HOLLYWOOD CHILLS

KISS MY A$$, DONALD TRUMP!

2007-01-13T06:18:00.001-08:00

There are many phrases in the American lexicon that people just don't want to hear. Words that to even etymologists and bibliophiles are metaphorical nails on a chalkboard. Words that one cringes at even the slightest hint of hearing, kind of like how I feel about listening to Celine Deon. Among these unpleasant idioms, I would suspect, are: Dear John; Yes, you look fat in those jeans; and, Contratulations, Mr. & Mrs. So-N-So, it's a boy...I think. Top on my list, right behind, I'm sorry, Naveen Andrews won't take your call, would have to be, Mr. Spielberg won't see you now. This was until recently. On January fourth I heard two words, two little words, that's all they were - but they changed my life. Forever. (If only I had the movie trailer guy, Don LaFontaine, record the blogs-on-tape version of The Chill; that woulda been cool there.) Alas, of what terrible words do I speak? "You're Fired."

I was so stunned, I couldn't believe them at first. I think I actually said, to my boss no less, "What'choo talkin'bout, Willis?" Swear to God. I thought it might be a joke. Or a test. Or anything but really loosing my job. Slowly, though, reality set in, kind of the way food poisoning does: at first you think you're getting nauseous; next, you feel warm and begin to sweat; then you know you're gonna hurl and you run for the nearest bathroom. Luckily, I maintained not only my lunch, but my composure and I was able to discover the reason I was being disabused of having to wake up at five a.m. every day. Apparenlty, the hospital really needs me and really likes me; in fact, they both need and like me so much that administration said to me - me, who works contracturally with them - that I could either do another 13-week contract "or none at all." I had previously gotten permission to take time off for Pilot Season. Though they agreed to my terms before the Hellidays, they quickly changed their tiny brains afterwards. Make sense? Of course not; they're hospital administrators. Want to find a more idiotic group of people than, say, vegetables? Then look no further than the suits that run most hospitals in the country and, I suspect, the world. I've honestly never worked for a more fucked up system.

So, given that slightly strong opinion, I should be happy, right? But after that bombshell dropped, I kind of went into a panic. The way women kind of go into labor. I thought, "Oh, God; I used to help the homeless and now I"m going to be homeless!" I have this tendency to exaggerate things sometimes; you may have noticed. But I really did begin a freak-out worthy of "Desperate Housewives" or some Spanish telenovella. And then, just like when the Grinch's heart grew three sizes, the stress somehow caused my brain to grow. Okay, maybe not grow; but I had a new perspective, an epiphany, if you will. Why else was I in Los Angeles, if not to act and to write? So why should I panic about being given the opportunity to do so full-time for two months? Well, my first answer is, because I have this horrible habit of procrastinating which, by the way, I've nearly perfected. And my second answer is, of course, because it takes MONEY to buy things like shelter and food. But then, as the calm truly set in, I remembered that I saved a little bundle for just this type of situation. I did some quick calcuations and realized I had enough to live for two months without working. Oh, God. I could do it. But should I do it? Would it be responsible of me?

And then I thought about Donald Trump. What would Donald do, I wondered? Even though I still envision his orifice-like mouth on the face of my boss every time imagine the infamous words, "You're fired!" I had to think that Donald would take the risk. He would do it. Not for art or for a dream, of course; but he'd still do it. So my answer now was clear: there was absolutely no other reason for my being here in Hollywood except to write and to act. (Except, okay, maybe to meet Brad and Angelina. Or Kyra Sedgwick. Or Seal.) So, folks, I've joined the ranks of theunemployed (which I prefer to think of as "self-employed") for a while. I've already started taking classes, submitting my headshots, and have met with two casting directors (inlcuding one for the new uber-secret project of the uber-King of reality TV in which I was aksed to tell about one time when I took a big risk; ironic, huh? Well, I actually didn't tell them this story. Instead, I told them how in order to audition for "Law & Order" I had actually left patients waiting in the clinic, kissed the doctor for covering me, and ran to the studios at Chelsea Piers in New York. I arrived sweaty and paranoid I'd be fired. And I got the part. True story.)

SH*T HAPPENS

2006-12-07T11:42:00.000-08:00

The expression makes for a great bumpersticker (if you're into that sort of quasi-decorative expression), but it's no way to live. Granted, we are mammals with alimentary canals and all, and we've gotta do the daily doo; but I'm talking about diarrhea here. Yes, I said it. "Diarrhea." And vomit; I said that, too. It's no joking matter; and, let me tell you, actually having them is nothing to sniff at.

After spending Thanksgiving with my upstair's neighbor in the hood, literally in the hood (Century Boulevard, for you Angelinos) I returned to work with a full belly. (And a new gratitude for the simple things, like not having to dodge bullets on the way to my car and not having been a foster child.) That night, I slept soundly in my lovely new bed; that is, until I awoke at 3am. At first I thought it was because of the helicopter lights blazing outside my bedroom window - another bizarre reality of living in Los Angeles. I thought to myself, "Hmmm, a manhunt. I hope it's nothing serious," and rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. But I quickly realized that I was nauseous. I bolted out of bed and had just enough time to sprint into the bathroom. You know what happened next. It was a two-way flood of disgust, if you can follow the imagery. I felt like Regan from The Exorcist (or how actress Linda Blair felt when she realized that her career was over, poblecita). Actually, at one point, I'm sure I even looked like her, too - pea soup and all. I didn't know things like that could come out of a human body. And I'm a nurse!

At first I thought I had food poisoining and I vowed to go on a rampage like Dirty Harry or Rambo, exacting my revenge from the dirty non-handwashers. (A dirty mind is great. Really, it's a terrible thing to waste; but dirty hands are absolutely unforgivable.) Alas, the suspected poor hygiene of my holiday hosts was not to blame, though; the real culprit appears to have been a severe stomach flu, a particluarly virulent strain that has been reaking intestinal havoc on the West Coast for a few weeks now. It had me, as they say, sick as a dog.

Confession: I didn't think I would ever find myself writing about bodily functions. It's not the sort of thing one dreams of doing when one grows up; and they don't exactly hand out Pulitzers for that sort of thing. But, nobody likes to be sick, and everybody certainly likes bitching about it when they are; so, who am I to buck tradition? And was I ever sick. Just like my college days, I was praying to the porcelain god. Really, I pleaded for mercy, I begged for relief and I made totally unrealistic promises that I had no intention of keeping, like, "I'll be nice to stupid people," and, "I'll vote Repubican...Just make it go away...Take me to the safe place! Take me to the safe place!!!...Mommy?" Oh, sorry; I was caught in a flashback there...

Seriously, I felt like one of the hapless victims from the Alien franchise (which, by the way, would have done very well to have stopped at being a trilogy) and I begged for death: "Kill Me." At that point, I began to call friends all across the country, one by one, to say my final, sad farewells. They, of course, all thought I was crazy. And maybe I was just a little psychotic, from the dehydration and all. But, really, I felt so bad that I honestly thought I was going to die. I began to make out my will and then I swear I even saw The Light. It took a minute until I realized that it was just the helicopter passing over again and not the express train to heaven. Whew. Then, I slept for two days and woke to find I had lost another 5 pounds (on top of the other 5 I had legitimately worked off). Not bad. I thought, "Maybe I could be anorexic, afterall." But I love to eat too much to be anorexic; and I think we all know how I feel about throwing up now, so bulemia is obviously way out. Anyway, the hunger set in right away so I headed straight for the kitchen. And now, all is well, both in the streets of L.A. and in the miles of my intestines.

STUFF IT, STUFF IT GOOD

2006-11-23T13:18:00.000-08:00

Ah, Devo. I still remember hearing them for the first time, noting my family's somewhat frightened expression as I tried my hand at "dancing" for the first time. Whatever happened to those boys, anyway?

Speaking of stuffing, today is the day that we get to stuff blessedly compliant turkeys with dressing, our bellies with good food, and our ears with cotton (when spending a prolonged time with family, this can be helpful). I actually really miss my family and almost flew home to be with them in Florida. However the $800 airfare quickly snuffed that burning desire. I woke up today not particularly happy or sad. I had secretly wondered if I would get emotional or something, me being in a new city with no plans and this being the first major holiday after my Mom's death. But I was okay. And then I got better, strangely because of my upstairs neighbor; he invited me to Thanksgiving dinner at his apartment and I gratefully accepted. (His name is Terry and he's a six foot-five man who's oddly feminine, sort of a cross between Tina Turner and Michael Jordan. We met when I had to tactfully complain because he leaves his radio blaring hip-hop all through the night and I just so happen to have to wake up at five am for something called a job. I thought, Oh, God, another freak in my building; I'm never going to sleep, much less survive. But he has turned out to be a very sweet friend.) So I just spent my morning getting a fresh buzz-cut and hitting the mad rush to the grocery store. (It's just amazing to me how many people can forget - or delay - their shopping. The place was a mad-house; for a minute I thought I was at one of those freaky evangelical "revivals.")

And - as American commercialism usually does - all this hoopla really got me to thinking: what am I grateful for? I guess I should say first and foremost that I am thankful my forebears came to this country and slaughtered all those pesky natives. (I could mention the subsequent enslavement of yet another race of individuals; but I'll save that for another holiday. Maybe Kwanza.) So, what follows is a stream of semi-conscious thoughts about things for which I am thankful, some silly, some serious:

~ My family (the good, the bad and the ugly - mostly good, though)
~ moisturizer and anti-aging cream
~ not having "white-boy's disease"
~ not having a host of other pathological illnesses, as well (a good read of Richard Preston's, "The Hot Zone" or any basic medical school text book will give you a rough idea here)
~ My new, and growing, group of friends in Los Angeles
~ My "old" friends, whom I treasure
~ American Freedom; oh, God, I know Bushie Boy uses this one a lot, but it's true; at least here I can make fun of him to my little heart's content (and oh-so-many others, like Rumsfeld, Rove, Condoleeza, etc, etc, ad nauseum)
~gravity - it is, after all, what keeps our atmosphere intact and prevents us from flying off into space; although, on the other hand, it's also the nasty phenomenon that's mostly responsible for wrinkles and the sagging of old age...
~ for my existence; according to over a quarter of the world's population, I could have been born a cockroach - or a maybe a fruit fly
~ and, for the very attitude of gratefulness itself; it just feels better to be aware of how rich I am (even if I am just a poor, struggling artist in a pressure cooker of other poor, struggling artists)

There's more, of course. But that's a good start. Now, I'm going to get ready to stuff myself silly. Happy Thanksgiving, Dear Reader. Oh, and just one question: what are you grateful for?

