Things I Can't Un-See

Ever have one of those times when you see something so bizarre and inexplicable, you wish you had a camera to capture the moment? This is one of those times.

Yesterday morning I was walking down Sunset Blvd. to my local coffee house (lack of free internet equals increased focus on the writing). Along the way I passed 3 latino day laborers sitting on a low wall, three painters or dry-wallers taking their first break of the day. They looked fairly typical, wearing the day laborer uniform of ball cap, t-shirt and jeans. Except for what they were holding. Day laborer number one was noshing a Burger King breakfast sandwich. Number two was getting down on some hash browns. Number three? He was staring off into the distance as a red G-string hung from his loose fist in front of him.

What exactly had happened here? Could he not afford a BK breakfast sandwich? Was he dreaming wistfully of his lost love from an all-nude show from the night before? Were they his? He didn’t seem terribly envious of his compatriots’ meals. He wasn’t gazing longingly at it. The g-string was just there, the way one might idly dangle one’s keys. Maybe it’s his. Maybe he was thinking, “If I can just get through today, I can unwind on the pole when I get home.” Maybe it’s his lucky charm. If anyone has a reasonable explanation, please let me know. Probably the most mystifying thing I’ve seen

Publish Post

all month.

Tales From Dodger Stadium: Ejected

My buddy Ian is the biggest Dodger fan I know. I live right across the street from the
stadium, and we often go to games together. A couple months ago we went to a game, and for
the first time (for me at least), got kicked out.

Most of the time when I go see the Dodgers it's to sit in the nosebleed section. The tickets
are cheap and the view is decent if you can get seats somewhere between 3rd and 1st base (and
you usually can). The only problem with that section is that sometimes it gets rowdy. Now
don't get me wrong, I ain't scurred. I'd just rather not leave the game having actually
joined a gang. I'll do my jumping in on the streets, thank you very much. I should clarify
that if you're wearing Dodger blue you're pretty much in the clear. If you have a Dodgers
tattoo you're even better off. I saw a fan once with the Dodgers script logo tattooed across
his chest diagonally, and the same thing in reverse across his back. These are fans.

A few times, though, I've made the mistake of going to games with my friends, who are pretty
much all Arizona fans. And I made the added mistake of bringing them to a Dodgers/Dbacks
game. My buddies got a little, how shall we say, shit-hammered and started supporting their
team vociferously. We got pelted with limes and garlic fries, but made it out with our hides.

On another occasion, one of my friends was wearing a red U of A shirt that said "Don't tell me to
sit down" on the back. The Dodgers were playing the Angels, so he wasn't wearing the
opposition's gear (he wasn't, in fact, wearing any pro team's gear). None of that mattered to
the four GIANT cholos behind us. They saw red, and that was all they needed to see. It got
so bad I put my Dodger hat on my buddy's head. That didn't help. Things were starting to get
out of control, and I felt we had a legitimate reason to fear for his safety, and by reason of
association, ours. A few seconds later this was confirmed by two security guards who showed
up and told my friend "Sir, we have to move you now. For your own safety." Much easier to do
that then face multiple thugs I guess. They moved him down about 6 rows. Wow, thanks. That
just made the objects hurled at him hit a bit harder. A full beer got dumped on him, and he
took off his red shirt (and not because it was wet). He put on a sweatshirt and tried to make
himself small. Luckily, right at that moment, a girl in an Angels hat stood up, turned around, and gave the double middle finger to everyone behind her. She was joined by a middle aged guy in Angels gear, and the crowd turned its rage on them. After several minutes more, the actual cops showed up and arrested all four thugs.

So on to my own experience of being ejected. Ian and I walked over to the park. We had field
level seats, but way out by the foul pole on the first base side. One thing I've learned is that you can get those seats fairly cheap, and then move to field level seats closer to home plate. You've got your access to the field level, and that's all you need. So many people don't show up or leave early, that you can always watch at least half the game from a pretty excellent vantage point. So about the 6th inning, we moved. Things were going fine until we spotted some open seats further in and in the FRONT ROW. Now THAT'S field level. We mosied on over. About five seats away from our target I noticed that a security guard on the field was watching us. She let us take the seats though. I knew that if we behaved ourselves, we'd be fine. Unfortunately I didn't know that behaving yourself in this part of the ballpark now means not swearing.

