn't work out, we always have the local basketball game.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 05:59:00 +0000

Another Candle Snuffed Out

It’s no joke when someone dies and even less so when the life claimed is that of a star that shone so brightly if also misconstrued on the silver screen as in real life. Heath Ledger was such a man.
While adroitly unassuming, freakishly quiet, even, for a Hollywood elite, there was something everyman about him. He surely had balls, as he almost literally showed – and fortunately didn’t – in the cowboy-love drama “Brokeback Mountain,” and which he will definitely display posthumously in this summer’s upcoming “The Dark Knight." It instantly intrigued me when I first learned he would test his chops by revitalizing the role of Jack Nicholson’s “The Joker." What a risk. But he was all about taking them, which in the end robbed his life.
But he unequivocally made it his own. The leaked trailers show as much with Ledger sending chills down the backs of Batman fans young and old alike. True to the new more lurid iteration of the DC Comics classic, Ledger is nothing short of a maniac as he distorts any resemblance to Jack’s campy characterization and then creates his own nefarious moment.
It’s a shame in this day of Britney, Lindsey and Winehouse that one of the seemingly genuine good guys is gone, his life was snuffed out by a seemingly direct result of his art rather than a trapping of it.
Everyone who knew him said they didn’t see it coming. It’s not like Ledger was one of the jet-set sucking down Cristal and cocaine like it was going out of style. Rather he spent his days away from the set with his young daughter in the bohemian section of Brooklyn he called home. But even that special love couldn’t keep him from apparently falling victim to his own brilliance as he reportedly overdosed on sleeping pills, a habit formed during his role in last year's "I'm Not There" about Bob Dylan and then gripped him during the shooting of "Batman Begins 2." He reportedly told people that the his method acting so affected him that he could hardly sleep a night.
A demon claimed him much different than the usual Hollywood affliction. And we’ll all suffer for it.

noreply@blogger.com (A Gray Area) — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 03:03:00 +0000

Boiling Point

Two days later, the odiferous temptation lingered on me like a slip hugging the tasty curves of a buxom brunette model. Pungent best described the scent, as it invaded my clothes, my hair, and I breathed garlic like a medieval dragon. It drove me wild, making my watering mouth a virtual Niagra Falls.
I had a case of Devil Fingers, and, boy, was it good to be this bad.
Actually, by all estimates, I consumed a healthy dose of high protein, low fat fruit from borne from the bottom of the sea. Shellfish, among a few other things, is my guiltiest pleasure. And you can still love yourself when looking in the mirror the next morning.
A friend and I had visited a must if you live in the greater Los Angeles area, and you love all things crustaceous. The Boiling Crab is a chain with several locations mostly smattered in densely Asian-populated areas, namely Garden Grove and Alhambra. And, as I learned on their web site, the ext time I’m in either Dallas or Houston, you need not guess where I’ll be visiting to discover if truly everything is bigger, and spicier, in Texas. The chain actually got its start there in Seadrift, a tiny crabbing town in the southeastern part of the state.
Try this big daddy Cajun menu on for size: 2 pounds of shrimp, with the heads attached, of course; a pound of Alaskan King Crab legs; a whole Dungeness Crab, complete with those “Devil Fingers,” or the lungs served boiled in garlic and served in see-through trash bags. Throw in a helping of boiled potatoes and corn on the cob, and with the tagline “You gonna suck what?”, how can you go wrong?
The menu is not extensive but powerful. There’s also oyster on the half shell at either six or a dozen per order, crawfish, blue crab (seasonal), catfish, gumbo, Cajun fries, Cajun hot wings. And choose your poison, from regular seasoning, which is basically the fish itself, to medium to hot. The latter is not for the faint of heart.
Perhaps best yet, the Boiling Crab has a great, down-home atmosphere, to boot. If a cramped strip-mall storefront a stone’s throw from a Vietnamese coffee shop in Westminster isn’t your style – and if you’re a straight male over 18, trust me it is – sample the decidedly more crab house surroundings in Alhambra about northeast of downtown Los Angeles. But whichever you choose, prepare to wait. Open seven days a week, the Boiling Crab always has a line, from opening at 3 p.m. until the kitchen closes for the evening at a quarter ‘til 10 at night. Not only for the good food but the extremely reasonable prices. A pound of Alaskan King Crab legs produces at least a half dozen meaty stems at $14.99.
The beers are cold, premium and also cheap – Newcastle is $3 a bottle – and the staff is friendly and willing to shoot the shit on everything from the game on one of the newer restaurant’s flat screens or the tunes playing on the jukebox.
Just prepare to get gluttonously dirty, but if you're on a date be sure she (or he) can handle you. Very probably you'll send your co-workers fleeing to another part of the office the following morning. That’s almost worth the experience in itself.

Visit the Boiling Crab to find out more.