NEEDLE SHARING

2006-11-12T10:05:00.000-08:00

True Romance - not a great movie - but what a wonderful, intoxicating subject. We're all in love with being in love. And I'm no different. Of all the loves in my life, though, the singular most comforting (and simultaneously dangerous) affair has, by far, been the decades-long one I've had with cigarettes. Like so many romances, it burned hot and was (literally) addictive; it had its ups and downs, its humps and bumps; and, like 55 per cent of American marraiges, it has finally come to an end. I tried to deny it, that it was over; I tried to ignore the problems we were having. But I had to face the truth: we were, as they say, bad for each other. And I knew that we had to part ways. Like Bogart (who, in real life, was a gay chain-smoker) in Cassablanca, I knew that the time had come to say goodbye.

But how to do it? How to finally call it quits? I thought of scientology; I am, after all, right down the street from their "Celebrity Center." And, look at the sucess folks like John Travolta and Tom Cruise have had with their Amway-styled religion. I also thought maybe I'd go for a cleansing, like maybe a deep colonic. But then I thought, hey if John Wayne could have ten pounds of undigested beef in his intestines (as rumor says) then hell, so could I. (Besides, I couldn't imagine sitting in some freezing office, half naked, with my legs up in stirrups. (If my legs are going ever going to be in stirrups, then Tyson Beckford is gonna be in the room, damn it.)

And then I remembered hearing that acupuncture was good for all addictions, and I thought I'd give that modality a go. I was desperate, afterall, for help in putting an end to my fatal attraction. I did a search for possible centers in Los Angeles and found literally dozens, all right in my neighborhood. But when I tried to make an appointment, the people that answered could only scream at me in Korean. So, I continued looking until I found a lovely white girl. Sounds awful, but I really wanted someone who possesed the education, but with whom I could also relate. And I found her, Heather Lounsbury at "Breathe Balance. She looked like a sweetheart and the website had pretty colors. Okay, not very scientific, but I went with it. I made an appointment and then planned to quit smoking on the day of my first treatment.

And then I got scared. Really scared. Like Sigourney and that bad-breathed alien. But hell, if she could face her demons, then so could I. Right? So on my quit day, I got in my (now battered) little car and headed for the beaches of Santa Monica. All the way there, images of me turning into some 60's hippy dropping acid flooded my mind. I also imagined showing up at the office, ringing a pleasant bell and hearing some monk ring a gong, only to find that gentle Heather was really the guy from Hellraiser.

But there were no monsters, and no granola freaks ready to induct me into their hellish, uber-healthy cult. Instead, I was met by Heather who was, indeed, sweet, just like her picture. She was also gentle, kind and very intelligent. She explained the basic principles of Chinese medicine to me, with emphasis on the fact they were designed with the intention of helping the body heal itself. Being a psychiatric practitioner, I liked that idea. She was helping me to help myself. Then she helped me lie back, offered the warmth of a heat lamp, and started to insert those infamous needles. To my surprise, they didn't hurt. In fact, I didn't feel a thing. Until, that is, she touched on the areas of the body known to deal with pain and grief. I felt those; but even then, it was just a brief prick, a touch of electricity and pain. No big deal. No drilling, no abuses, like the torture poor Dustin received in Marathon Man.

And now, I'm, proud to say, that I'm cigarette free; I did it - I quit. It's been six and half days now (my last smoke was actually on election night, watching as the Republicans got, as Bush said, "a thumping") and I'm doing pretty good. My head hasn't turned 360 degrees, I haven't broken down crying at work (like the last time) and I haven't killed anyone.

I haven't even been bitchy, which is really saying something; trust me.

MAKE A WISH

2006-11-06T06:01:00.000-08:00

Don't you just love how some people always mention their birthdays beforehand? They'll go to great lengths to insert news of their upcoming special day in any and all conversations. Even ones that have absolutely nothing to do with birth, days, or birthdays, like, " Oh, yeah that's a fabulous red feather boa. I have one, too, and I'm going to wear it on my birthday...my birthday, which is next Monday. My birthday, that is." Or, "Yeah, the war in Iraq sucks; and my birthday..." You get it. Which brings me to the fact that it is, indeed, my birthday. (I can't believe I'm writing about it; I swore once I moved to Los Angeles I'd never celebrate another birthday again; any and all acknowledgement - and proof - of the fact that I am, like all other human beings, actually aging would not only be ignored but actively destroyed. Oh, well; go figure. I have good moisturizer; so what's there to hide?)

So, if you're any good at mental calculations - or getting laid in a sleazy, dive bar - you've no doubt realized by now that I am a Scorpio. Hey, why did you just get quiet? Ah, because you, like so many, have only heard the bad things about us Scorpios. Really now, why is it that when people discover a friend or co-worker is a Scorpio they look at him like Michael Meyers is standing there in an Austin Powers costume with his thingy hanging out. "Yeah, baby; a Scorpio, baby. Baby, baby...baby." It's either that, or the "Damien Omen-Holy Shit, He's Going To Kill Me" look. What have we Scorpios done, really, to deserve this bad reputation? Afterall, Johnny Carson was a Scorpio for Christ's sake. How much more apple pie and baseball can you get? By the way, Jonas Salk (he invented a friggin vaccine - hello?!), Walter Cronkite, and Carl Sagan were also all Scorpios. So are Kate Jackson (my favorirte Angel), Whoopi Goldberg and Jody Foster. Who couldn't look at that group and fall in love? Never you mind that Grace Jones, Larry Flint and Bo Derek are, too.

So, you might also be asking yourself, "What does Langdon want for his birthday?" Well, today I just bought myself a new printer. Not really a present; I had to. You see, I needed to print out our new script (ironically titled, Wish List) that we are polishing and my HP (which stands for Hellish Pieceofshit) totally went on the fritz. I was so angry; I hate when things break or don't work. I punched it, ripped its lid off, and almost threw it out the window. Just like Russell Crowe's character in A Beautiful Mind. And tomorrow I'm planning on buidling a great big bonfire and setting it right on top. So, you see, I had to buy a new printer today. But, what would I wish for, if I could? Okay, here goes, my top ten birthday wishes:

10) World Peace (Really; but for now, I'll settle for one of those granola bumperstickers that says, "Whirrled Peas.")

9) An election day slam tomororw - with the Democrats taking back both houses of Congress (and, maybe too, with George W. Bush taking a giant, involuntary dumpie on himself).

8) Well, since I went and got all political, how about finally getting the impeachment of President Bush? And criminal charges against him, Carl Rove, and that lady with a name that sounds like a veneral disease?

7) Dinner with Carol Burnett, one of my long-time comedy idols.

6) Oh, we just did seven; speaking of that number, how about seven minutes alone in a closet with Terrance Howard.

5) Great. I had to go and mention sex. (Well, don't blame me; blame the Zodiac.) So, how about an insurance salesman (or friendly neighbor) that looked like like Dennis Haysbert from those Allstate commericals and "24." (He has a new show - finally he's the lead; duh, Hollywood - called, "The Unit," but I just can't bring myself to watch it. Partly because of the content - or lack thereof - and partly because the title makes me laugh like a juvenile. "The Unit," ha ha.) I'd just love him to say to me, up close and personal, "Are you in good hands?"

4) Actually, I don't need an insurance agent. What I really need is a damned Talent Agent. And a literay agent.

3) In lieu of that, how about the personal Rolodex of Steven Speilberg, then? Or Oprah? (Naw; Madonna's is probably far more interesting...)

2) This is a toss-up. I'd have to go with either the name and address of Dick Clark's surgeon. Or, access to the secret formula for the ultimate anti-aging moisturizer.

And, finally, number one...[insert nifty grafics here]

1) Okay, you're going to kill me; but this one has to stay a secret. I'm superstitious that way. But you can have fun guessing.

So, if it was your birthday, or if you had a little magic Genie: what would you wish for?

WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE...

2006-10-30T22:57:00.000-08:00

I have a friggin' closet full of clothes, and still I find myself almost daily standing in front of it unable to pick out an outfit. Hell, I actually have two closets full of clothes, and I have difficulty finding anything I want to wear. I've stood there, utterly baffled and simultaneously disgusted; I've actually yelled, "I have nothing to wear!" And that's just not true. I have two closets, a dresser, and a bookshelf (yes, a bookshelf) full of clothes. And yet, I seem to hate everything I own. Getting dressed has always taken me forever, but now it's almost impossible.

And today it's even worse because what I really need just isn't in the closet. You see, I've been invited to a Halloween party and I don't have a costume. (My friend and co-star from "Ten Lives," Michael Silva, moved to L.A. a few years ago and thoughtfully invited to me to his soiree; he thought it would be a great way for me to meet new friends.) Like Jamie Lee without a good push-up (or a weapon), I'm absolutely useless. What am I going to do? Originally I was really excited about the party. But the fact that I don't know any of these people yet changes things; it adds so much pressure. If I show up as Paris Hilton or Elmo what would that say about me? Plus, if my face is full of make-up...okay, full of more make-up, how will they know what I even look like? Oh, the pressure! I just can't take it!

Normally these issues aren't a concern at all for me at Halloween. I'll slap a pound of cover-up and a Frederick's Of Holywood teddie on anytime. No excuses, no explanations. (And not much prodding, either.) But this is like my Debutante Ball, my Coming Out into Hollywood society. It's a big deal; right? Okay, maybe not as important as the election that's 7 days away, the ultra-repugnant Foley/Page scandal, or the big tadoo last week over whether Hillary did or did not actually have a face lift. But it's imortant to me. So, just like when Jamie went out and bought herself some boobies, I decided to take myself shopping.

Now, tell me, where in Hollywood does one go to get a really good costume? Hmmm...I decided to head straight to Paramount Studios. Hell, I only live a few blocks away; so why not? I thought it was a great idea, but apparently the security guard didn't, even after I explained my whole debutante conflict thingy. So, I left the mightily protected walls and palms of Paramount for better (and safer) shopping. I actually headed straight to Hollywood Boulevard which, contrary to popular belief, isn't very sheik. It's full of tourist traps, dive bars, and - yes - costume shops! (It also happens to be host to the Hollywood Walk of Fame, replete with all of those lovely stars - Jamie Lee Curtis included.)

