And I’m talking mainly to those in and around Los Angeles right now. The rest of you can listen if you like.
Instead of seeing New Moon (David rolls his eyes very dramatically).
In two days, the Laemmle Royal Theatre (and another Laemmle theater in Encino) will open That Evening Sun. That Evening Sun was written, directed, and produced by Act One alumni. We watched it this summer, and it’s fantastic. I honestly wanted to skip watching it. I think my brother twisted my arm to stay. I’m sooo glad I did. Hal Holbrook’s performance is so good. Ray McKinnon’s too. The acting, the feel, everything about this film is top notch. Top notch. A HIGH quality film made by Christians. The more people who can see it and spread the word, the better. If a buzz develops, Hal Holbrook seriously could be nominated for acting awards this awards season. Ray McKinnon too.
And we can actually help develop the buzz. This film is getting a limited release right now in Los Angeles. The more people that see this film this weekend, the better chance it’ll get to get to more theaters. So each paying ticket can contribute to an awards season buzz. I’m going sometime on Friday. If you’re interested, text me, call me, email me, whatever. Maybe we can set up a time to go together. Seriously, if this film gets a hot critical and awards-season buzz, its the type of thing that could tangibly help (like inspire investors, garnish respect and tear down stereotypes) quality mainstream filmmaking by Christians.
I just left IHOP, where I drank two full pots of their coffee. I know what you’re going to say, and yes, I am a health nut.
I haven’t posted lately, but I’ve been pretty busy. I’ve been working almost every day at any of the four places I’m currently employed. Take that recession! I’ve also been (slowly, steadily) moving my stuff (21 boxes of books! Egads, when did THAT happen?) to my new place.
AND
My brother and I wrote and submitted a short-film script to a short film competition. We found out Wednesday night, and submitted on Sunday night. They’re picking five. And if your script is selected, they fly you to New York and you direct your script at the Ace Hotel! So, Sunday night we finished our second draft, we finished our synopsis, and logline, and we submitted our short, “Hobo Trade Show” to Massify and Killer Films. Our pitch–you have to submit a 2 min pitch–is not the strongest part of the operation.
You can also read the synopsis and script there too. Please do. And leave comments. Positive ones. Anonymous if you need to. I think the more comments, the better the short looks. I could be wrong.
I’m not trying to tall tale or exaggerate or cause any trouble here, but it has been really windy today! Man! I mean reeeeaaaalllly windy. I love it. It actually feels like autumn in LA. Weekend work makes today my Saturday, so I’ve spent all day co’oped at home with winds eroding the canyon-side all the way to my house. I’ve watched some forgettable movies, cooked some edible food, and made some regrettable choices (not sleeping in as late as I could, smear-campaigning, the usche).
Sooo, I thought I’d make a couple of web recommendations. Well, one web recommendation.
Tonight, you better not be missing out on the Haunted Corn Maze, or haunted maize maze. It’s gonna be a bloodbath! Pictures soon?
Today, this Russian I work with said to me, “David, you look old for 27 because you are losing hair. And you’re always so serious.”
Thanks, blunt Russian who covers his frankness with translation issues. Maybe this is why, when I grabbed a Red Bull today he said, “Ahhh, Red Bull, it makes you cheer up.” Silly mixup from a non-native speaker, or an attempt at intervention?
—–
In other news, it looks like come November 1, I’ll have a new address. Moving out from my brother and foster brother and sister. Moving in with my sister. That makes move number 2 for 2009 and number 10 since I moved to LA! Whooo!
Apologies if you took me up on my request last post. I gave directions to friends and secret admirers to swing by where I worked to say hello. And I was truly looking forward to the possibility of a friend stopping by. THEN, the very day I was scheduled, the brass transfered my management to Culver City for the evening. I had no time to change the last post. Alas, poor Yurick.
The good news is I got quite the work out Saturday (wink); the bad news is when I arrived in Culver City, my rag-tag team of valets decided not to show. But that didn’t stop 29 cars from arriving, as scheduled, at exactly the same time.
Yes, that’s correct. I found out tonight I have a secret admirer. In virtue of her definite description as my secret admirer, I imagine she may read my blog and thus, read this right now. I would. To be sure, I definitely don’t intend to embarrass, only to gloat. This year some forces out there made a valiant VALIANT attempt to destroy any value or worth I had in myself. And I did what anyone (you know, some, and with justification) else in that situation would do. Not only did I pull out some of the ole’ impulsive actions, but I also believed every lie those forces implied/connoted/were-logically-compatible-with (if I could conceive of the lie being true or possibly true, then, to me, it was true; bad philosophy, pretty standard psychology).