Something happened at second base, and Jeff Kent, the Dodgers' second baseman, didn't like it.
He started arguing with the umpire and the Joe Torre came running out. I didn't see the play
because we were too busy taking our fake seats. Anyway, it got heated and resulted in both
Kent and Torre being ejected. So whatever it was, there was probably a legitimate beef there,
right? Ian yelled "aw, that's BULLSHIT!" to the field, and the security guard had what she'd
been waiting for. She immediately came up to the wall and asked to see our tickets. "Alright, alright, we'll go back to our seats. I'm sorry," Ian said. We went about 8 rows up to some other seats we could pretend were ours, not near anyone by about 4 rows, and sat down. Play resumed. Ian soon found another thing to bitch about, or maybe it was the same thing, I don't remember. But he was just being a fan. Anyway, a morbidly obese member of AARP in front of us turned around and told us (Ian) not to swear, because there were "womenfolk" around. "Did you just say womenfolk?" I asked. He neither responded to or looked at me, but proceeded to get up and come up to the row in front of us and walk in until he was right in front of Ian. He started arguing with Ian about being polite, which quickly turned into threats to take Ian out into the parking lot and fight him!

It should be noted here that Ian was handling the situation very well. He didn't stand up, he didn't raise his voice once, and he didn't even swear. Meanwhile, this fat old tub o'lard was calling him every name in the book and spitting when he talked. He wouldn't look at me once, despite my repeated declarations of "Sir, you are spitting on us. Sir. You are spitting on us, sir." I was determined to be the polite one. Finally Ian had had enough, and told the old man that if he really wanted, he'd meet him in the parking lot and slug him. He actually used the word "slug." I was amused by that.

Finally the guy goes and sits down. Way to represent civility and chivalry, asshole. Next,
an entire row of women who, I kid you not, actually had sweaters tied around their necks 80s
yuppie style, proceeded to argue with Ian. He had suggested that all he was doing was being a
fan, and that if they were fans they should have been outraged at the play like he was. The
first one said "Um, excuse me, we have season tickets here. Do you know how much those cost?
We ARE fans." "Oh yeah?" Ian replied. "What division are the Dodgers in?" She had nothing.
"What LEAGUE are they in?" he asked. She snorted and turned around. Could it have been a
"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer" snort? Maybe. But I tend to think she just didn't know.

The next thing we knew, four police officers and 2 security guards were standing over us. I
naively thought they were there to find the big fat old guy who was spitting all over,
threatening violence on people and moving several rows to do it. But no. It was for us. We
were instructed to get up and come with them. For what? I asked. For swearing, came the
reply. Are you serious? Yes, apparently they were. We got up and slowly followed them out,
to a chorus of boos from the crowd. I enjoyed that quite a bit.

When I asked if we were really being kicked out for swearing, I was told that yes, we were,
because it is against the fan conduct policy. When I asked why the old man who swore, spit,
and committed assault on us according to the legal definition wasn't being kicked out, they
said they would "look into it."

The fact is that baseball is now primarily a rich man's game. People are paying hundreds of
dollars for field level seats, and the owner of the team is catering to them. Bars, club boxes with waitstaff, private bathrooms, and all sorts of amenities are being added, and Frank McCourt has plans to do another $500 Million worth of "renovating" to the place. It mostly consists of a mall and restaurants (you still won't be able to take public transportation to the stadium). And these wealthy people don't want a real, gritty, baseball experience. They want to watch it like it's on tv in their beige livingrooms. If they could bring their overpriced couches with them they probably would. It's more about being seen, and the presige that comes with being able to afford expensive season tickets than it is about the team or the game. Never mind what division the Dodgers are in. They are called the Dodgers, right?

Long gone are the days when the iron worker or carpet salesman sat next to the wall street
broker in a cramped Brooklyn shithole on a hot summer day. Now the working class sits in the
bleachers or the upper deck. I despise the violence I see sometimes in the cheap seats, but
the elitism down on the field is just as bad. Contrary to popular belief, baseball is NOT a family affair. It isn't cricket or golf, people. Those guys out there? They take steroids. They chew tobacco. They spit and scratch their balls on tv, and they kick and punch the shit out of each other when they get mad, which because of the steroids, is all the time. They say the F word. They cheat on their wives. They drink, smoke, and eat like pigs. And they don't get kicked out just for swearing.

L.A. Story - In The Public Domain: One Bum To Rule Them All

Reminder: All of these things happened in public and most of the time in broad daylight.

As a native Southern-Californian, I have seen my share of bums, hobos, vagrants and tramps. But a few weeks ago, I witnessed one of the greatest things I have ever seen. Unable to truly comprehend what I was seeing, I quickly dialed up one of my Fellow Peach Basketeers.

