A glimpse into one actor/writer's life in La-La Land. Part lampoon, part harpoon, all good.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006


I know many folks are talking about the eminent premiere of this latest novel-to-movie; but I want to talk about me - dammit. For the last thirty days I have lived like a monk. Not that that is necessarily so bad; afterall, I did just shave my head and, to tell the truth, I always thought I looked great in saffron. But I spent the last month sans television, sans music, and (nearly) sans clothes. I have been recycling the same single pair of jeans, two pairs of shorts, and three t-shirts; I have eaten enough bad take-out to make the sequel to Supersize Me; and I haven't had access to any of my books or porn tapes. Can you blame me if I'm feeling a bit like Nic Cage in Leaving Las Vegas?

The reason for this sensory deprivation? Because my moving company - spoiler alert: STERLING VAN LINES, "America's small move specialist" - was two weeks late. TWO WEEKS!!! I had fully expected a brief stint into the hallowed halls of simplicity, zen, and doing without. Of finding the abundance in daily life. But a month??? This was more than old Jackie boy endured in One Flew Over The Cukoo's Nest; this could have broken down the love-child of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone, brought him (or her) right to his knees. I phoned STERLING VAN LINES to complain (and to try to get a nice discount) and ended up with a brain enuerysm. The secretary, we'll call her "Sandy" - because her name IS Sandy - evaded every question, refused to provide explanations, and even lied to me. All with a smile and a heaping dollop of sweet southern hospitality. Moving on to upper management, I spoke with, let's call him "Jay," who behaved in pretty much the same shameful manner. Well, almost the same; he also sprinkled in a few choice curse words, threats of holding of my precious belongings hostage, and hung on up me when I told him I was recording the conversation. (I wasn't; but I was trying to play "hard-ball." I should have known better; I can't even play hand-ball.)

After thirteen hours in the psychiatric emergency room (no I wasn't throwing a hissy or shooting my very own version of Girl, Interrupted - I was working; I promise) I arrived home to the arrival of the delivery truck. Despite being dog-ass tired, I was tickled pink. I wanted to pee right there; and I would have, except that I was too dehyrated from drinking coffee and chasing violent sociopaths around the hospital. So the men are trying to squeeze all of the big boxes into my tiny studio and I'm in their way crying like Whoopi in The Color Purple and hugging my television. I have never been so happy, except maybe for the time I met Belinda Carlisle backstage.

So, I have not become a monk, nor a nudist; I thankfully now have two closets full of clothes to choose from every day. But what of this euphoria I experienced at having my things? They are, afterall, just things; right? Why did they make me so happy? And is that even happiness? To be honest, I'm not quite sure. I think it might have more to do with addiction and emptiness and the misappropriation of meaning. Pretty heavy stuff, none of which I've lifted to the light yet. But I'm glad I"m struggling with the questions themselves. Not a bad place to be. (Neither is L.A. - so far...) So for now, I'm just going to shelve the questions (along with the thesaurus, Oxford dictionary, and porn tapes) and then go and hug my coffee pot.


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