But, lo. Not all is all naught. Evidently, some girl out there could see some good…right here (David touches his heart for effect). So, either that some good is somewhat true, or the lies are in fact true, but I put on one hell of a show.
Man. These days I’ve been busy as a painter…who gets lots of work and deadlines. But it’s the good kind of busy; I need hours at work, and they’re giving it to me (i.e. A woman walks into a bar, she ask the bartender for a “double entendre”, so the bartender gave it to her).
My boss was going to give me Saturday evening off, said he didn’t want me to die. So, I thought, Why, I’ll take the time to catch up on that email I’ve been writing and rewriting and putting off for two weeks and go see Where the Wild Things Are. My dear friend, Sarahthe has already echoed exactly how I feel on the subject of Where the Wild Things Are. Namely, that I friggin tear up every single time I see or hear anything about it.* I want to see that movie bad. I don’t mean to talk business at the table, but this film looks like the type of film best watched with a good woman…the type of good woman that years from now you say, “This is the type of good woman you want to watch Where the Wild Things Are with.” That is, of course, should the movie meet the hype.** Then my boss asked if I could manage this rag-tag group of valets without dying, and me in dire want of both money and a good woman reasoned that Saturday might not be the best time to view Where the Wild Things Are.
So, that’s what I’m doing Saturday. I’m working. Running a valet squad. The 4:30ish to midnight stand. Standing on the side of the street–possibly with a wand, possibly with a yellow shirt, definitely with a great view of downtown–directing valet for a wedding. I’m thinking there’s always ways to make the best of situations. So, if you find yourself in Los Angeles on Saturday evening-night and you feel like driving north on Broadway from downtown, parallel with 110 N, past Chinatown for about a mile, and you want to cheer up a working gal like myself, why don’t you drive on by and wave. Or honk. Or if things look slow, stop on by, maybe say hello. If’n I can distinguish you from my normal onslaught of women of all ethnicities and generations honkin’ and carrying on after me, I do believe I’d gander a wave or a honk or a hello with pleasure.
Look into your heart, friend and dear reader. Your heart.
Pratfalls
*Which, if you’re a counting man, adds up to three times (counting pronouns) so far in this post I’ve teared up.
**There’s almost nothing worse than a movie that doesn’t meet the hype. A subclass of movies that don’t meet their hype is movies whose previews/trailers are better than the movie. Classic examples: Spiderman 3 and Pursuit of Happiness. Now, granted, I’m a sop when it comes to movies, and when they push the right buttons, I cry my face off. So, it’s no surprise that the preview to Pursuit of Happiness did that to me…every time! Much like Where the Wild Things Are. AND. Who wasn’t disappointed with Spiderman 3? But it’s preview promised an amazing film! I still watch that preview and get pumped, full-well knowing that the final product suuuuucked! Granted, Pursuit of Happiness was closer to meeting it’s hype than Spiderman 3, but still.
Last night me and my brother drove downtown for the downtown Art Walk. I love going to this. All the people, the wine, the food-trucks, the art. You walk around look at art, drink free wine, and all in all, art-walk. This is what living in the city is all about. I know I’ve had my doubts about how good this event actually is. But, just as soon as I vocalized my doubts, I recanted.
The fact is: Yes; there art-walks many a hipster. And yes, the art fits the profile, such that, one cannot tell who follows whom: the hipster worldview or the artist’s style. Sometimes the overlap between cliche-dressed-in-irony (or is it the other way around?) and clever-artistic-commentary blurs too much. A portrait of Michael Jackson in puff-paint doesn’t really do anything for me but sufficiently annoy. A complex diagram of chemical reactions (evidently those which correspond to love) painted like bones does a little more for me.
The best exhibit; The BEST exhibit! The best exhibit was a collection of scenes…I don’t know what to call them. Statuettes? Shadow boxes? Models? They were these displays in bird cages; these suicide scenes with canaries, rightly called Canary Suicides. I loved it. I returned a couple of times. Check the link; find a showing.
I’m not great with art. I have friends who’ll amaze me at the Getty with their vast knowledge of and ability to analyze art. I have friends back in Texas with degrees in the stuff whose hand on the canvas/paper/pre-statue-material I adore. My sisters have a way with appreciating art I envy. I always lamented that great hole in my liberal arts/humanities studies which is art and all things related: art history, painting, composition, sculpture, etc.
Nevertheless.
