 |
||||||
|
||||||
|
||||||
|
Me Write - You Wrong
This will be the last post here at jonthedoc.blogspot.com. Wasteland
I now find myself in the Arizona desert. After outliving my usefulness in L.A., I am now holed up in a small house in Phoenix as I await Payday. I have been told that this day should be within the month. Until then, good lord in heaven I am fucking bored. | ||||||
I'm not usually one to get all "et memoriam" about a recently deceased celebrity. Nine times out of ten I'm just momentarily glad they're dead, and then I get on with my full day of being alive.
A few moments ago I got the news that George Carlin Died. Now, when it comes to celebrity deaths, I sometimes wait a few days before I take the news seriously. After all, both Stephen King and Charlie Sheen were prematurely declared dead by news publishers desperate to get the scoop. And in the Charlie Sheen case, it was almost a year and a half before I heard that he was still alive. But, for the purposes of this context, his actual status of life is not important. What is important is getting the news that he died.
I've had to deal with death on some level or another over the last few years. Members of my family have died from various illnesses or general old age, as well as hearing second-hand of the deaths of old friends or friends' family. The most troubling part of it for me has been the fact that, so far, I haven't really cared.
I've lost quite a few people from my life. Some closer than others. And while everyone around me mourns, cries, copes, memorializes, and any other of the ceremonious acts of dealing with a "loss," I...don't.
I suppose it is a testament to how lucky I've been so far. My parents are still alive. My children are healthy and happy. My siblings are full of life. The very small gathering people whom I have chosen to really count on as True Friends are all still in this world. So, compared to some, I have never really, truly had a loss...Unless you count my dog. I cried when my dog died. That's it so far, though.
So what does that say about me? Am I so shallow and soulless that I just don't care about the lives of others. No, if that were the case, I'd be a Republican. Am I in denial of some kind? No, because if I were to be in denial, it we me a more convenient fantasy like "at least they've gone to heaven." Am I emotionally repressed? I don't think so. If that were the case, why would I even bother emoting at all, in speech, or writing of any kind?
It seems to me that when I hear of the death of someone, be they stranger or family, rather than suddenly being saddened by the "loss," I find myself soon becoming alarmed as to why I'm not "saddened by the loss." My questions and reasoning jump around from the simple lack of "real connection" to the deceased, to blaming past experience for deadening my emotions concerning grief, to questioning whether or not I may be the only one who is actually being honest with myself while everyone else is just pretending to feel what everyone expects them to.
It's upsetting subject matter to me, and even more upsetting that it keeps coming to my attention. Like I said, maybe it's just as simple as not having lost anyone that close to me. If that's the case, I'm fine with it. In fact, that would be the one kind of ignorance that I'd be happy to embrace.
Whatever it may be, it just happened to be on my mind today, because I heard that George Carlin died and that upset me.
TTFN
They say that there is an unavoidable Social Side to Show Business. I've been avoiding it for years. That may or may not have something to do with my lack of ready success, but I'm not going to dwell on that. Simply put, I've given in. Last weekend I attended my first two Hollywood Networking parties.
Now that I'm here in L.A., adding my personal genius to Apocalyptic Films, the production company that Frogman's brother (formerly known as "The Asshole," but from here on will be "Damage") owns, I've suddenly become a part of the "Hollywood Scene" that he's been tapping into to raise the funding for his projects. This includes going to all the parties that his publicist gets us invites to. I'd tried to warn everyone about my inherent unlikeability, but my warning fell on deaf ears, and I was dragging to the parties anyway.
The first was a low-key "get together" thrown by another would-be producer that is pretty much in the same position as we are. He talked his girlfriend into letting him use her recently sold house for a bash for other producers, studio heads, hedge fund directors, and other such money-soaked assholes.
We arrived at about 9pm, expecting to be tastefully late to a party that was billed to begin at 8pm...rather, we were the first to arrive. We were greeted by a Golden Lab named "Precious" who tried to eat us, but was eventually held at bay by our hostess's daughter.
The house itself, having recently been sold, had almost all of the bedroom furniture and personal affects laying out in piles in the front lawn and driveway.
We made our way through the labyrinth of household good to finally find the back door, where we entered into a scene directly out a Felini film; An old man, looking to be in his eighties was washing dishes in the kitchen sink. Across from him, a frightfully thin, dark haired, loudly-dressed, Italian woman was chopping vegetables with the ferocity, bravado, and volume of a recently jilted lover. Neither of them took any notice of us.
"Hi," I said.
They did not respond. They did not look up. They did not exhibit any signs whatsoever that they were even aware of our existence.
Three or four inconsequential, and arbitrarily normal-looking people passed through the kitchen over the next few seconds. None of them even looked at us. Not even so much as a "who the hell are you people?"
They're dead, I thought to myself. These are the shadow echoes of those who have died here before.
Damage made the second attempt; "Hey, is Tommy here?" he asked, Tommy being the producer whom we were told was throwing the party.
Still no response. Not even a dirty look.