I went to Hollywood Costume which is like the Home Depot of costumes, props, and wigs. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. It was like a gay man's paradise (except Terrence Howard and Seal weren't there; neither, to my surprise, was Harvey Fierstein). So I ran up the aisles like George W. Bush looking for his conscience. Only I was having a lot more fun. If only they had dressing rooms; but they didn't. You had to buy on the spot; and no returns either, so make sure you're sure. I meandered, wandered, and coveted for what seems like hours. (Wait a minute. I was in there for hours! I realized this when I got back to my car and had a friggin' parking ticket. Shit. That's my fifth one since I moved here.) But at least I did I finally find the perfect costume. Nothing with make-up; nothing too freaky; nothing that will make me look fat. I decided to go as an Angel with Priority Problems - he can't decide if he wants to be good or bad. (Something I can actually relate to, so I won't have to ask: What's my motivation?) I bought these great Barbarella wings, along with horns and a tail. I'm going to wear them with white semi-see-through pants and a tank top, with just a touch of glitter. It's not going to get me an Emmy; but it did satisfy the bizarre technical requirements I had this year; and it's going to get me into the party. Which is a good thing.

LIVE FROM LOS ANGELES!

2006-10-21T11:25:00.000-07:00

For the last ten years or so, Los Angeles has been the nexus of all television and film work. Of course, right when I get here, New York mayor Michael Bloomberg does some fancy wheeling and dealing and WHAM - LA loses 30 per cent of its share. Making me feel just a tad like the girl who wants to be fashionably late and arrives to the party well after the caterers have cleaned and the Prince has found the shoe. No worries, though. Kevin Costner already taught me, "Build it, and they will come." (And, don't take yourself so seriously; and, don't screw the natives.) So, on I press. And, like the theme song from Alice says: There's a new girl in town. So I've busted my butt to help promote myself out here in Hollywood. While the internet is the world's largest repository of porn, surprisingly, it is also used for other things, like: spam mail, scam mail, and sending stupid forwards that just aren't funny. So, In lieu of actually hiring a real pimp to beat the crap out of agents and casting directors for them, many actors are using the web to help pimp themselves. Like Carson from Queer Eye, I took notice of the trend and have been working with a web designer to help get a site up on the internet.

And thank God for him, because I know about as much about HTML as George W. Bush knows about English. This internet professional, we'll call him WebGuru, really deserves a medal. Working with a client that has attention-deficit disorder just isn't that easy; you know? I would send him e-mails with great ideas and then the next day send him another tome completely negating everything I had said before. I'd also start brain-storming and shoot off these ambitious ideas to him that would take a team of CGI animators a year to complete - like, how about creating a cartoon opening of me like "I Dream of Genie" or "Bewitched." Or how about having the Philadelphia Harmonic Orchestra do our music? WebGuru was always patient and very focused; he would always acknowledge my ideas, present the practical challenges and then devise a wonderful, creative alternative. He would also shamelessly flirt, which I'm sure helped to appease me. He's a devout heterosexual; but he's also secure enough to play the game with me. Which was always fun. Here's an example of a typical exhange between us as we worked to build the site:

WEBGURU: Hey, Cupcake. Boy you sure looked delicious in the photos you sent.
LANGDON: Thanks STUD muffin. Hey, LOVE what you did with the opening animation. But, do you think you could actually sync it up with the music? ~ big wet kisses and a few hip thrusts
WEBGURU:Everything's done; I love your site - its as pretty as I imagine your sweet california tanned ass to be
LANGDON: Thanks SO much for everything. Let me know when your wife is out of town and I'll make the final payment.

Pretty silly stuff. But it helped to defuse the tension of building a website cross-country. And now, thanks to many months of hard work (and sweet nothings) by the WebGuru, the web site is complete. Making this post the offical launch of langdonbosarge.com. So silly, so narcissistic; but so necessary in the marketing side of Hollywood. There are photos and a few clips, though more will come. It's so hard to even get footage sometimes, as independent directors often disappear without providing the promised video tape; and, much of the work is often so unbelievably bad that even an actor's own mother would cringe. Hopefully, the casting directors and agents out here won't cringe, and neither will you.

FLABOPHOBIA

2006-10-16T12:31:00.000-07:00

I have severe adipophobia (from the medical term for fat - adipose). And, quite unfortunately, I seem to have somehow actually gotten it - fat, that is. Okay, to be fair, I know that most people look at me and think, "You're not fat, you crazy person." But in the last year I have grown exponentially. And while I don't mind the attention my newly acquired J-Lo backside seems to bring, I do have a problem with the fact the my waist size is rapidly approaching my age. Seriously, it's so bad that I don't even have to shop for Thanksgiving; I'm just going to hack a ham off of my back. (How convenient.) What's worse, my friends and family seem to love it. "You look great," so many of them recently said when I travelled back East. I appreciate their support and their opinions; but they don't understand the pressures of being gay, being in Hollywood, and being gay in Hollywood. It's really a whole different world out here. Bodies and eye candy abound. And if you're not eye candy, you're basically invisible. (Unless, of course, you're Dennis Franz. God bless him and his big bollocks for doing that historic shower scene. When I did my first - and only - nude scence, I was at the damned gym every day before I got my but on that stage.)

Which brings me to the point: I haven't actually been to the gym in a year. Between my mother's illness, my crazy ex-boyfriend, and rehearsals and writing in New York, I just kind of quit. Okay, that's admittedly a really lame excuse. I just procrastinated. I put it off. I made working out this huge difficult thing. Like balancing my checkbook, paying taxes, or listening to George W. Bush speak. And before you know it, it rolled out of control like some giant shitball from hell. So this week, after indulging hedonistically on my two week vacation, I decided to get my (growing) ass back to the gym. My friend Quincy had left what is quite possibly the cruelest message that I have ever received. He was just giving me a "helpful reminder" that I was in Hollywood now and that if I wanted to be successful...you can imageine the rest. It was actually totally good natured and I called him right back; together we had a good laugh and then I pulled up some athletic pants, put on my pumas and plopped into my car.

The decision, actually, was easy. It was the getting there that was difficult. Just the idea of going to a gym in Hollywood put me into a panic. I imagined myself bounding onto a tread mill right next to Christina Richie and immediately felt the need for an inhaler, like one of the Tri-Lams from Revenge Of The Nerds. As I drove, I thought, "How much can I throw up before I get there?" But, alas, there were no suitable containers in the car. So, I lit a cigarette instead and pointed the Jetta right toward the Hollywood sign. Crap - as if Quincy's call wasn't enough of a reminder of what I was up against, the dreaded sign was like a biblical prophesy. It was just sitting up there, all white and pretty; I could hear it taunting me, "Langdon, you big, fattie...come on, come on." So to drown out the voices, I had a second cigarette and turned the radio on. Thank God for Joan Jett. I hollered the whole way up Van Ness, "singing" along with her.

So I get there, park the car and get stopped on the way in for an autograph. The fan obviously thought I was Oprah Winfrey and I didn't want to disappoint her, so I signed a parking ticket I recently received. (Maybe she'd pay it, too, I thought.) It's easy to see how the mistaken identity occurred: afterall, I am a beautiful black woman; I was sweating like a pig and hyperventilating; and, when I hit the doors of the gym, my knees nearly buckled. Just like the real Oprah this past week at an important ribbon cutting ceremony in Mississippi. (Sorry. Despite multiple searches of every celebrity gossip website, I couldn't find a single delicious picture. Oprah's attorneys must have been on that one like Kate Moss on a plate-full of coke.) But on the flip side, if you, Dear Reader, can find and send one to me, I'll give you a dollar.)

With great trepidation (and gastronomic distress) I entered the gym and was happily surprised to find it filled with normal people! Sure, there were some model-types and gorgeous hotties; but there were also a significant number of average Joes (and Joannes). Regular folks with regular bodies. There were even a number of elderly men and women doing their doctor-prescribed daily tonics. This gave me great relief and I actually did a full work out. I did a nice cardio on the bike for thirty minutes and then hit the weights. I don't know if it was the effects of dehydration and starvation, or the wonderful release of endorphins; but, when I finished, I felt fantastic. I had finally done it, I had faced my fears - and my flabdomen. I really did feel absolutely fabulous, just like Ugly Betty did this week after her ghetto make-over. Now, I just hope that America Ferrera (who's a wonderful actress - and not at all ugly), "Ugly Betty" (her fantastic hit - and my pick for best new show) and myself can all keep it up.

SMOKING AFTER SEX

2006-10-10T18:00:00.000-07:00

You know the old joke:

Do you smoke after sex?
I don't know...I never looked.

Well, I can tell you that I have smoked after sex. Before sex. And, yes, even during sex; but, I'll spare you the details. The point is - and I hate even saying it - but I love smoking. There's nothing - nothing, I tell you - like that first morning cigarette. I wake up, put on the coffee, and while it brews I do my "mini-Yoga" session. Very heathly; right? And as soon as I'm done I head to the balcony (read: fire escape) with mug in one hand, cigarette in the other, and lighter at the ready. Remember that old cartoon with the old classical musical score playing as morning was breaking in the forest? That's the feeling. Ah! (By the way, if you can tell me the name, I'll send you a pickle; despite multiple searches, I couldn't find it. It seems my "Some-timer's Disease" has wiped my memory yet again. Either that, or the smoke is clouding my brain.)

For most smokers, a pack of cigarettes is like a best friend. It's always there for you. It makes you feel better when you're down. And it tells you that you look wonderful, even when you don't. And quitting feels just like losing that friend. It's absolutely horrible. Imagine being locked in a small (poorly decorated) room with your three worst enemies; just for shits and giggles, let's say that in our example you are confined along with Condoleeza Rice and her sourpuss, George W. Bush, and Carl Rove. All naked. Brrr! A terrible chill just ran down my spine as I typed that...And you know what? That doesn't even come close to describing the sheer horror and pain of the quitting process. The last time that I quit I would actually show up at work, give out the assignments to my staff, and then lock myself in the bathroom to cry. Whitney didn't have a thing compared to me; I was a wreck, I tell you.

And now it seems that the time may well be upon me to quit again. You see, Californians have the disgusting habit of being exceptionally healthy. They hike, bike, work out, and eat algae. And they don't smoke. At least, 83% of them don't. Maybe the Universe is trying to tell me something. Or Mother Nature. If not her, certainly the cute boy I saw out and about the town Friday night was trying to tell me something. He was clearly flirting as I stood outside with my friends. And when I lit up a cigarette, he rolled his eyes. He rolled his eyes! That is the gay kiss of death! That is like getting voted off the island, or fired by the Trumpinator. Truly, it was Heidi Klum saying, "You ah out." I even heard the dramatic drum beat. (Which is eerily similar to the one they use on "Lost.") That was it. Final. I was dismissed.

Now, as if that wasn't enough motivation, there is always the terrible medical reality that they just aren't good for you. I'm sure you already know this, but cigarettes have been linked with a terrible disease. The sort of thing people only whisper at dinner tables. You know, wrinkles. Now, that should give me some extra umph to quit; right?

