KISS MY A$$, DONALD TRUMP!

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

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

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

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

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...

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!

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.