Chapter 31: Honking

November 23, 2010

I’ve never been one for honking.

Honking?  What is with honking?   Most states have laws that honking may only be used in situations where an accident is being prevented.  Someone doesn’t check their blind spot for example.  Legal.  Letting someone know that you don’t like the way they drive, not quite so legal.  Or is it?

Mikey Bloomberg, the mayor of New York City that can’t be bothered with term limits, was no fool when it came to making money for the city. A 350 dollar honking fine was put in place for certain areas.  Sweet!  This is of course the reaction of someone with no car, and a bedroom window that overlooks Ninth Avenue just 10 blocks north of the Lincoln Tunnel entrance.  Suh-Weet.

I remember signs for the new fine being put up and the honking all but ceasing.  The horn was no longer being used willy nilly, or even in the way that was, presumably, aimed at the Gods (honking in the general direction of traffic that wasn’t moving).

Now honking in NYC serves a purpose.  But even honking with a purpose has never been something I’ve done.  My preferred method of avoiding accidents is to avoid accidents.  Driving sensibly, adhering to appropriate following distances, managing risk.  You know, not being a jerk.

For the 18 glorious months I owned my ’96 Jetta I literally did not use the horn once.  What did I need it for?  I clearly didn’t get into any accidents.  As a matter of fact, I’ve only gotten into one accident, and it was in a hail storm on the freeway.  You can honk all you want at the ice on the road, it’s not gonna do you much good (although driving an appropriate speed for said weather conditions can, as I learned the hard way).

So if I never get into collisions and I also never use my horn, then some p implies q logic would at the very least confirm the possibility that horns really don’t need to be used.  Obviously if I saw some sort of large ghoulish monster from swamp country crawling on top of the car in front of me, I’d be happy it was there.  But it’s the whole habit of honking thing drives me nuts.

When the glorious 18 months of owning the aforementioned Jetta ended with a tow truck bound for the junkyard, I was put in a very curious situation.  I had moved several months earlier to a central location in Los Angeles, at least as central a location as Los Angeles has to offer. I was commuting via bicycle and public transit, and the idealist in me entertained the idea of not getting a car altogether.  It’s green, ya know?  Down with big oil.

Then came the day I had four errands to run, which took me nine hours to accomplish.  That day happened to be my day off.  That day happened to be the day I cursed a lot.  That day, surprisingly enough, happened to be the day I decided I was going to get a car.  “I’m getting a car!” I shouted, presumably, to the Gods.

The thing about getting a car, yeah…

Cars are really expensive.  Wow.  I mean, man.  I decided to just buy a cheap car when I first moved to the West Coast and I sure did learn my lesson.  That thing broke down enough to effectively quintuple its price over the course of a year and a half.  Then there’s registering and insuring the car.  Then there’s gas.  Then there’s parking.  Then there’s the tickets, which even the most vigilant of parkers is bound to get at least two of per year in the City of Angels.

Sheesh, what a pickle.

To make it worse, there’s my astute knowledge-of-self that tells me I won’t take care of a car unless it’s some cool vintage Mercedes or something.  Well that’s not useful.  At this point I’m positive that the only car I’ll be keeping up on my oil checks on will guarantee to clean out my wallet before it even starts breaking down.

Way to go, Gavin.

I was leaving town for a week in upstate NY, and decided to wait until after the trip.  Just a few days before I left, however, the solution became clear as I was riding my bike uphill on La Cienega with traffic whizzing by and oceans of sweat utilizing every available pore on my body.  If only I didn’t have to pedal this bike in the 96 degree July weather, on a 27-degree incline no less…


I started doing my homework.  It seemed so perfect I had a hard time understanding why everyone wasn’t doing it.  LA’s best kept secret: a mode of transportation that gets you 80 miles per gallon, free parking, and the ability to beat traffic.

My buddy Hunter had suggested this to me a year back, during one of the many moments my Jetta looked like it was officially kicking the bucket.  I immediately rejected the idea for safety reasons.  I always thought it was plain ridiculous to risk your life so you could look cool on a motorcycle.  Of course, riding a bicycle with limited acceleration capabilities next to the many jerks in BMW’s douching down Santa Monica Boulevard, it seemed like it would be a whole lot safer than my current mode of travel.

Everyone I talked to that rode one had the same air of disbelief that anyone would not get a scooter.  By the time I got to Upstate NY, my mind was made up that this was what I’d be doing when I got back to LA.

Then I talked to my family.