HOME-A-PHOBIA

2006-10-03T13:36:00.000-07:00

I left home at age 16 to go to college and haven't returned except, of course, for family visits. I used to go home all the time when I attended the University of Florida; you know, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Laundry Day. I would time my visits to coincide with the last pair of clean underwear. And, of course, with my funds; when the ATM told me that I had just enough to pay the road tolls, I headed home. (In and between my parents still had to bail me out of financial quicksand more times than Elizabeth Taylor got married.) They were great. The food was, too; both of them were from the true South and, so, from cornbread, greens, and Shrimp Gumbo to Beef Wellington and Steak Au Puave, they really cooked their asses off. And yet, for years, I seemed to dread so many of the family visits. I used to time it and limit my visits to three days. "Small doses," I'd tell my friends. I knew I'd be okay on day one. By day two, my eye would start twitching; and by day three, I was feeling homicidal. I knew I had to leave or I'd wind up doing something that would get me 30 years in a 9 by 9 with a large and very friendly roommate named Bubba, Jesus, or Jamal. So, instead of taking a trip through the judicial system, I'd promptly kiss my Mom and Pop, race to the car with my laundry basket, and hit the road - screaming to myself and anyone that would listen, "Kill Me!" like Sigourney Weaver in Alien III, all the way up the Florida Turnpike until at least Orlando.

This is not to say that my folks are bad people. Far from it. Both were humanitarians who did tremendous good for the people of Southern Florida; and they put up with me - a hyperactive, epileptic drama queen. No easy task; I assure you. My fear (tension really) about going home was not a result of not liking them. I love them very much, actually. They just happened to possess certain traits that just happened to drive me crazy - you know, like making my eye twitch. To really paint you a picture, let me admit to you that for years after seeing films like Terms Of Endearment and Home For The Holidays, I assumed I was being watched. I just knew that super-secret Hollywood agents had somehow hidden a camera or a tape recorder in my childhood home and captured our goings-on for years, decades even. Where else could they have gotten that material from? It wasn't fiction. It was my life! They knew. And they were getting rich off of my dysfunctional family. (Actually, I prefer the term "semi-functional family," because they really did so much, so well, and for so long...I finally realized this once "The Brady Bunch" was canned and no longer on the air.)

This time, going home held no trepidation for me. I was actually looking forward to my visit with my Pop, brother, and newphews and niece. (I even met my brother's new girlfriend, Felice, who I mistakenly called "Febreeze.") I changed roles, though, and found myself cooking my ass off for them. Loads of hot pasta, garlic shrimp, and expensive steaks. I even baked brownies and a cake. Oh, God! Was I turning into Martha Stewart? Or, was I just learning how to spend time with them, to give back, and to create comfortable enviornments within which to simply experience each other? I prefer the latter, especially seeing Martha's latest public appearances. (Though I did play her once in wonderful video for the comedy troupe, "Circle In The Squirrel.")

And a good time, as they say, was had by all. We ate, drank, and talked about everything under the sun. My niece gave me the latest celebrity and local gossip; my nephew told me who was cool and who was so not cool in the music world; and my Pop reviewed all of world history and regaled us with fantastic stories of his childhood, growing up in Bayou La Batre, Alabama. Who knew that being of such white trash roots could be so utterly fascinating and fun? Really.

My Pop is a trip. No other way to put it. He's brilliant and blind and walks with a lop-sided gait from arthritis for which he won't take any medicine. (The only fights we have are when he catches me crushing Alleve and trying to hide it in his food.) He was a teacher and had to retire when his eyesight finally went kapluey. But he never stopped learning, or teaching. You can ask him anything about history and he can give you the complete scoop. (I always fought to have him on my team when playing Trivial Pursuit; you just couldn't lose with him.) On this trip, he cooked his famous Slumgullion (don't ask; the ingredients might scare you, but it's totally delicious). And I took him on a "Man Date" to an old fashioned New York barber. We sat, side by side, as the barbers shaved both of our heads. It was great. I almost choked, though, when he asked his attendant (who was female) if women had the problem of pesky hair growth like men did. He was referring to the bushels he had springing from his ears. She laughed, conspiratorially said, "Yes," and proceeded to tell him about the waxing of ladies' moustaches. That's my dad: awkward, charming, and utterly adorable. If he were slicker, he could have been the politician, like my mother. Instead, he was just quiet and sort of omnipresent, like sun, wind and other natural forces.

The only seeming negative of the trip home was the constant reminder of my age. I nearly fainted when I saw my fourteen year old nephew - he towered over me at a whopping 5'11. So much for his old nickname, "Little Drew;" it, like so many of his shoes, just doesn't fit anymore. I couldn't help saying, "How could you do this to me? How could you grow up like that?" (Like it's all about me; right?) And I thought, "Hell, I used to change your diapers!" Now, he can kick my ass. But that's really a small price to pay - especially when there's Botox - for all of the warm benefits of home.

It's nice to be able to say that.

(Okay, it's nice to be able to say that and mean it.)

I HEART NEW YORK

2006-09-28T09:25:00.000-07:00

As I write this I am doing one of my favorite things in the whole world. NO! Not that; I don't have enough arms for that. I am sitting in a NYC park and smoking. Ah, the fresh air. The nitcotine. The homeless guy sitting next to me wearing a much better jacket than I. This is home. New York, to me, is the Paris of the United States. It has art, museums, theatre, cafe' au lait, and baguettes. It also happens to have bagels, lox, and the finest pizza on the planet. (There is just no good pizza in Los Angeles, I'm afraid to say.) I'm plopped under a venerable Oak in the heart of Washington Square Park, which boasts a lovely fountain and a triumphant marble arch. (Nice try, Paris.) It, and this city, is fabulous. I'm a shameless fan, which is probably why I abandoned the (literal and metaphorical) flatness of Florida and moved my ass here long ago. Oh, and the other thing about New York that I love: everyone, it seems, smokes. (I swear to you, the toddler on the other side of me just tried to bum a cigarette.)

I'm here on holiday, as they say across The Pond. I haven't had a vacation since I hiked what I lovingly refer to as The Death Trail in the Grand Canyon a decade ago; so, I know that my high opinions of New York are colored by both exhaustion and a lack of international jet-setting stamps in my passport. But I love this city; I truly do. And the people in it, which made this vacation more of a Homecoming than anything. My "family of choice," as Woody Allen or Dr. Phil would say, is here and they welcomed me with open arms. And open bottles of red wine - one of my other favorite things in the whole wide world. The wine here in New York flows, well, like wine; and for the past three days I have been partaking of it heartily. "All the better to see you with," as the Big Bad Wolf used to say. (Sorry, Grandma.)

Ah, and now, the handsome man with the dreads and the 70's throw-back headphones that has been flirting with me has just walked over to ask for a cigarette, his Cockney accent as thick as the anonymous air of romance. (Yet another reason to love both New York and cigarettes. This just wouldn't happen in Wisconsin; though, I do admire its locals' fondness of cheese.)

So, other than flirting with strangers, I have been visiting with friends and family; hob-knobbing at parties; reminding my East Coast manager that I exist; and working, of course, on scripts. I've tried checking e-mail a few times and sending material to my writing partner in Cali; but half of the time I can't get my wireless thingy to work. That's the one annoying thing about technology - sometimes it doesn't work. But, I guess that may be my fault - that I actually expect what I pay for to work as advertised. You know, unhealthy expectations and all that. Go figure. Maybe I'll just ask the handsome Brit for help connecting...

The other thing I've been doing is having sleepovers! Aren't they great? Just like being a kid again. Rather than staying at a hotel, I'm hanging out with my good-hearted girlfriends, like Patience, the fair-skinned beauty. Sitting up all night eating New York take-out (yum); watching bad premieres of the new fall television shows like "The Shark," with James Woods (which they really should have called, "The Big Piece of Warm Doodie"); peeking at the now old-news porn video of Collin Ferrel (and almost getting my eye knocked out; he should really be careful with that thing). I also ran around town during the day and caught up with buddies like Julius (whom I've known since college and could probably blackmail me should he desire); Rasheed; Tara; Kim; and the infamous Mr. Big. We're working on a friendship and it's truly great. (The kissing, while for some a potentially confusing element of frienship, was like icing and sprinkles on top.)

Speaking of sprinkles, driving from JFK airport into the city on my first night in town, I caught a magical glimpse of the skyline. The cab rose on one of the many elevated causeways and the bejeweled towers and bridges peeked out and winked at me. When you're not from New York, that is the image you always have of the city - the skycrapers and bridges sparkling at night from either a great Brooklyn location or some helicopter shot. It reminded me of my very first night living in here, when I had moved to Brooklyn with Cass - who is now my psychic soul-sister. She had taken me up onto the roof for a proper introduction. And a ciagrette, of course. I took the steps two at a time and when the shabby door flew open I nearly cried. I was honestly choked up with emotion because what I saw before me was the exact view of New York that, as an outsider, I had always seen - a spectacular aerial shot of the glittering city. And I was there, in it. When I had this vision again in the taxi, I swear to you, I almost kissed the cabbie.

And now - as an impromptu concert begins in the park (Dixie Jazz, no less!) - I'm about to leave this city. Again. It's making me more than a little sad. But, I'll always have her, like Bogie once said about Paris. She'll always be in my heart, and - through my friends - I'll be in hers. I think that makes me one lucky dog.

SUICIDE BLONDE

2006-09-19T11:16:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm not blonde anymore, but god dammit, after this morning, I'm close to being suicidal. I'm afraid my peers at the hospital are going to have to restrain and medicate me. Why such drama? Because afer dropping off my car for a Smog Check (which I presume is to preserve the oxymoronic air quality out here in La-La Land) I happily clicked on my I-Mac to check my e-mail, only to wind up being accosted by this:

What the FUCK?! We are now celebrating our forced celibacy? While my trusty VCR might appreciate the acclaim, I assure you, I do not. What? Are my friends going to send me a card with a picture of a vibrator on it? What the hell would it say? "Happy Calluses?" Or, would it read more like a sympathy card? You know, with beautiful pictures of lillies and a bad poem declaring the virtues of solitude?

The little sidebar for this eye-piercing, soul-sucking banner included these wonderul articles: "10 Things Every Single Must Own;" "Daring Date Ideas;" and "10 Things All Single People Must Do." I know I shouldn't have, but I couldn't resist; I actually read one of them, the latter, and now I know that our country really does have a drug problem. This is the advice that author Evan Mark Katz for me:

Number One: "Travel alone." Okay, I already DO travel alone!!! (And I’m about to start drinking alone, too!)