It seems I’m working on a collection. Before last night, I owned two pieces of art. The first is a painting of my brother and I smoking one of those aforementioned friends painted back in college. The second is a painting my grandmother painted and left us siblings when she died: it’s a painting of a carnival closing late at night, and my older sister used to tell us stories about that painting before bed when we spent the night there. This second painting has more sentimental value to me than just about any other object I own, and rightly so, it stays with my parents until any of us kids become adults.
But last night my art collection grew to three. No, it wasn’t a canary suicide, it was this:
Here’s me in front:
I love this. I can’t stop laughing when I look at it. Thank you, God! Enough ladies with cold hearts have elevated Holly Golightly high enough that this piece fills a need!
And finally. Last week, my roommate A (for friendship) and I went thrift store shopping! Yes, that’s right. Thrift store shopping! She insisted and I gave in…not much of a fight. And Yes! It was fantastic! We hit a good amount of used-clothes-shops and walked away with some deals. We also ate hot dogs at Pinks. I insisted, the only thing I really needed was some kick ass cowboy boots. I haven’t had cowboy boots since I was a kid and I’ve wanted some kick ass cowboy boots for a long friggin time! At one shop, they cost a lot. Like $45 plus. (And if you think “Dude, that’s not much”, then, sister walk a mile in my shoes, because it is!) But, lo and behold, I found a kick-ass pair hidden behind a rack at another store for $18! And they fit! And they kick ass!
Them some kick ass boots! I wear them every day I can. These boots are made for art-walking.
ONE SUCH PEOPLE holds court in the LA-muthafuckin’-PD. He works on the vice squad and also happens to be THIS CLOSE to getting his MA in philosophy. Cool guy.
So, naturally, when I required information on the gang situation in downtown Los Angeles, I initiated correspondence. He told me that downtown LA really isn’t the best place for black gangs. But if it’s Latino gangs you’re a’hunkerin’ for, it’s a gold-mine. (My paraphrase).
Two of the biggest Latino gangs in downtown LA go by the names:
1) 18th st Gang*
2) 5th & Hill
Surely the 18th st bangers could reside ANYWHERE on 18th street. It might take hours to find gang activity there. BUT, I inferred, it’s likely that members of 5th & Hill can be found precisely at the corner of 5th and Hill!
Part Two
That’s when I decided to head on over to 5th and Hill to see what kind of gang activity I could observe. And who knows? Maybe they like me, I might rush.
After work this morning, I headed on over. Twinkle in my eye, dashing grin, the whole bit.
And you’ll NEVER BELIEVE WHAT I SAW THERE!
I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.
Do you know what I saw at 5th and Hill; me, David “boy, we don’t see enough pie fights these days!” Gilbert at the alleged home of one of the rattiest and nastiest and low down Latino gang in Los Angeles history?!?!?!!?!?
A bunch of white people. Gentrification stained and splattered against the walls. The yellow-tape of corporations and 500-Days-of-Summer-ed Los Angeles. There were art displays! And farmers markets! A fountain! Banks! And business-types having lunch on the grass of Pershing Square!
And do you know how much gang activity I saw?
None.
It was disgusting. Horrible. I mean, sure. Great for the community to cut down on crime and all. Thanks a lot! Way to clean up the streets! Assholes.
Now, the closest I’ll ever get to a real Latino gang is sulking around a bunch of rich white people!
There’s this coffeeshop in Pasadena my friend, a brunette, told me about. So, since I spend Monday afternoons driving around this beautiful LA getaway consumed in post-therapy (introversion? clarity? stupor? relief? indifference? wandering? should-a-could-a’s?) David-world**, I found the coffee shop today and have been there a few hours now. The place is awesome. What’s the best is their background music: they play early 90s rock/alternative! Hopefully, a constant. And I know I’m getting old (kids in college this year were born in 1991!!!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!), but I think I may always claim and fight to the death that the early 1990s heard and created better music than any other generation with the privilege of music through a wire.
Down the 110 from here a bit, there sits LA’s Chinatown. Sometimes I work right down the way from Chinatown on Broadway, and everytime I work there I repeat lines from the film with same title: “Forget it, Jake. It’s Broadway.”
No! NO! NO! Of course I’m talking about Polanski’s Chinatown. It’s amazing! Cynical Jack Nicholson learns to care about justice/people only to become even more cynical (one suspects) when justice doesn’t win the day? Awesome! Though, when I work by Chinatown, sometimes I’m valeting. A job I like more for the running than the cars or the paycheck. That being said, though I’m quoting Chinatown to myself, I’m imagining myself more as:
Starting around one minute in, the kid starts running. Now, this may just be a clip of a kid running, (and I think my film historian and asthetetician friends might have a thing or two to say in this regard) but I’m pretty sure watching the kid run is supposed to be a release. It’s romantic. You’re supposed to watch this clip and experience a the sensation of letting go. (Yeah! This and EVERY last scene/shot of EVERY movie ever made! And big deal! The 400 Blows, ooooh! Think you’re a real big shot, don’t you, David. Well, I’ll tell you you’re not!—sorry, friends…therapy day.)