“If you don’t mind,” prefaced my brother, “I’ll pay the premiums for a life insurance policy if you name me as the beneficiary.”

Everyone had their own way of communicating to me that they didn’t want me to get one.  Even my dad, who is firm about not helping his kids out so they’ll learn to make their own way in the world, seemed to be mulling over in his head whether or not he should just give me some money so I could get a car.  Although the offer was never actually made, I saw the wheels turning and couldn’t help but to start second-guessing my plan.

It was one of the last days of the trip when we all went down to my Grandparents’ house.  As the requisite what-are-you-doing-with-your-life questions began, I knew the topic of transportation would eventually arise, as I’d spent so many years car-less in NYC, and the Jetta had earned a bit of reputation in my family as the car that just couldn’t.  I quickly made up my mind that I would just tell them I still had my car if it happened to come up.

“So Jess, what are you doing out there in Los Angeles?”

And so it began.  After it was established that I planned to stay in LA for a while, my grandfather chimed in.

“Now Jess, if you plan to stay out there I would imagine you’re going to want to get a moped.”


Oh, the smile I could not suppress, as my grandfather broke down point by point why getting a moped would be the sensible thing to do if I was planning on staying in LA.

“It’s not like you ever go much faster than 15 miles per hour anyway, isn’t that right Jess?”

It’s like he found out through the grapevine and wanted to give me an early birthday present.  But the truth of the matter is that he was right.  He was right for the same reasons I had been right before.  With my wise grandfather’s endorsement, everyone seemed to come around to the scooter idea.  My dad seemed to be interested in what model I was planning on getting.  My brother started to do the math on the economics of it, and while he still wanted the life insurance policy, I think he started to get what my logic was.

The plan was on.  Before I could buy one, I’d need to get my Motorcycle License.  The easiest way to do this is to sign up for the Motorcycle Safety Foundation course.  As I had no previous experience on a bike, I thought it would be a great opportunity to really learn how to ride one before I go out onto the crazy streets of Los Angeles.  As you can ride a scooter for the Motorcycle License test in the State of California, a necessary concession in order to require the license for scooter riders, the MSF gives you the option of taking the course on one.

I’ll take it!

It was during the course that something was suggested that I couldn’t help but find a bit odd.  “Don’t be shy with your horn” the instructor insisted, “you need to let people know you’re there.”

Several weeks later I was out on April O’Neil, the name I had given my teenage-mutant-ninja-turtle styled 150cc, when I was reminded of the honking advice.  Riding down Ventura Boulevard, a busy two-lane road in the valley, a car decided to change lanes without deciding to check it’s blind spot.  As this is a common trait of a licensed driver in the state of California, I do my best to keep out of people’s blind spots.  But on such a busy road I had less wiggle room, and found the passenger of the SUV next to me becoming closer and closer.  I started to swerve to the right, knowing I’d probably have just enough room to share the lane with the gas guzzler, hoping no parallel parked folks were about to get out of their cars.


It was a car behind us that decided to step up and use the horn for its intended purpose.  The SUV swerved back into it’s own lane and I found myself able to breathe again.

Thank you, I thought to myself, car behind the SUV that was looking out for me.  While it wasn’t really a crazy dangerous situation, I couldn’t help but feel like I should’ve been on the horn myself.  Why count on the kindness of strangers, when the model of Scooter I got has the loudest horn available on the market?

And so I actively began preparing myself mentally for laying on the horn.  I kept entering intersections with the hopes that someone was going to try to make a left turn or a pedestrian was going to enter the crosswalk so I’d have the opportunity to give them a heads up, Bloomberg-approved.

I was disappointed to find a shortage of opportunities.  I suppose I should’ve been thankful, but in a way I felt cheated.  I found myself creating opportunities.  A car would put on its blinker to change lanes and I would honk just to let it know I was there.  I never really got a response back, but I could feel in the air a certain vibe of “yeah, I realize you’re there, idiot”.

The thing about honking, I found, is that you have to use the thumb on your left hand, which requires a bit of concentration as you must continue balancing on the bike, as well as steering.  As the breaks of a scooter are the same as a bike, your rear braking is that much slower if you’re in the middle of a honk, as you’ve gotta take your thumb off the horn, re-grip the handle while maintaining balance, then squeeze the break.

This is all the more reason why I wanted the opportunity to practice.  Muscle memory can do amazing things for you, but you can’t go around honking for no reason.  I mean I suppose you can, but, ya know.  I don’t wanna be a jerk.