Number Two: "Wallow in the ache of a broken heart." I swear to God, the author wrote that. What kind of crap is that? Okay, yeah, I'll have another pity party, just like Renee Zellwegger.

Three: "Spend a weekend with a married couple your age." What? So, I can feel worse?

Four: "Don't come home all night." Okay, so now he's advocating being a whore?! I’ll bet the Bush Administration just loves this one.

Five: "Stand up for a cause you care about." I am; I’m bitching about being single.

Six: "Have a real adventure...Learn to fly a plane, surf some big waves, or start your own business." Is this bitch high?!?!?!?

Seven: "Learn how to take care of yourself." Say whah??? What is he talking about? I do wash, okay?!

Eight: "Buy something hugely impractical just because you love it." I already do, and often. (Which is why I can’t afford to actually go on a date.)

Nine: "Develop a hobby." Again, I already have this - it’s called masturbating.

And, drum roll please - Number Ten: "Be completely, utterly, wholly single for at least three months."

OH, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!! I really am going to stick something in my eye again.

But, as an alternative, maybe I'll just choose to enjoy being single. Actually, I kinda already do. Besides, dating is scarier than witnessing your grandmother wash out her underwear. This way, I have time to write, don't have to worry about the toilet seat or anything, and can hang out with all my (married) friends. Hmmm; well, that's not so bad. The only real glitch here is the deeply buried fear expressed recently by a good friend in NY and by the Brenda Johnson character on "The Closer," and it goes something like this: "How did I become the old, single lady with all the cats?"

PUTTING OUT

2006-09-15T01:32:00.000-07:00

So, I was, like, totally psyched. My writing partner and I had received some good feedback on our comedy, "Snooze," and extremely favorable coverage on our thriller, "Phobic." It was like telling a woman you like her new shoes. Or that her hair looks great. I could have walked on water, or air. And then (drum roll, please) the e-mail came. It was from a professional reader who had given his evaluation of "Snooze" - and it wasn't pretty. Now, like any good Jewish son, I can handle criticism; but this critique was harsher than Project Runay's Nina Garcia on crack. Or worse: Whitney Houston off crack. He basically said that I couldn't write; that I should move from LA and live under a rock; and, that the slaughter in Darfur was entirely my fault. I felt worse than Star Jones did when Babs gave her the boot. And then I felt...well, since I obviously can't write well, I can't actually think of the appropriate words. So, like President Bush's strategic war planners, I guess I'll have to resort to using pictures:

After that reaction I did what any self-respecting artist would do: I took to the bed. I mean it; just like a fifties housewife, I laid myself down and slept for 36 hours. I only woke up to pee. And eat. And, hell did I eat - food, and more food. No matter that I've gained ten pounds this past year (and been forced to cave and finally buy medium Calvin's); I didn't care. Hell, I ate so much that I emptied the cabinets and had to eventually crawl to the refrigerator and eat raw coffee grounds with milk for dessert. Then, when that routine got old, I ordered take-out. (Not an easy task in L.A., by the way, as compared to New York where you can order both fine cuisine and a prostitute from any country in the world and have them delivered comfortably to your tiny apartment door. Not so here; you're lucky to get decent Chinese that's been over-cooked by Latinos and delivered by a boy who can't make change for a ten.)

And while my gut worked on the mass of calories I had consumed, my mind was digesting the perceived rejection. I began to ask myself: Why was in Los Angeles? To write (and to act). And: Why do I write? Because I have something to say; and, more importantly, because I enjoy it. So am I going to let one no-thank you letter cause me to quit? To cut and run, as the Neo-Cons say? Why, I say, "No, thank you," back. And with a smile.

That was it. I didn't cry, I didn't whine, and I didn't tell a soul about my pity party. With that, I realized that there was just one more (entirely logical) question before me: What would Jesus do? Just kidding; but, really: what would Madonna do? I suspect that she, like any self-respecting whore, would just keep on putting out; critics be damned. And that's exactly what I'm going to do.

BRIGHT & SHINY OBJECTS

2006-09-06T11:14:00.000-07:00

News Flash: Pluto is not a planet. Oh, and neither is Tom Cruise. Both were defrocked recently and exposed for what they really are: big balls of ice. Satellites, at best. Wow - talk about down-sizing. And, since out-sourcing always follows down-sizing in America, I cannot help but wonder which Indian (or other South Asian) will replace Tom? Perhaps an up-and-coming Bollywood star. As for Pluto, it appears there is not one, but three, candidates to take its place which are currently being debated over by the illustrious and ubiquitous "they." I have to admit that these official pronoucements were, for me, titllating reading; they captured my short attention span in much the same way a nut might for a squirrel. Or, perhaps, like a box of Ex-Lax might for Nicole Richie. (Let's face it, the girl needs to eat.)

I spend way too much time at the hospital analyzing people, so I really don't want to take a mind dive now and examine why society (myself included) is so celeb-obsessed. (Is celebrisession a word yet?) I accept it and all its shallow glory - I love bright and shiny objects. And the new lamp I just bought from Target proves it. It's awful and tacky and wonderul, being constructed of pure chrome and draped in tiers of silver, reflective polka-dots. It's practically a disco ball on my desk, minus the lights, the Bee-Gees, and John Travolta (who, by the way, was recently caught smooching another man smack-dab on the lips! Is there a connection between Scientology and closeted Hollywood actors? Am I going to be kidnapped or shot for writing that?)

I feel, therefore, it is my duty to help promote this phenomenon, to help quench your desire for dirt. Two great sites - among the throngs - come immediately to mind. The first is a new celebri-blog created by New York editor, Patience Smith, Dish Upon A Star. It's fast, furious, and very fun. (And, I've written two columns for them, ghosting as the character Brick Bronson - an anal-retentive, closeted news anchor.) The other is a purely delicious site that is more well-researched than the Nightly News, Pink Is The New Blog and more fun than a barrel full of Bushisms. So put the fizzle to the shizzle, Yo. And go enjoy.

WANTED: SWF WITH WHIP

2006-08-29T15:39:00.000-07:00

I have a problem. No, not with that! I don't need Sexaholics Anonymous. I need help with this little procrastination thing. I seem to be able to find so many things to do to avoid writing, which I've declared to the gods as the priority in my life. Instead of spending an eight-hour work day at the keyboard I find myself surfing the internet, staring blindly at the bookshelf, or offering to vacuum my neighbor's floor. And while my personal research on "The Benefits Of Afternoon Napping" is going quite well, I have inadvertantly become an expert at avoidance. With this conundrum staring me boldly in the face, I thought I'd better do something about it. And then I thought, "Maybe later." (Oh, God; I really do need help.) So then I thought: Why not get an expert in discipline? Yes, a dominatrix! Who better to help me crack the whip than some leather-bound diva with an anger problem?

Or, maybe I need an ecclesiastical approach. (Religion certainly can't hurt...can it?) Yes, that's it. I need an angel. "Send me an angel...Send me an angel, right now..." Remember that ultra-80's pop hit? Remember the parachute pants that came - and went - with it? That's precisely how I feel at this moment: first, I need someone to bitch-slap me and say, "What the fuck were you thinking?!?" and, second, to - you guessed it - send me an angel. (Right now. Right now.) For, try as I may, I can't seem to be self-disciplined. I don't have a writing schedule, as all the experts so heartily recommend. I only write when I feel the muse or the pressure of a deadline. But I know that I should be more organized and disciplined.

Wait. Maybe it's just Catholic guilt. For even with all of the ridiculous spinning and time-wasting, I have actually managed to be pretty darned productive. In the last year, for example, I did complete two screenplays with my writing partner, Michael (Phobic & Snooze); write and produce the sold-out stage production of Rough Copy in New York with my comedy partner, Kali; bury my Mom; and, move across the country. "Not to shabby," says my very own Inner Adam Sandler with a charming grin and a strum of the ukulele.

Maybe it's a juggling problem; maybe I have to many balls in the air. (True, this would the perfect spot for a lovely picture of a clown. But, as we all know, clowns are evil; and so, they have no place in The Chill.) Yes, maybe I just have unrealistic expectations. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. (See reference to Mr. Little, in "Six Degrees of Sarah Jessica.") Maybe, like Fat Bastard, I just have too much on my plate. My current menu reads something like this: Appetizer~Meditate; Salad~Stretch; Main Course~work on new screenplay with Michael while marketing first two scripts and producing "Rough Copy" for podcast with Kali; Dessert~write blog, learn Final Cut, and launch website. All while working those now infamous 13-hour shifts in the emergency room at County and trying to squeeze out a social life.

Whew - I'm worn out from just typing that list. But, this column (and my life) is not Bitchfest or Whinapalooza. Far from it, because I am actually enjoying myself. I get the shits & giggles every time I post to The Chill and surf for the approriate visual accoutrements. And when people respond? I love it. (I bow to you now, Dear Readers.) And despite the apparent inertia, things really are moving. Just the other day at a networking event at Raleigh Studios on Melrose, I met with a very bright (and personable) producer from New Line Cinema who really seemed to like "Snooze." So maybe this track really is just fine, excessive juggling and over-eating included. That's a nice thought and one that I can certainly live with. But, maybe I could still order the dominatrix. Just for kicks...

FREE BALLING

2006-08-24T19:03:00.000-07:00

There's a timeless debate among men, well, some men: to go with or without. Underwear, that is. Within this framework lies a subsequent quaffle - whitie tighties versus boxers verus boxer briefs. Aside from just having an excuse to post all of these homoererotic images on The Chill, these pictures serve as metaphor. Because I'm faced with a similar choice and I'm completely baffled. To go with, or without - health insurance. I have been free-balling it since my arrival in Los Angeles and, to be honest, I'm not quite comfortable with all of that wiggle room. What if I get sick? Or hit by a bus? I'm chanelling Edith Bunker right now, I know. But I can't help it; I can actually hear Edith's New York, high-pitched screaching in my mind: "Laaangdon! What if you get a hernia?" Oh, God; make it stop! Take me to the safe place! But I can't stop it. I mean, anything could happen. And me, without protection! (Men, have you ever tried to sit crossed-legged without the support of a lovely pair of briefs? Yeah; that's how I feel right now without the proper health coverage.)

So, clearly I've made one decision. I just can't go without any longer. That goes for both underwear and health insurance. But now comes the hard part, the real pain in the ass. Which company? Which plan? HMO or PPO? (Hell, it feels like a TKO.) But on I forge through layers of legalistic mumbo-jumbo, restrictions, and prohibitions. There's co-insurance and deductibles. What the fuck is coinsurance??? And why is there a deductible? This isn't my car; it's my friggin' body! And what about mental health services - NOT that I need any; I'm just like, you know, curious... AGH!