The following is an exact transcript:

John Waters on Safari: Dude... what is the largest number of shopping carts that you've ever seen one bum with?
Fellow Peach Basketeer: Uh, I don't know. Maybe one or two. I think I remember hearing from someone who saw a guy with four carts once. Why?
JWS: Because I am in my car right now looking at a bum with EIGHT shopping carts! This fuckin' guy has EIGHT carts! He has so much stuff it's unbelievable. I think he has more shoes than Imelda Marcos.
FPB: Whoa, whoa whoa.... first of all, bums don't have things. And secondly, you're lying. What you're describing is not possible.

(There is a short silence as I am horrified that an alleged friend and Fellow Basketeer would question my integrity while I simultaneously question my own existence.)

JWS: You're questioning me?
FPB: I am not only questioning you... I am calling you out. You're full of shit.

(Stunned, I quickly gather my thoughts. How can I possibly prove myself and earn back the trust of said Fellow Peach Basketeer?)

JWS: Wait a minute! I have a camera! I'll take some pictures and I'll email them to you as soon as I get to a computer.
FPB: You're going to take pictures of the bum?
JWS: Is visual evidence the only way that you're going to believe me?
FPB: Yes.
JWS: Then absolutely.

Behold, the greatest bum of them all:



Taken in the side-mirror of my car while driving, I captured the henceforth-dubbed Super Bum dragging five of his eight shopping carts full of goodies across traffic. Not only was each cart full, there were multiple bags full of detritus hanging outside of every cart.



It has been suggested that much like the Highlander, this Super Bum gains others bums' powers after he steals their carts. This is not a man to be crossed. In fact, he may not be a man at all. Perhaps explaining how he came to have eight shopping carts, I believe the Super Bum to be more like The Kurgan.

There can be only one!

Movie City Blues, Part II: Waking Up From Reality

I'm in Los Angeles now. With gas money and a dream. The trappings of success are painfully visible all around me. Now I just have to help myself to a job as a...

...valet. Yup. My first 6 months in LA were spent parking rich people's cars at a fancy hotel. I was so broke at the time that I regarded a keyless remote as a status symbol (still don't have one as a matter of fact). In a town that runs on who-you-know, my uncle’s colleague’s daughter got me my first break in the biz.

The gig was as a runner for a post-production/trailer house in Burbank, an excellent entry-level job. I spent most of the day driving around the city and got to know the geography of movie industry Los Angeles pretty well. I also learned that being an office monkey is not my thing. Lunch orders, filing, tape labeling... ugh. I hated it. And, working in post was not my idea of a good time. I wanted to be on set.

Looking for the next gig wasn't any easier. At this point, I had a very tiny circle of friends. Fortunately, a couple former roommates from Tucson had moved out and they too had tiny circles of friends. One of these friends worked for a show called Paradise Hotel. I almost got hired as a "talent handler" for them. Bullet dodged. Another friend worked for a little show called Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. And at the time it was a little show. It hadn’t aired yet and no one knew what huge hit it was going to be. After a ton of pestering, I convinced them to hire me as a Production Assistant.

“Congratulations, self,” I thought, “you’re on a real live TV show.” And I was. It was a great experience. I stayed on for three full seasons, getting promoted first to Assistant Production Coordinator and then to Production Coordinator. I got paid to travel the country. I worked some hellacious hours in some even more hellacious weather. I got to be a defender of the faith for reality TV since I was on one of the "good" shows. It was a gig I could be proud of. And it got me nowhere closer to the aforementioned dream.

Neither did The Girls Next Door (awesome in its own right in that I got paid to hang out at the Playboy Mansion), Star Tomorrow (don't remember it? Neither does anybody else), or Armed and Famous (8 freezing, miserable weeks in Muncie, IN that I will never get back).

Here's why. Reality TV is its own beast. While there are some similarities between the production of a reality show and a traditional one, there's one big difference: a script, and and the shooting thereof. I wasn't learning that on reality shows, and I'm kind of a writer, so that would be a good thing to learn, no?

And so, I left behind the comfort and (sigh) comfortable paychecks of reality and struck out for the scripted world. Again, I had a very limited number of contacts there. But I got lucky, one of my former PAs was PAing all over the place and got me my first gig.

I won't recount them all here. If you want to know what I worked on you can go here for the complete list. I worked on some great shows like Weeds, and some not-so-great ones like Cavemen. I learned a shit-ton about how shows get made. The nice thing about being a PA is that you really do get to see everything. The not-so-nice thing is that you get paid minimum wage or just above it. But you can afford to live on that because you're working 75 hours a week and they're providing your meals (most of the time).