One Saturday afternoon I was riding down Cahuenga after seeing a movie at the Arclight.  I’m not gonna lie, the character Annette Benning played in The Kids Are All Right freaked me out a bit when she started describing the motorcycle accident injuries she had seen in the hospital she worked at, as she chastised her daughter for going on a ride with her biological father.  But I wasn’t far from home, and I planned to have a nice, safe commute.

There wasn’t much traffic around me at all.  I was in the right of the two lanes on Cahuenga.  I noticed a car from a perpendicular side street inching out.  I could tell it was trying to make a left turn, as the right turn would have been easy to make and straight was not an option.  The car then abruptly pulled out, presumably to make the left turn.  The car didn’t succeed however, and instead ended up stopping square in the lane I was in.

I was about to brake, and had plenty of time to stop if it was necessary.

But wait!  This is one of those opportunities.  The car was clearly so focused on the traffic coming from the other direction, I could see the driver looking that way, that it didn’t know how close I was.  Studies have been done, according to my MSF instructor, that show that people are unable to guage the speed of approaching two wheel automobiles.  I had to let this guy know I was coming, and that he needed to get out of the way.

I clumsily hit the horn, reinforcing it with a second, more firm press of the thumb to let this guy know I was coming.  A moment after the second honk, it occurred to me that I was now dramatically closer to the car than I was when he first pulled out into my lane.  My honk didn’t seem to have any effect on him at all.  He didn’t kick it into reverse to get out of my way like I thought he would.  He just sat there.  At this point I realized that it was I that must get out of his way.  I’d been so involved in the honking process, that I completely lost track of what, if any, cars were behind or beside me.  Fearing that there might be a car next to me if I tried to switch lanes, or that the car would decide to make the left turn it had already started, I though it best to stop.

My left thumb was still eagerly attached to the horn button.  “Lemme push it again” it was saying to me in it’s native Thumbese.  I went to break, first squeezing the front break with my right hand while I moved my thumb back to the handle so I could grip it and squeeze the rear break.  In the process I turned the handlebar a bit to the right while only the front break was being applied.  For those that haven’t taken the Motorcycle Safety Foundation course, or those with just a general lack of common sense, this is NOT something you’re supposed to do.

I skidded out and ended up dropping the bike.  At the very end of it, I endured one, single, rather pathetic, full tumble forward.

And there I was.  Sitting on the pavement with my scooter laying on its side, still running.  I got to my feet, not feeling a bit of pain, aside from a little scratch on the back of my leg.  I looked back at the car behind me that had stopped, if not out of safety or courtesy, then simply because there was still a car sitting in the middle of its lane, waiting to make a left turn.  If you are reading this with a bit of worry as to this scary crash I was in, I can assure you by the look on this guy’s face that there was nothing to worry about.  The guy in the car behind me had that condescending smirk that says “you tool” without ignoring the fact that society tells us we should feign concern in these situations.

And like a tool, I felt.  I picked up April O’Neil, turning her off and feeling a bit defeated.

“You OK?” I heard from the other direction.  Turning around, I saw that the car had finally backed up out of Cahuenga.  This driver’s face had that look of confusion one gets when they don’t understand how they could have been responsible for something so consequential.  The type of face one gets when they utter the phrase “I don’t really remember saying that…I can’t believe you went to three years of Law School because of it.”  You know when you say something like that that it’s not actually your fault.

I grimaced and waved in the way that acknowledged his fault without pretending that the primary wasn’t mine.

I got back on my bike and road home.  April was fine.  I was fine.  The kids were all right.

I didn’t really tell anyone about what had happened.  I was definitely shaken.  I may have started to consider getting rid of the bike.  I think it was a good experience in the sense that I had a real life example of how vulnerable I am.  No need to worry about me getting all dare devil on my 150cc.

I went over what had happened in my mind over and over and over again.  What went through my mind?  What did I screw up in my execution?  What could I have done differently?  After a few days in which my mind was dominated by apprehension, I finally felt comfortable with my conclusion.

Honking the horn is just not a good idea for Jesse Gavin.


Midweek Rant #21: The New York Times

February 22, 2010

The Los Angelification of Jesse Gavin is damn near complete: new lease, new phone number, new bike.

Yes.  I ride a bike in Los Angeles.  And no, I didn’t mean to say “Californiacation”.  Copyright issues aside, it refers to an entire state, and I’ll be damned if I start getting all “NorCal”.