Oh, God - I'm turning into Lewis Black! I just spent the last two hours researching health insurance plans and now suicide is looking pretty good.

I need to do something...I think I'll feel better if I just took this pencil and shoved it in my eye.

SIX DEGREES OF SARAH JESSICA

2006-08-17T08:57:00.000-07:00

There is a well known secret (oxymoron?) that women and, not surprisingly, gay men across the globe often play a game similar to that of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. It doesn't have a name - yet - but operates under one similar, simple premise: girls and girlfriends ask each other which character from HBO's uber-hit, "Sex And The City," they are most like? (Sorry Kevin; the ubiquitious "we" do love you and your super-sensitive, gorgeous wife, Kyra; but, it is these divas of New York that take precendence in matters of such gravity.)

Of course, most women latch on to the semi-delusional idea that they most resemble Sarah Jessica Parker's, Carrie. She is the central character and the highest paid among the flock; so, who wouldn't want to be Carrie? But I have to say, unlike most under-medicated women, I feel that my muse truly is Carrie. I mean, the parallels are uncanny. We're both writers. We both smoke. And we both have multiple, overflowing closets. (In fact, I think I may even have more heels that she does.) Wait; there's more. We both have naturally chestnut colored hair yet look fabulous as blondes. She had the on-again, off-again, penultimate romance with Mr. Big. I, too, had a on-again, off-again, ridiculous affair with a man I thought to be "the one." (Needless to say, he did not come after me when I left New York. There was no sweeping climax in airport, hotel, or toll booth. So, for purposes of clarification, we'll call him Mr. Little. Or Chicken Little.)

Okay, so maybe I'm not Carrie. Well, which, then? I put the question to a few friends, colleagues, and therapists. Each had their own comparisons to draw. For some, I was more like Miranda. Apparently, the fact that I've also been a red-head and, at times, an uptight perfectionist with skin problems, made this one a no-brainer. Others thought maybe I was Charlotte. Charlotte? "Well," they said, "With your day job you often dress conservatively and professional; and, haven't you slept with a lot of doctors?" (For the record, I now wear scrubs - which, by the way, do wonders for my butt - and I have yet to date a physician.) Samantha, then? I do talk about sex a lot, and about having sex a lot. But talk is cheap and the shameful truth is that my dance card is far from full; in fact, I have the strong suspicion that Angela Lansbury has more sex than I do.

So, which woman am I? Oh, wait! I can't be any of them because - I HAVE A PENIS! (I almost forgot.) Well, in light of this new fact, I'd love to be Smith Jerrod, played by the hunka-hunka-burnin' love, Jason Lewis. Hey! Why not? We're both sometimes blondes. And, I happen to have his picture on all of my Calvin Klein underwear packages. Okay; maybe not. Well, as hard as it is to admit, I often feel that I might be most like Stanford. On the bright side of this seemingly suicide-inducing revelation, I do have the comforting fact that he is, after all, a sharp dresser. And hey, he did catch that young stud and fall in love happily ever after (through the series finale, at least).

It appears that I am, indeed, in something of a quandary. Might I then enlist the help of you, Dear Reader? Let's have a contest! We'll call it Celebritology. Yes, I quite like that. The grand prize will be an all expenses paid trip and shopping spree in either Paramis, New Jersey, or Compton (depending on your Coast). Which celebrity, then- from any medium - do I most remind you of? Let me know and we'll make a day of this. On your mark, get set, go...

THE TAO OF MaGOO

2006-08-14T11:16:00.000-07:00

The sun was barely above the hills, and I was driving along to work to go and save some lives. (I actually transfused two units of blood and platelets the other day; so no, psychiatry is not just, "Tell me about your childhood," and turning your mother into a metaphoric pinata.) I had my cup of Joe and then some kind LA drivers bleerily allowed me to cut in and make a left turn across traffic. I thought, "How sweet; who says LA drivers are..." And - WHAM! I was hit. Me and my new Jetta! My new, cute black Jetta with leather interior and sun roof! I couldn't believe it. I had just woken up. Hell, I had just bought it! Really, this car was so new I can honestly say that Madonna has had orgasms that lasted longer than it has been in my possession.

So I stopped, glared at my dazed assailant and said - of course - "What the fuck is your problem?" (Never mind that I yelled this through my rolled up window.) Before I knew it, I had leapt from my injured companion's side and into the face of this poor kid. I was so tough I wish my agent could have seen me. (Maybe he'd finally send me out to play some heterosexual parts.) In one split instant, I proved that New York was still in my blood (if not my address book). I was fuming mad but gave a valiant effort to remain composed (and a virgin to the judicial system). The young man was originally hostile but calmed down when I started snapping pictures with my cell phone and saying things like, "See these tire tracks? It proves that you saw me and couldn't stop in time." Then we did the proscribed exchange of information and were on our way. (My friend Lisa, the powerhouse prosecutor, will note that we did not wait for the police.) So, I continued on my drive, chainsmoking and trying to be Zen about my morning violation. Then, fantasty kicked in - I imagined that maybe that this seemingly negative event would lead to something good. "All things happen for a reason," you know. I imagined that the man and I would meet to discuss the details about who would pay for the repair bill and then he'd look into my eyes and say, "Langdon, you beautiful man, you must allow me to pay for dinner. And wine. And then, if you have the time, would you like to get married?"

Don't worry; reality soon came a knockin'. I realized that Fabio was really too high maintenance. And that just because I was hit, I didn't have to let it ruin my day. (The hospital would do that soon enough.) Not to mention that "I" was not hit. My car was. (I have often thought that "I" am not "me." "I" am something travelling in the vehicle that is my skin. [My well-moisturized skin.] But I'll save these deeper musings for when I finally find my Golden Pond, or Walden Forest; currently, the only Leaves of Grass I have to write about are the bags of weed I confiscate from patients in the emergency room.) So, for now, I think I'm actually contented with blindly driving forward and seeing what wonders there are to bump into...just like MaGoo.

SCARY PEOPLE

2006-08-09T11:36:00.000-07:00

"Scary Movie was, indeed, quite funny. But I'm afraid to report that the dating scene in Los Angeles is not." That was the origninal opening for this post; but the topic has changed. My harrowing (yes, I said harrowing - and in the voice of the Movie Phone guy) experiences will have to wait to be catlogued here. Becuase I've since encountered other scary people in this star trek that now take precedence. While brevity is not my forte, what follows is an attempt at providing thumbnails, snapshots, snippets of some of the less than glowing persons I have met thus far in Los Angeles:

My neighbor, the pot head, who never seem to have cigarettes (or thoughts) of his own.
My nieghbor, the crack addict, who has far too many thoughts.
My nieghbor the drug dealer who apparently has quite the rolodex.
My nieghbor the wanna-be thug who was shot in a drive-by on the corner this weekend. (No, I do not live in South Central.)

The slimy shoe salesman in West Hollywood who did everything but stick his tongue in my ear to sell me six hundred dollars worth of Italian leather shoes that I didn't need. And couldn't afford. (We'll call him Alan "K;" we'll say that his torture chamber is at 7380 Melrose Avenue and that the phone number is 323-658-9092. Just because.) I still cannot believe that his slippery tactics worked. When reality later hit and I tried to return them, he morphed into Tammy Faye Baker off of her hormones and called the police. I was mortified and left before our men in blue arrived. The shoes, meanwhile, are still in my trunk and I now have fantasies of tying him up, and doing - in the words of Hannibal Lecter - "things with his skin." (Fava beans, anyone?)

The mordidly obese lady - also down the block - who apparently does not fully appreciate the nuances of the word oxymoron as demonstrated by her donning a sports bra to do the morning shopping.
The medical doctors at my job who somehow think they are equipped to treat psychiatric patients.
The adminstrators at my hospital who, in their blunted wisdom, agreed with them.
And, the secretary on my unit who also has trouble with various words and concepts; among them: professionalism, maturity, intelligence, and sanity.

Whew. That wore me out. There are more, surely, but I'll resist my impulse to continue; otherwise, I'd have to change the title of this post to "Bitch Fest." And that just wouldn't fit, because during this circus I was recently contacted by two old friends. It was a blast from the past, as they say. It was also perfectly timed (chalk one up for serendipity) and warmly welcomed. The first was Don, my roommate from college. Actually, he was more like a psychic soul-sister and we spent hours the other day on the phone catching up. An e-mail followed from Betsy, a former neighbor also from my college days. (She, unlike my present compadres, does not sell drugs nor belong to a gang.) The three of us, along with friends Carol, Julius, and Lisa lived in a fabulous u-shaped apartment complex in a colorful neighborhood of Gainesville, Florida, known as The Student Ghetto. And we had a wonderful time together. (We used to say that the producers and writers for the primetime soap, "Melrose Place," had been flies on the walls of our bohemian dwellings.) So, despite the current potpourri of characters in my life, I am reminded of the cornucopia, the panoply, of friends (both new and old) that are also there to round out my table.

I'll close, then, with the memorable words of Auntie Mame (the character I'm sure I'll one day play):

"Yes! Live! Life's a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!"

SUMMER LOVE

2006-08-05T10:19:00.000-07:00

"Summer lovin’ had me a blast ~ summer lovin’ happened so fast

I met a girl crazy for me ~ I met a boy, cute as can be

Summer days driftin’ away, to uh-oh those summer nights

(wella, wella, wella – oom) Tell me more, tell me more, did you get very far?

Tell me more, tell me more, like, does he have a car?"

Last week I fainted; today, I'm swooning. You guessed it, I have a new love! In truth, it's not so new; we've been seeing each other in secret for some time now. Actually, every Friday night for the past couple of months. It was sort of casual in New York City, and at times very difficult because of the long-distance. You see, he's an Angelino. But now that I've relocated to Tinsel Town it's been much easier for us to see one another. We've really spent some quality time together and have even had some adventures. And I have to say, he's an incredible boyfriend. He's smart (I'd go so far as to suspect that he might be a genius); he's funny; and, he's classically handsome. True, he's a litltle neruotic; but hey - who isn't these days? And in this town? Besides, he's very clean (meticulous, even ) and always does the dishes after dinner. I know, I know - you want me to cut to the chase; you just wanna know who in the hell this new man in my life IS.

Yes, he is none other than Tony Shaloub. Now, I know what you're thinking...It'll never work. He's a celebrity (actually a two-time Emmy and Golden Globe winner) and I'm just a lowly dilettante, a struggling actor/writer. Mixed marriages never work. But, idealistic or not, I have hope. I know what we've shared. It's been so real. And consistent - every Friday he's there for me, like clock work. He's talked so openly; he's listened attentively; he's never let me down. And, he's even cleaned the grout between the tiles in my kitchen. (And bathroom.)