We exchanged glances, shrugged, and made our way through the kitchen to the main rooms of the house. Entering the dining room, we saw yet another random man marching through, looking as though he had somewhere very important to go.
"Hey, I'm looking for Tommy," Damage said to him.
No response. No glance. We didn't exist. The man sped out of the room, out of sight.
I then erupted into uncontrollable giggles. Damage and his girlfriend stared at me.
"What's so funny?" she asked.
That is when the uncontrollable giggles evolved into a full on belly laugh that left me on the floor, unable to keep my balance. "This is," I said between gasps, "the creepiest damn moment of my life."
I know it sounds strange, but that was the moment that I decided I was glad I came to the party. That's the kind of guy I am.
I was able to calm down just in time for our Hostess to finally come out of the woodwork. The first pleasant surprise was that she acknowledged our existence. The second was that she offered us margaritas. I'm not much of a drinker, but I really wanted one tonight.
Two hours and four margaritas later, I found myself somehow trapped in a conversation with a producer that swore up and down that he was the real life inspiration for The Wedding Crashers, and that his lawsuit against the studio that "ripped him off" was going to pay off any day now, and in today's economy Intellectual Property Theft is the greatest remaining threat to National Security, and by the way did I know if they had any good drugs at this party. (There's more at his website: thetruthaboutweddingcrashers.com) I took his card, thanked him for his time, and jumped out the nearest window. Relax, we were on the ground floor.
I spent the rest of the evening in the front yard, having a very lovely conversation about Native American Wartime practices with a man whom seemed to only be called "Paul The Indian." Nice guy.
As the evening ended out, I said my goodbyes to our publicist, who then informed me that the lot of us had been invited to another party for the following night. This party was being thrown by Wedding Crasher's Guy, and had a "2 girls to every guy" rule. Meaning; no man will be allowed in the party unless two girls are with him.
I'm sure that had I been asked about this a day or so before, I would have flatly refused. However, at that moment I was a bit drunk and still giddy from the creepy Vegetable Chopping Woman (she was at it all night). So, I happily accepted the invite, and put my Damage on the task of getting me two dates.
The next day, I had second thoughts, of course. Mainly about our next hosting being a creepy fuck. But Damage wouldn't hear of it. It was the "two girls to every guy" rule that did it for him. "Yeah," he agreed, "this guy ain't right. But he's right about one thing."
"Dare I ask, what?" I said.
"Two girls to every guy, guaranteed. That place will be packed with old, rich, white men."
I caved. That is our demographic, after all. Damage arranged for me to arrive at the party with two delightful young ladies with aspirations in the Cinema Hair and Make-up profession.
I'm happy to say that the second party went off with much less character than the first. It was your stereotypical "we're so fucking cool" crowd. Social anxiety drove me repeatedly back to the bar, whereupon I eventually had enough to drink to loudly, and authoritatively, declare myself "the sexiest sonofabitch in the house." I got a hot girl's phone number a few moments after that, so there must not have been much dissension to my edict.
I can't recall any other clear details from that night. Though I am a little concerned as to the fact that the two young ladies who escorted me to the party have not spoken to me since. Worse yet, when I ask Damage's girlfriend if I had said or done anything to put them off, she laughs, pats me on the head, and walks away.
Oh well. It's not as though I never warned anyone.
Smile Naked, America.
Well, here I am.
I know I promised to make my triumphant return to this blog with all new insights onto the political scene, but it seems that circumstances have other plans.
I landed here in L.A. 2 weeks ago, and I haven't so much as read a single article, listened to one podcast, or even been able to catch an episode of The Daily Show. I've been so swamped with work since touching down I've barely had the chance to wash the smell of China off me, let alone take the time to keep up with any hobbies.
It has been a crazy whirlwind of promotion, paperwork, hands-on labor, and fractured sleep for 14 straight days. Meeting new people, shooting a trailer, redesigning websites, photoshoping posters, working out budgets and projections, conferring with lawyers, hiring and firing, and the whole gamut of god-know-what-'cause-it's-all-a-blur usually associated with trying to get a new business off the ground.
The only moment I've even been able to so much as think about something other than the company came just yesterday; while sitting in the car, a radio commercial came on the air enticing the listener to report their employers if they suspected Software Piracy.
Really? I thought to myself, they're still bothering with that?
Even before I left for China, it had seemed that the whole "software piracy problem" had fallen back into the woodwork. Game makers and software companies were dumping money into security protocols and anti-piracy services that were rendered obsolete by the internet community within seconds of their release. It had created a healthy balance between those who are actual thieves, versus those who only steal when it is convenient. The threats and rumors of cops driving around with strange scanning devices that could detect Pirated software from the street had seemed to finally faded away.
And yet, the fight still rages on, now on a more underhanded level. Appeal to the public selfishness and get them to turn each other in. Offer rewards to get the common people to "stick it to the man" by taking sides with The Other Man. Nothing like a healthy dose of in-fighting to keep the ignorant masses in line. That trick has worked for the evil dictators of the world for thousands of years, and will probably never get old.
I'm back in America. The game may not be any better here, but at least I know the rules.
Smile Naked, America.