One ghost of my life in New York City still haunts me, however.  But as I was deciding which newspaper I wanted to get delivered to my new apartment for the morning read, it occurred to me that the choice is neither geographical nor cultural.  It’s a question of dignity.

The Los Angeles Times is – just – so…bad.  Part of why I started reading the paper in the first place was so done could get myself a bit more smarter.  I was blessed to live in a city where anyone that was willing to spring for more than a quarter would reflexively go for the New York Times.  Better yet, if you didn’t get it for a dollar at the corner bodega in the morning time, you could get it for fifty cents on the street at 3pm for the Afternoon Special.  And there you were, reading some of, if not the, best in-depth investigative reporting around.

Regulations of prep school basketball teams.  Recruitment practices of Pharmaceutical Companies for sales reps.  Slumlords keeping off heat during the winter in Bronx apartment buildings.  These are just a few of the exposes I read over the years that went on to bring about massive overhauls.  The New York Times didn’t just report news, it made it happen.  And every article, regardless of the section, went above and beyond, making up for any agendas or slants with fecundity of information.  My decision was not about New York versus Los Angeles, it was about Journalism versus Dibbity Doo.

Sometimes when I see people reading Us Weekly, I kneel down and thank God for the Freedom of Press.  To think that famed 18th Century Shakespearean actor David Garrick could sell out an entire run of Richard the Third without having to hold a press conference owning up to his infidelities.  It makes me shudder.  Not to mention his slouchy posture when on holiday.  It’s just good to know that all these celebrities now understand that just because they’re on vacation, doesn’t mean they can get away with a little flab hanging out while they’re on the beach.  Suck it in, Ewan McGregor.

I’ve always cut the New York Times a little slack when it comes to advertising because a business is a business, and they’ve gotta make some money to keep prices down.  And given that they place the bulk of the emaciated models sporting jewelry in the main news section, perhaps it’s more of a reflection of their personal belief that the well read ought to be pressured into materialism and eating disorders just like the rest of them.  What, you think your fancy college degree means you shouldn’t hate yourself when you look in the mirror?  Our readers don’t get special treatment…

Walking to the bus from my apartment in West Hollywood, I got a New York Times for two dollars and twenty cents at a newsstand outside the Kings Road Café.  It’s not 2005 anymore.  Two dollars for the paper and twenty cents for the Governor of California.  Walking past the Hollywood types taking turns pitching ideas, I felt proud of my decision.  Everyone at this Entertainment Biz haunt was trying to spin something; sell an idea that’s probably no good.  Buzz words and bullet points flew as talk avoided addressing the script in the entirety, but rather the five trailer moments.

The thing is, I don’t like a news article with less than 30 paragraphs.  12 paragraphs ain’t news, it’s just a really long headline.  Just because I’ve decided that LA people are in fact my people, doesn’t mean I have to get my news from the LA Times.  I can have both.

And wouldn’t you know?!  First page on the Arts Section there’s an article about a bunch of Filmmakers based in Los Angeles called Blue-Tongue Films.  I’m completely engrossed in the article, having just walked by the hotel they did the interview at.  I’m on the first sentence of Paragraph 8 when it’s interrupted by Continued on Page 4.  The sentence ends up looking like this:

“None of us could get into film school; I tried,” said

Continued on Page 4

It’s times like this when I think of the slogan “The New York Times: All the News That’s Fit to Print”.  It’s not “All the News That We Can Format Into a Pretty Layout”.  Sentences are arbitrarily cut off where they’re cut off and the article will be continued where they can fit it.  Because it’s fit to print.  It’s not fit to be formatted.

This was a particularly good “cliffhanger”, if you will.  I took a quick peek at the five guys in the picture before I turned to page four, devilishly wondering which one of these young chaps said this delightfully ironic statement.

“Maybe it’s the one with the fedora!” I thought loudly in my head, scanning the occupants of the 720 Bus to make sure I had in fact said it in my head and not aloud.  I turned one page, focused on keeping my train of thought while checking out what articles were waiting for me on Pages 2 and 3.  “Ooh!  A theater review by Jason Zinoman – he tells it like it is!”.  My brain still holding onto the cliffhanger, I turned the page and quickly searched for the remainder of the article on Page 4.


Page 4 didn’t have the rest of the article at all.  All it had was a giant ad for Up in the Air with George Clooney.  The ad was full of sensational quotes from glowing reviews, none of which were from the New York Times.  I always chuckle when this is the case, because A.O. Scott isn’t in the business of handing out gems to the marketing team the way Peter Travers is.