Hey - if some people can have imaginary friends; why can't I have an imaginary boyfriend? And why not Tony Shaloub? (We'll just forget about stalking charges and potential restraining orders for now; okay?) All right, all right; the ruse is up. But on a serious note, the character of Mr. Adrien Monk has kept me great company during this transition to a new city, a new life. I have been, at times, very much alone. Not quite lonely, but definitely alone. Much of this has been good; it's kept me at the keyboard. And it is the fertile ground from which new (self) growth will occur. But it is difficult to leave behind community, the friends that became family. So I find that I am truly fond of this fictional "defective detective."

I remember leaving the safety of home for the first time. I packed up my Go-Go's posters and my parachute pants, said goodbye to South Florida and to adolescence, and landed at the University of Florida. Looking back, I made friends relatively easily; I usually do. But I also recall lonely times in the dormitory; the nights spent pining for good times with good friends. On Halloween that first fall, when my roommates - and seemingly the entire campus - had gone out drinking 'till they dropped. I stayed home to watch bad horror movies, having bought a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a six-pack of bad beer. Very soon after that gastronomical nightmare I discovered David Letterman, my first fictional boyfriend. (I still dream of kissing him on the forehead on live television one day...) I know this borders on psychosis, but I really looked forward to his late night visits. He made me laugh. And that laughter stayed with me, long after the station stopped broadcasting. I used to say David Letterman saved my life. Not that I was every suicidal; but he nourished me through some tough times, and helped me to keep my humor and my hold on myself as I struggled to build a life.

Now that I find myself once again starting over, I am again turning to television for succor. (In moderation, like a nice glass of red wine, of course. And in balance with treasured phone calls and e-mails from the East Coast.) An odd perspective, I know; but I consider myself a lucky dog to have both real and imaginary friends.

Thanks for being there every Friday night, Tony - and for all of the laughs.

ATLAS BELCHED

2006-08-01T18:19:00.000-07:00

The herculean hero didn't shrug; he heaved. He ate some bad take-out, or warm sushi; or he drank the water in Mexico. It's obvious; take a look at my world: I'm perplexed and plagued by alarmist predictions that we've begun World War III; I'm governed by an action-hero (literally); and I've been in L.A. for two months, and I'm still twirling in my tiny studio amongst a bazillion boxes. I have so much to unpack and no where to put it. What was I thinking when I packed up my other tiny apartment? I have literally unearthed love letters from high school, ten year old magazines (no, not National Geographic - I gave that up years ago; okay?), a baker's dozen of unmatched socks, and a swatch of an ex-boyfriend's underwear. Is my Prozac not working? Do I need Ritalin?

No, I refuse to believe that I might need pharmaceuticals. (I may need another cigarette, but that's different. Really, it is.) I think the chaos is due to the world being out of balance, and me right there along with it. So why aren't I doing more Yoga? Eating more fresh fruits and vegetables? Having my colon cleansed? I do strive for balance and wellness, but there's so much on my plate I find that now I can barely meditate for ten minutes. My to-do list ends up intruding, or I hear the lyrics to some Jessica Simpson drivel, or I just quit because I think, "Hey, wouldn't it be cool to watch the dust bunnies grow?" What's a new Angelino to do?

The other morning, instead of sitting to write (this blog, or my new screenplay Wish List, or the novel, etc., etc., etc, ad infinitum) I decided to get out there and do something about it. I decided to go shopping. So, I grabbed a coffee, a fresh pack of Marlboro's, and took off in search of some fiduciary healing. (Marvin Gaye would be my guide...) Now, any kind of shopping in this city is absolutely insane. Even if you go to "the mall" there are questions, so many questions, to answer: which mall? Which side of town? And the dreaded, Where to park? But furniture shopping? Furniture shopping in Los Angels when you're broke? Might as well put my social security number right up on the internet. But I opted to be positive and optimistic; somewhere I knew that I'd find a thrift shop or a lovely design boutique that was having a sale. In reality, I found both. Only the thrift stores were actually more like homeless shelters; and even with the boutique's fifty per cent off, the fabulous mid-century bookshelf I wanted was two thousand dollars. I almost fainted, right there on a handy 1930's fainting couch. Instead, I plopped myself gently down and almost cried. Okay; actually, I did cry. But, immediately after being escorted out by security, I decided to pull up my boot straps (and my pants - I had tried to sleep my way out of a ticket) and continued on my heroic journey. If Oedipus could do it; so could I.

I used an entire tank of gas, and killed at least a dozen species of plant and animal alike, driving around town. But, the gods were with me; and Atlas clearly took a break from praying at the porcelain one, because I did finally lay my hands on an affordable and stylish bookcase. I also snatched up a handy little guide to local yoga and wellness centers. One-stop shopping. And I didn't break the bank. Not bad. Now, if only Atlas can do so well with the spinning discus we call home...

THE HIGHEST FORM OF FLATTERY

2006-07-26T10:08:00.000-07:00

It appears that I and my comedy partner Kali, of Yuckfest Productions, are too good. That's the teaser; but let me first give you the back story. For the last few years, Kali has produced a number of original sketches and scripts on 16mm film. I'm in many of them, and can honestly say they have graced the VCR's of her entire family (and the ocassional television executive's desk and film festival). With the advent of video sharing sites on the web, Kali decided to promote us and upload our work onto YouTube, Revver, eFoof and such. Within hours of our first voyage into cyber-pimping we had over 3,000 hits on "In Search Of Pussy," "Cookie and Company," and "I'm not J Lo."

Now, you'll notice "I'm not J Lo" is not linked. This is, in part, due to recent legal snafus. It appears that various interested parties in Hollywood are ignorant of U.S. Parody law, the titllating part of entertainment that specifically allows performers to poke fun of, make fun of, and use the likeness of anyone - the only caveat being that it is clear that you're not attempting to actually portray said celeb or politico, not attributing any dialgoue to them, and not claiming that any of their protected properties were written, directed, or produced by you and not said party. (Whew - legalese is tough.) Confused? You shouldn't be. It's actually very clear; and it's why Saturday Night Live could do their infamous Star Trek sketches and their many poltical impersonations. (Dana Carvey owes his Malibu home and hair plugs to this law.) And yet, YouTube and Revver have both shied away from presenting the J Lo and Stepford Wives parodies because of copyright infringement. Actually we got a great letter stating that executives from Paramount itself wrote asking us to "cease and decist."

It just so happens that this isn't my first cease & decist order; it's actually my third. Number one came to my college dormitory doorway back in 1988. (Don't you DARE do the mental math!) I was then the President of the Gay & Lesbian Student Union at the University of Florida and had used the likeness of Calvin & Hobbes. This is as fraternities did, and still do, to promote events and membership. It appears that Universal Press Syndicate and Bill Waterson had no problems having their material used on t-shirts, bumper stickers, and car decals by big, beer-swilling brothers; but that they didn't take too kindly to their adorable Calvin being used on one tiny poster by gay and lesbian, straight-A students. My second legal notification was bigger and better - Twentieth Centruy Fox ordered R&R Productions of Miami to stop producing its gender-bending X-Files parodies (The XXY Files) in which I starred as Dana Scally. These admittedly awful, amateurish B-videos could never have been mistaken for the read deal and were in no way infringing on Fox's rights. But, they did make 180,000 people laugh (no small number by 1994's standards) and get us invited to a flurry of film festivals.

While I'm mortified at the thought of anyone actually visiting the old XXY Files site, I am extremely proud of the work I've done with Kali and Yuckfest. The films are well written, funny, and beautifully shot. Which brings us to the next plot point, the humorous twist in all of this business. YouTube and Revver both pulled the teasers for our comedy pilots, "Cookie and Company" and "In Search of Pussy" because they mistakenly identified them as a REAL trailers! What a laugh and pat on the back Kali and received when we opened those e-mails. The executives stated that the work was "obviously professional" and "too good" to have been made by "amateurs." We agreed that we were not "amateurs," and so we did a brief dance in which we we were able to prove that these "television quality" pilots were, indeed, created by none other than little Kali and me and they were immediately reposted on the web. The folks at Revver were actually quite helpful and apologetic. But Kali and I weren't upset; instead we were tickled, and have added these letters to our portfolio, proudly displaying them like tribal warriors showing off battlescars or the hides of a well-killed buffalo. We hope you'll laugh, too, and that you'll share the story with all your friends by directing them to YouTube and Revver and by forwarding this story with the handy little button at the bottom of this posting.

THE (NEW) LOVE BOAT

2006-07-22T10:53:00.000-07:00

I grew up on bad 80's television. (Which explains so much...) One of my pre-pubescent favorites just so happened to be The Love Boat. Despite popluar opinion, it had little to do with Isaac and more to do with the fantastic appeal of perennial happy endings. In concert with such dreams, I'm very happy to announce that my friend Tracey was rescued from the war in Lebanon by the new love boat, an amphibious war ship of the United States military that scooped her, her family, and hundreds of other Americans (and frightened Lebanese) and ushered them to Cyprus. Despite what one may feel about the U.S. government, military, and the war itself, the efforts by the armed forces on the behalf of the many multi-national refugees was (and continues to be) nothing less than heroic. I find myself greatly relieved and humbly grateful. Tracey is now awaiting a plane to the Land of Green (go, Irish!) where she will connect with a diret flight home to Baltimore, Maryland. And I can breathe a sigh of relief and finally write something (instead of obsessively watch Anderson Cooper on CNN). Who doesn't like a happy ending?

Where Is Superman?

2006-07-17T09:49:00.000-07:00

My dearest friend in the world, Tracey Conn Kallab, is currently in the mountains of Beirut, having fled the bombings and ground fighting in what she describes is "all out war." She is American, down-right WASPy, in fact. Her husband, George, is Lebanese (Christian, if you're interested) and she was in the middle of a summer vacation with him and her two beautiful children. Reunionus Interruptus. Big Time.

I have to admit that I was nervous when she announced her vacation plans. I love her and them very much, so I have always been supportive of her relationship with her extended Lebanese family. And of her attempts to learn Arabic and to discover the beauty of a city that was once the Pearl of the Middle East. But now she is trapped there, unable to leave and being showered by Israeli rocket fire. The news has said little of other fighting, but the reason Tracey is currently hiding out in the mountains is because the fighting literally came to her door. Planes are grounded. Roads are blocked (and burning) and I wonder - who is going to rescue her? Where is Superman? He did make one heck of a splash at the box office recently; but I don't see him now. And I don't know who is going to act in his stead. While President Bush is admirably pushing for international assistance, I don't think he owns a cape or cod piece. (Now, Dick Cheny, on the other hand...Just makes that 80's torchsong by Bonnie Tyler, "I Need A Hero," careen through my head..."I´m holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night. He´s gotta be strong and he´s gotta be fast. And he's gotta be fresh from the fight...") Yeah, a big superhero. That's what I need. Hell, I'm so upset right now, I'd settle for Underdog.