Being a production assistant also puts you on the road to becoming an assistant director. “I can make a living doing that,” I thought. I had a goal. And it was a fantastic learning experience. Being a PA, you get to see and hear it all on a set. I was in first and out last. I took pride in my long hours and dedication to the job.

Time went by. The novelty wore off.

A year and a half later, I was still looking at a good 300 days to reach the magic number of 600 to qualify for membership in the Director's Guild of America. At 24, this would not be a problem. At 34, it was troubling to think of another year and a half of brutal hours at just above minimum wage pay for the right to work another 150 days in commercials and out-of-town productions in order to become a full-fledged 2nd AD. I’d had enough of being labor in someone else’s dream.

Which brings me to the here and now and the business of getting on with the dream. Here is the dream: to make good movies, even great ones. What I realize – what I’ve learned – is that the only way to make my own movies and tell my own stories is to simply start telling those stories. And I simply did not have the time to tell those stories while accruing all my valuable industry experience. I have stepped out at the bottom hoping at some point to step back in closer to the top.

My goal is to land a 40-hour work week making enough money to pay the bills writing during in the other 35 hours I gain by leaving the industry. It’s going to be tough. A temporary agency at which I’d scheduled an appointment this morning called me to cancel the appointment. They told me my “expectations for work were too high” given my resume.

Of course, the dream doesn’t live at the temp agency. It lives in me. I just need someone to pay me while I live it.

Movie City Blues, Part I: The Dream Deferred

“How are you doing today?”
“Living the dream, man, living the dream.”

It’s a pretty common exchange on most sets. Depending on inflection, it’s either a hopelessly ironic dismissal or a sincere appreciation of life in the most fabulous business on earth. Despite the misery of any given shoot day, it’s impossible to refute the fact that making movies is pretty damn cool industry to be in. I was halfway through my 3rd hour of locking up a pretty desolate parking garage in Culver City when I realized I was not, in fact, living the dream.

Here's where the dream began: some time around my birthday in 1992, I saw David Cronenberg's Naked Lunch. I had been a fan of movies prior to this point, but after seeing that film, I was a true believer. Do not ask me to defend, explain, or justify why this movie was the one that convinced me to go into the pictures (because, as Bart Simpson acutely noted, there are two things wrong with that title). Just accept it as one of those unnatural miracles like Rob Schneider's career or Cheesus. I was hooked. So, naturally, for the next 5 years, I did nothing to follow the dream, besides watch a copious number of films both big and small.

In 1997, I babystepped toward the dream. I enrolled in the Media Arts program at the University of Arizona. Let me tell you this about school: studying the dream is not following the dream. And only taking 1 course out of 50 or so that actually puts a camera in your hands is definitely not following the dream. So, let's say the dream is deferred for another 4 years. (Those 4 years weren't a complete waste of time, but suffice to say the only "vision" I realized in that time was a dubious and illegal feature-length adaptation of a science fiction bestseller and an even more dubious original horror film, neither of which I had a lot of creative input into. Like binge drinking and anonymous sex, both are fun yet woefully unfulfilling.)

I finally got a degree in 2001. Lest you think I was a good doobie and hung that "Mission Accomplished" banner on schedule, know that there were several false collegiate starts prior this go-round of academia, and if I had simply done what I was supposed to do, I could have been in and out of the U of A in less than 3 years. I am nobody's academic role model.

Next up, another furtive and misguided step toward the dream, right? Well, no. I spent the next 2 years awash in cheap wages and cheaper booze in Tucson. I had a job that afforded me just enough to pay rent and bask in the smoky comfort of any of the 15 bars I lived within walking distance of. Fuckin' sweet, dude. Not a total waste of time: I shared a wall of my duplex with a writerly type, from whom by osmosis I learned some of the discipline of what it takes to be an actual writer (not that I actually applied it. That would have been following the dream.) Also, in addition to the relationships of the typical barroom disaster variety that accumulate when one spends that much time in taverns, I managed to find a woman who not only has shared a bed with me for the last 6 years, but actually loves me, too. Not a bad haul.

It was my good fortune to get laid off in the summer of 2003. I was working at a nightclub as a sort of assistant manager/office bitch, and the Tucson leisure economy being the fickle beast it is in the hotter months, I was a cost that had to be cut. One phone call to my sister in LA was all it took to get me out of Tucson after that. I packed everything that would fit into my 1980 BMW 320i, sold the rest, and headed to Los Angeles with gas money and a dream.

Once I got to Los Angeles, I would learn the very difficult difference between living the dream and being a part of someone else's.

To be continued...