Surely this is some mistake.  I quick go back to the first page and in fact it says “Continued on Page 4”.  I then turn back to Page 4 and look up at the top left corner to see if in fact it is “C4”.


Turning my attention to what I once thought would be page C5, my eyes painfully drift upwards along the giant Avatar ad touting the masturbatory Time Magazine quote towards the top right hand corner, where the page number C3B was shamelessly printed.  My muscles, weakened from my dimming outlook on the world, managed to make a turn-of-page happen.

Oh, sad day.  As my eyes focused on the horror of “C3C” and “C3D”, I started to wonder if the day might come when a page of the Thursday Arts might be named after a droid from the original Star Wars Trilogy.  Oh, sad day.

Fortunately it’s only 2010: the year I decided to hate the New York Times.  The page after C3D was in fact the coveted C4, followed by the equally sought after C5.  What made these pages so in demand?  Why they contained the follow ups to every single article started on C1.  Way to go, New York Times!  Filled with rage, I imagined a real life person running things over at the Times, so I could hate something more tangible than an entire newspaper.

We personify so we can cope:

Thank you for reading.  I really appreciate you being there for me.  But despite all this abuse, I’ve decided to subscribe to the New York Times anyway.  It just feels so comfortable, and I’m sure I can get it to change.  And truth be told, there’s a part of me that knows deep down I can’t do any better.

Oh, sad day.

Midweek Rant #20: The Ambiguous Red Zone

November 30, 2009

When I got a job in Santa Monica, I was warned.

“Everyone walks around with yoga mats and reusable shopping bags – dude, it’s the worst.”

While I don’t fully get the problem with people doing yoga and/or bringing along a reusable bag, I understood the point.  I was about to start working in the Liberal Elite Capital of Southern California.  It’s hard to say whether it was the four year old daughter or the hippie wife of the founder of Santa Monica’s Bus System that got to come up with the name “The Big Blue Bus”.  Either way, it’s fitting for a city where a hybrid trumps a Corvette in terms of status symbols.

I can’t say I have all that much issue with the people of Santa Monica.  People are either really friendly or they’re in some sort of zombie state (whether induced by a chanting circle or a good old fashioned pass-the-doobie session).  You get the occasional crabby rich person, but a smile can easily put them in a happy place – something I was never able to achieve in Manhattan.

So do I love Santa Monica?  Am I going to marry it?  Huh?  Tree Hugger?

I wish I could say yes, but there exists one major hurdle for me to ever consider marrying it.  Fortunately it won’t be expensive for the city to fix its major flaw.  At Home Depot you can get a can of paint for about 14 dollars, which means for 28 dollars, all my woes can go right out the window (assuming they already have a paint brush).

So how ‘bout it Santa Monica?  Buy a couple cans of paint and get to work on the sidewalks so I know where I’m allowed to park.  Then we can talk marriage.

For those of you that have never had the pleasure, I’ve included some pictures.  You’ll notice the paint job from 1978.  It’s chipped away, so it’s only half red.  Does that mean I only get half a ticket?  Or do the newly painted hash marks in the street trump the color on the sidewalk?  I just don’t know!  But I’m guessing the guy in the hybrid parking enforcement car knows, so I make sure to always avoid the ambiguous red zone.  This can be rather difficult sometimes, since the non-ambiguous white zone will usually leave enough room for my compact Jetta plus four inches.  Maybe it’s meant to send a message to people with big gas guzzlers?


For anyone interested in policy making in general, I dug up footage from the 1982 Santa Monica City Council Meeting, the first of 28 consecutive years in which a motion for repainting the curbs was denied.  Check it out:


Chapter 30: Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop

July 20, 2009

As you may have read in my cliffhanger of a final chapter, I decided to become an actor again.

(throw scarf over my shoulder): An Actor

I assigned myself an arbitrary date to begin being an actor again (July 6th) and wouldn’t you know that just three days into my return to the actor state of mind, I landed myself a commercial audition.



The mental and psychological vacation I took from acting was truly wonderful.  That fire that led the nineteen year-old version of me to cut down on the Physics classes and start packing in the Theater electives had returned, and felt stronger than ever.

But that didn’t mean I was back to smooth sailing.  No, no.  I was in Los Angeles, where all the things that drove me nuts about acting were amplified to cartoonish levels.  The beautiful people were more beautiful, the skeezy people were skeezier, and white teeth were straight up blinding.  I had given my brain the resting time I knew it needed, and only while waiting for this audition did I truly understand how important that time was.