I guess that I have to step up to the plate. I do just happen to have a nifty pair of red tights. And I look quite good in them, as a matter of fact. But what to do with them? I'd love to slap the leadership of Israel and Hezbollah both right in their olive-skinned faces. I am honestly sympathetic with both groups - with any group, actually, that is subjugated or oppressed. But I do not look kindly on violence. And while I don't want to get involved in the mess of politics, maybe I have to. Maybe we all have to. It seems to me that both sides have legitimate concerns and feelings; but that they are also very wrong in their actions, both the Israeli leadership and the radical terrorists of Lebanon. (And Syria and Iran for backing them; it seems that most of the rockets that have been ripping apart buildings and persons in Lebanon were manufactured in those "objective" countries. Then somehow they made their way into the hands of anti-Israel militia. And no one knows how. I have a theory, though: maybe Harry Potter was there; maybe he's a terrorist, too.)

It's a mess; NPR news just this morning reported that multiple agencies throughout the Middle East and Europe are hypothesizing that this is the beginning of World War III. UG. I'd really love to hide some kryptonite in a nice bowl of bubba ganush; you know? But I don't think that would be very realistic or effective. Plus, they might taste it. (Who says I'm not practical?) All I can do, it seems, is pray, support her frightened family state-side, and maybe send a little force field of love over their tiny cottage in the hills of Beirut. Sort of like the city in Logan's Run or that handy protective bubble that Glenda the Good Witch used to zip around Oz in.

In the meantime, I have to attend to really important matters in my life. Like getting the ink off of my hands from scraping the black crud from the secret code of the over-priced international phone card I had to buy. Like worrying about the fender bender I had the other day, scarring my beautiful black Jetta. Like stressing-out over the delays in launching my web site. You know, the really big things. These are my priorities now; these things and, maybe, squeezing into my red tights....

SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION

2006-07-09T11:02:00.000-07:00

I was enjoying some wonderful converstion (and delicious wine) with a date the other evening in West Hollywood. (Name withheld in a rare moment of discretion.) The topic arose of promoting oneself in Tinsel Town while maintaining one's integrity. It's something I've wrestled with a lot since plunging (from the small pond) into the big pond. On one level "pitching" and "networking" come easily to me because I'm on medication. That and the fact that I'm naturally very gregarious and social. But behind all of the "Enough of me talking about me...YOU talk about me," are questions that plague me: Am I being dishonest? Am I using this person? Am I narcissistic?

Movies like The Player give the average citizen a glimpse into some of the inner workings (and dysfunctions) of the Hollywood-Military-Industrial Complex. And I think they instill fear and suspicion in many actors, writers, and studio executives. (A great title: Fear and Trolling in Los Angeles...) Everyone wonders if their great idea is going to be absconded with, if the date they are on is really only interested in climbing the ladder (not the one to the bunk bed), and if everyone in this valley is only interested in pimping themselves out like Mariah Carey in Vegas. (Or Celine Dion, take your pick.) I have had these feelings myself. And I've also been on the other end. For example, when meeting and slowly developing a friendship last year in New York with both a prominent commercial casting director and with the lead entertainment attorney for one of "the big three."

I don't necessarily have any answers. But I think it's good, very good, that I am wrestling with the questions. I think it validates the part of me that is true and real. And so that's what I try to focus on, being who I am - which is a naturally gregarious and social mammal who happens to be an actor/writer living in Los Angeles. If "the business" comes up in conversation, I don't lie, manipulate, or coyly insert anything anywhere. I speak openly and honestly. If I want a favor, I request it on top of the table. And, except for the people staring wide-eyed at me standing on top the table in some elegant bistro, I think it works. My friends are my friends and they know I love them. My acquaintances are my acquaintances, and they know I enjoy them. Will this approach work in this town of ultimate poker? I'm not sure. I don't know if it will "get me anywhere;" but I know it will keep me where I really belong.

Consider this: if this woman can strut her stuff (and the junk in her trunk) in the middle of Times Square (as my friend Miguel just informed me) then might I be bold enough to do a little advertising? If a 500 pound woman can upload a photo of some Victoria Secret beauty to her e-harmony profile, then I, too, can do some self-promotion - and truly shamelessly; right? Regardless of opinion, here it comes, the inevitable pitch - I'm tickled to announce the creation of "Shameless Promotions," a new production company I've created with my brilliant comedy partner, Kali Karagias, of Yuckfest Productions. Our latest projects include the development of our NY stage production of Rough Copy for podcasting - I'm calling it "webisodic" tv. (The pic at the top of the post is from our original press material, featuring Kali and I in character as veteran - and insane - journalists, Hibernia Rockaway and Brick Bronson.) We've also launched a number of other comedic videos onto YouTube and are already being very well received. I hope you'll visit, and that you'll laugh a little. (Actually I'm hoping you'll laugh until you pee your pants.) So, get your Depends and cut'n'paste the link to our latest YouTube video, "In Search Of Pussy," into your browser: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCECYbEHrGk.

THE DEVIL WEARS NADA

2006-07-04T10:33:00.000-07:00

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.

Theme Song Mantra

2006-06-28T19:21:00.000-07:00

Jesus (the carpenter formerly known as Christ) once said something like, "It's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than a rich man to get into heaven." I don't know quite what to think about to that; but I do know that right now I feel like sticking said needle in my eye. I never thought I'd have a blog; hell, I don't even own an ipod yet, I still "tape" my favorite television shows and I can't get my VCR to stop blinking "12:00." No matter, moving from New York to the City of Angels was quite hellish and I'm bound and determined to master this newish technology so that I can share my pain. (Translation: to make you suffer,too.)

I once thought, as an overly imaginative youngster, that one day I would have my very own TV show. I used to think that the theme song would be that of Wonder Woman fame. Then it was Charlie's Angels. Next to last was Vegas. (Does any one know what happened to Robert Ulrich?) Having actually been in several television pilots (all of which met with cruel, premature ends, never seeing the light of a broadcast signal or fiber-optic cable) I'm not so concerned with "my show" now. I'm thinking more about my life and how I'm actually living it. ( And, sure, I would love that tv show one day.) Hence, the move to Los Angeles.

I was a bit daunted before my arrival, but I'm happy to say that the weather is truly gorgeous; the plants (and bodies) are lush; and I haven't yet been a victim of road rage. Nor, to continue this happy listing, have I seen an army of plastic people. (I had secretly possessed the fear that my plane would land and I'd be met by a legion of cherubic Angelinos, all who'd been converted to white-eyed zombies by the same overly zealous plastic surgeon; sort of like a hyper-stylish Village of the Damned.) So my song changed; it became the theme from Fantasy Island. I was among tall, lanky palm trees and tall, lanky men. I imagined Mr. Roarke by my side handing me a martini...No wait, a cosmopolitan...I could even hear sweet Tattoo, may he rest in peace now, cheering for me; "Dee Flame! Dee Flame!" I winced, not completely sure if he was making a reference to my sexual orientation or, worse, uttering some strange and preternatural premonition...

After the first night of sleeping in my unlocked Hollywood apartment (the manager hadn't given me the keys and was "out") I decided to wake and do some shopping; mace and a big stick were first on my list. Oh, and a car. (It's true, you can't live in L.A. without a car. Good lefties/humans must simply bite their go-green, granola-induced guilt and get comfortable with adding a few tons of greenhouse gases to the atmosphere.) The real drama came when trying to buy an actual car and I discovered that every salesman was an actor. I thought, "Holy Shit! Is it true? Is everyone in L.A. an actor? Oh, God what have I done?" At that moment I knew exactly how Meryl Streep felt in Sophie's Choice. Suddenly, I was lost and alone; and the song had changed. Twin Peeks now played in my mind.

Wait. It get worse. The other night I awoke to the screaming of the fire alarm. I opened the door (completely forgetting Dick Van Dyke and "Stop, Drop and Roll") to find the hallway congested with acrid smoke. I stood completely still for a moment. I thought, "I think this a fire. Shouldn't somebody be doing something?" But no one was. Everyone was asleep. Then a tiny Hispanic woman opened her door, smelled the smoke, and started yelling hysterically. I think it was something like, "Ay-yai-yai!!!" And that seemed to snap me into action. (Thank God for stereotypes is all I can say.) I grabbed everything of importance to me: my cell phone, my lap top, and a fresh pack of cigarettes. And I wondered, would it be bad manners to smoke while watching my building burn down? Under the circumstances, I thought it would be okay. I took another dangerous moment to color coordinate my pajama top and then dashed into the ever-darkening hall. I pounded my fist on my neighbors' doors to rouse them from what could have been a fatal slumber and was eventually swept up with the sea of bodies in its mass exodus to the street. Fire trucks arrived soon after with the sleepiest, sexiest firemen I'd ever seen. (Were they actors, too, I wondered.) I looked away (partly because they were painfully beautiful and partly because I was playing hard to get) and caught sight of all my building's tenants. I don't know if it was the darkness, the smoke, or the flashing red and yellow lights bouncing off all of their faces, but I realized that they were scarier than the prospect of dying in the fire. I mean these people were scary. I could really have done without that wake-up call, would have been much better off not knowing that those freakish, rakish, criminalistic rogues in their nightclothes were my neighbors. The track had again changed and now the theme from The Sopranos was playing.

Well, it's been a few days since the fire and I'm happy to report that I haven't been mugged and no other tragedies (criminal or otherwise) have occurred. In fact, many good things have presented themselves, right there in the middle of all that drama. Even on the night of the fire I met two very cool neighbors, a couple. They were kind, they were fun, and they had a great French Bulldog named, Lola. After smoking a few cigarettes and laughing about "the business," the girl squeezed my arm and said, "I think we'll be friends!" She was happier than Richard Simmons in a Kentucky Fried Chicken (or preschool, take your pick). But she was sincere and that's the point. I had just moved to this infamous city, one of a million strangers, and amid all of the chaos and smoke (literally) I had met a friend. Pretty cool, I thought.

That's when the song changed again. Now, I'm happy to say, my mantra - words to live by - is the theme from that 80's gem, "The Facts Of Life." (Google the lyrics; it's worth it.)