My counselor and I talked about anger today. And trust. And fighting. There’s been a lot of anger and desire for (…justice?) things to be right lately. I want to fight and engage other’s fights. This guy thinks I get some kind of comfort in the fight. I told him, I like the fight. I like the back and forth of an argument or witty banter. He asked if fighting with someone means you can’t trust them. I told him, I still want to trust people and you can still trust someone you fight with. But there are rules to fighting and sometimes you can go too far. People get away with things. Likewise, I’ve inherited my share of trust-issues. Mainly with women, though also with men with long mustaches and sinister laughs. Later he told me I was the only client he’s ever had who he felt comfortable making jokes or sarcastic comments with. I told him that some people think I cover up vulnerability by telling jokes. He asked if that rings true for me. Yes, I told him, I do cover up with jokes. But not always. I’m obviously vulnerable with you. Then, before I could finish relaying all of my insecurities, I found myself naked in the middle of a crowded city square and all I had to cover up with was a rubber chicken.
Where was I?
Ah yes. Chinatown.
Today Roman Polanski got the ole’ extradition. Well, that’s what it looks like, anyway. He was seized, and they’re still deciding whether or not to extradite. I thought, how many of his films are about getting away with it? The law not working on the side of justice, and all that. There is something romantic about Roman Polanski, the fugitive, making films. But if you ask me, I hope the man’s arrested. I’ll still love Chinatown, but come on.
Since the start of this blog post, the coffeeshop has exchanged early 90s rock and roll for an old Mexican man sitting with a guitar playing classical. Not a regrettable exchange, I’d say. It’s peaceful.
Pratfalls
*Note: Upon review, it appears this post wanders…a lot! You ask if I care? And I say, I do not.
**Note: Therapy-Day “David World” differs from regular-day “David World” in that in “David World” on a regular day, one finds oneself looking for a fight, or a punching bag, or a bully to reproove….though, cleverly so. I’m not so sure one finds oneself looking for the same thing in “David World” on therapy day…though, again, what is found, surely, is clever…even if a tad unclear.
I work a lot of events in a lot of capacities. It’s good work I feel when I’m done. (I should note, part of what makes event work good work is knowing it’s not permanent.) Not surprisingly the most frequent event work comes in the shape of weddings. And, I’m not gonna lie, I’ve had to hold back tears through some pretty touching speeches and receptions–the type that so totally reflect great friendships and true love without hack or cheese. Granted, I’ve had to hold back rolling my eyes too through some hack and cheese. And so I struggle-on: Sincerity or Cynicism?
Enough of context!
Last night I worked this wedding. Valet. Throughout the reception, huffs of couples and angry friends kept excusing themselves to my earshot. A few single guys (I’m guessing were ex-boyfriends of the bride) kept needing fresh air and walks. All in all, not the happiest day ever! for many guests.
Let me put it this way. One of the first songs played during the reception was this:
Great song! Beautiful song! NOT a song that you play at a wedding reception!
So, there’s this guy. A young punk. Classic douche bag. About 6′5″, good looking. Something in the cock of his eye tells me he thinks he’s the fabulous one. Oh yeah. A real douche. So much so, that after peeking in on both the girl’s changing room and the girl’s restroom, he got fresh with the bride’s cousin in front of the bride’s uncle! Yep. That’s co-variation for, the dude felt up a chick in front of her dad. Classy guy.
We don’t see this take place. What we see is this douche getting chased out of the venue from this uncle, this 5′6″, red-with-anger-and-sauce (the alcoholic kind) old man. And it takes four of us to hold this old man back. Between the old man’s swearing and threatening, I hear the following exchange.
OLD MAN: You fuck, you don’t fuck with the Italians!
DOUCHE BAG: But, I’m Italian.
OLD MAN: Then you sure as fuck don’t fuck with the FBI!
And I thought a couple of things.
1. I totally helped hold back a red-in-anger-and-sauce Italian FBI vengeful father from killing some douche bag.
and
2. I totally wish I could have let the old man go! I would have loved to see this douche bag get his ass kicked from this old man!
Of course, 1 & 2 imply
3. For God’s sake, don’t be a douche bag!
The party kind of died after that. And once the Douche was kindly escorted away for good, I could have sworn I saw the old man check his concealed gun locations like a tardy pickpocket checks other people’s watches.