“Up next, huh?”  Came a voice from a scruffy looking fellow in plaid shorts.  No doubt I’d be seeing a lot of this guy if my hair remained so unkempt and people kept writing commercials for no-good couch slobs.


“On deck”


“They should have bats” he said, miming a swing to keep me from going that furry-flying-creature route.

“Haha, yeah” I said, deciding to join in to the banter.  “Or what or those things called – donuts?”

“Yeah.  By the time you get up to the plate your shoulder is sore.”

“Yeah.  Ha.”

“That’d be hilarious, if like a prima donna baseball player got up to bat and was like, no I’m tired.”

“Yeah” I forced some laughter, suppressing the Larry David side of myself.  “Or like he throws out his shoulder and they have to get a pinch hitter.”

“Yeah – that’d be hilarious…”


Now before I can finish the sentence, I need to make sure we’re on the same page.  If you’ve ever taken an acting class you probably heard the teacher talk about the importance of “the ellipsis”.  In laymen’s terms it is called “dot-dot-dot”.  It implies something is going on in the head of the speaker.  Something is coming.  Something is brewing…

Having lived this actor’s life before, I knew what it was.

The first major antagonist in ”TLOJG:Actor” was an insidious one.  There were so many things about it that were infuriating.  The feeling that this conversation was nothing but a networking ploy.  The feeling that my part in this conversation was merely as a sounding board, or perhaps the wall that an aspiring lacrosse player throws the ball against when he lacks a partner.  And even worse, the feeling that that which you hold so dearly in life has been reduced to a desperate attempt to produce something that somebody might like.  During the painful three dots when it was clear I was speaking to a villain, this is the reduced play-by-play of what went down in my head:

I consider jumping for cover.  Realizing that there is nowhere to hide, I consider running away as fast as possible with my hands over my ears.  Remembering the audition that I was about to go in for, for the high paying commercial, I scratch that and consider quickly punching this guy in the face before he can say it.  Noticing the casting director’s assistant in my peripheral I remember that old adage about treating everyone with respect since you don’t know what they may become, I consider not punching him just in case in ruins my professional relationship with her.  Not really doing it for me, I realize that the urge to punch this guy far outweighs my longing for a successful acting career.  About to punch the guy in the face, I remember the other old adage my grandmother told me about not punching people in the face.  So I don’t.  I let him say it, and I respond the way an actor has to.

The aforementioned ellipsis only actually lasted about two and a half seconds.  But I’ve been here before, and can go through such an elaborate thought pattern in the blink of an eye.

Rewinding so as to include the entire phrase:

“Yeah – that’d be hilarious…that’d be a great sketch.”

Yes.  Just in case you don’t know this, every conversation you ever have with a comedian or, God forbid, an improv actor, will ultimately lead to a phrase along these lines.  Other options are “that would be a great skit/bit/web-series.”

This makes me want to stab my eyeballs out.  I have resisted getting involved in sketch comedy all these years, ever since the party I went to where I realized that every single conversation happening around me was in fact a structured long form improv scene.  Is there no turning these people off?

But as I write this I can’t help but wonder what makes me think I am above this.  Here I am, writing a blog about what happens to me in my life.  What the deal, Gavin?  Huh?  You think you’re so much better than all them and here you are, with the blog you say you’re gonna turn into a show.  What a hypocrite.

Good point, voice of hypothetical reader.  That’s why this was my answer:

“Yeah man.  That’d be a great sketch.”

That’s right, I played the game.  I winced in anticipation, having opened the door for the follow up phrase: “hey, we should get together and flesh something out.”  Here it comes.  Here it comes…

“Jesse Gavin?”

Saved by the Casting Director.

I walked into the audition room, and into safety.  Exiting the room I was once again saved when the other guy got called in.  I gave him a wave whilst walking with the kind of pace that indicated I had somewhere I had to be.

This whole “being an actor again” thing is going to be harder than I thought.

Chapter 29: Judgment Day

June 29, 2009

Time had been passing, and I had been meeting all sorts of people that were their own unique mixture of wonderful, interesting, crazy and fun.

But what the heck was I doing here?  Didn’t I move to Los Angeles to be an actor?  Sheesh, I’d only been on one audition since arriving, and I got it through my friend from High School.  What was I doing in this town?

I started asking myself these questions as “Judgement Day” approached.  May 7th would be my six month mark.  You may recall from my first week of being in Los Angeles that I damn near walked to the airport to buy a one way ticket to New York.  I instead made a pact with myself to stay a solid six months before I made any decisions.

But what decision would I make?  I had stopped pining for NYC some time ago.  But was Los Angeles really where I wanted to be?

One month before Judgement Day I took a very definitive step in moving into a guest house-style room that was offered to me by my old pal, singer extraordinaire Jes Hudak.  As Jes was a friend, and not some random Colombian dude, renting a room from her was a little different.  If I decided I wanted to bail in four weeks, I’d be inconveniencing a friend as opposed to a landlord.  So taking this step more or less solidified my place in Los Angeles.

But what for?

I certainly had to stay for a while just to restore my bank account.  I started looking for a second job, which would be necessary regardless of what my decision would be on Judgement Day.

As opposed to looking for a job in close proximity to my new place, I opted for just the opposite.  I wanted to work in a completely new neighborhood, so that I could explore even more of LA.  The thing is, I really love LA.  There are so many areas and so many amazing people.  I loved going to Kings hockey games at the Staples Center.  I just started going to baseball games at Dodgers Stadium.  I loved checking out new venues to see music.  New restaurants, new coffee houses, new parks.  There was so much, and I was fully aware that I had just started to scratch the surface of it all.  I loved LA – all of it.

I secured a second job in Santa Monica and started training at the end of April.  Although I had yet to reach Judgement Day, I officially started a new phase of my life I projected would last about two months: Operation Sanity.  The goal was to not go insane, given how busy I would be.

I had yet to actually step foot in Santa Monica before my interview.  It seemed so far away, despite the fact that it only took about forty-five minutes to get there.  It may as well have been in Japan.  But walking into my first day of training, I could tell it was a part of town I was going to really enjoy.  My coworkers were beyond lovely, and I was happy with my new place of employment.  Walking out onto the street at 5pm, I took a deep breath of the crisp air and a smile came over my face.

“Hey man” asked a teenager passing the other way, perhaps prompted by my big grin.  “You wanna do some ‘shrooms?”

I was a bit thrown off.  “Uh…”

“Yeah man, I’ve got some shrooms, you wanna do some?” he repeated, this time calling attention to the brown lunch bag in his hand.

“Um – oh.  No thanks, man.  I appreciate it though.”

Noticing the perplexed look on my face, the kid felt the need to explain his unsolicited offer.  “You just look like the type of dude that likes to do shrooms.”

Welcome to Santa Monica, Jesse.

Unfortunately this was the only time this happened to me.  Not that I wanted to actually do shrooms with this kid, but I would’ve liked it if he was always kind of hanging out outside my work, hoping that this would be the day that I’d be down to shroom with him.  He just seemed so excited about the prospect of it.

Reflecting on this bizarre run-in, I was only further reminded of the lack of purpose I had in this town.  Sure, I didn’t want to do shrooms, but what was it I that I ought to be doing to keep me from a nice little hallucinogenic trip after working my day job?


Ah, jeez.  Acting.  I’ve been avoiding it for so long.  But if I’m not here to act, then what the hell am I here for?  Where’s the kid with the shrooms?  May as well, right?

Since I’d been in Los Angeles the only thing I’d been sticking to was this blog.  I’d dabbled in music a bit, but not to the extent to make me think I can do it day in and day out the way that’s necessary.  Should I quit acting and be a writer?  Ah jeez, that would mean I wouldn’t get to act anymore. 

Feeling a bit lost, I attended a Casxio concert the night before the 7th.  That would be the 6th.  Judgement day looming over me, I thought it best to just dance the night away.  And dance I did.  One thing I love about LA is how much more socially acceptable it is to dance.  That’s not to say everyone does, or even most people do.  Rather that if you decide to you won’t be as ridiculed as you would in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

After the show, I decided to stick around and have a drink.

“Dude, how’s it going?” I hear behind me, a hand gripping my shoulder.

This guy?

There he was: Jay.  I’ve talked to this guy a net total of seven times in my life, but for some reason I always thought of him as a really good friend.  Sometimes you just get that from people with no way to reason it. 

“How’s LA treating you.”

Funny you should ask.  I broke it down for Jay, explaining to him the circumstances that led to me needing to leave to New York to my uncertainty about why I should be here.

“I’m not going to tell you what you should do, but I’ll just say this – you have to love LA.”

Yes.  Go on…

“You can’t look at this town as a place you’re going to just live for a while ‘til you can build your career and make enough money to move somewhere else.  People smell that shit.  That’s what I did when I first moved here, and nothing went right.  But if you love this town.  If you love everything about it – it will love you back.”

Well, shit, Jay.

I can’t help but think it was fate that Jay just decided to give me advice that night.  It was the fourth time I’d seen him since I’d been in LA, and he didn’t bother on any of the other occasions.  This was just what I needed to hear.

If I was going to stay in this town, I needed to embrace everything about it that it had to offer me.

Feeling as though the problem was solved, I went to bed only to wake up the next morning thinking to myself – so what does that mean?

Feeling kind of crappy, I decided to hit up a yoga class before work.  I was hoping to take some time and sit down with myself to assess everything as part of Judgment Day.

I guess it’d have to wait.

So there I was, mid-yoga pose, when it came to me.

A TV Show.  Based on my move out here.  Based on this blog. 

No!  Don’t do that, Jesse!  You hate stuff like that, right?

I do.  I hate when people essentially turn their life into a screenplay and expect other people to give a shit.

Feeling a bit deflated, I took a deep breath while in child’s pose (the yogi maverick was doing Warrior 2).

Then it came to me – the economy.

“The Economy”.  A show about a guy that loses his job and moves to a crazy house.

There it is.  And so this lame and crappy post puts an end to the Chapter portion of my blog.  I thank all of my readers from the bottom of my heart for reading.  I’m off to start writing something that will only be of use in Los Angeles…

‘Til the next wacky experience necessitates a Chapter – Jesse Gavin

Midweek Rant #19: Organic Getting the Jesus Treatment

June 25, 2009

I went to Church for the first time for anything other than a wedding or funeral when I was nineteen years old.  A kid had died at my college and I was feeling a bit weird about mortality.  I had also just read, for the very first time ever, parts of the Bible as part of my required Humanities I Class.  Expecting the Bible to be all about judging people and starting wars, I was pleasantly surprised that the focus was instead on love and forgiveness.  Who knew?

Neither of my parents were big fans of Religion.  My dad doesn’t speak much on the topic, occasionally pointing out that the only thing the Nuns at his Catholic School taught him was how to take a beating.  My mom recounts being scolded and humiliated by a priest when she was a kid with a wacky idea (life on other planets).  The last straw for her was when my oldest brother, four years old at the time, kept assuring my mom that she couldn’t find her keys because the devil was hiding them.  When she finally found them, he rejoiced that God had guided her, and without Him she would still be looking.  By the time I was born, we weren’t a Church-going family anymore.

There was no vendetta happening here.  We just didn’t go to Church is all.  Given how busy we were with sports, there was never a Sunday in which we weren’t running around from soccer field to soccer field or hockey rink to hockey rink.  Sunday was the day of sports, as opposed to the day of not-going-to-Church.  But throughout the years I heard the comments, not so much from my family, but from people in general.  The derogatory explanations of what Church is all about.  It’s a bunch of hypocrites, they’d say.  I started to notice that the people that actually did go to Church didn’t seem to be any more moral than people that did.  Then George Carlin pointed out that 90% of all the people ever killed in War were fighting over God.

Hmm, I thought.  But here I was, sitting in a wonderful Church, making sense of a terrible tragedy that had happened at my school.  I felt a warm sense of welcome from the other Church goers.  I went back home and read more.  I don’t think I’ve ever been more inspired than I was when I read about Jesus.  Chocked full of love, forgiveness, and strength, I was really starting to get why He is such a big deal.  Then it happened.

I don’t know if it was the age I was at, or if it was a shift in general sentiment, or if perhaps it was just my relocation to New York City.  Everyone started to hate Jesus.  They’d quote the telethons and pretend they were preachers.  “Oh, Jesus is going to save you!” mocked the Emo kid.  Like anyone trying to sell an idea, the Church was only fueling the fire with billboards that said “Got Jesus” and “WWJD” bracelets showing up everywhere.

Because I hadn’t been raised in the Church, I didn’t have particularly strong feeling about it.  I didn’t get beaten like my dad, I didn’t get humiliated like my mom, and I didn’t get molested like an alarmingly high number of friends I’ve known throughout the years.  I was never given any reason to hate Jesus.  At worst, I would just ignore Him.

After years of holding my tongue I finally started asking people what it was they hated about Jesus so much.  After all, Jesus was the name that was being mocked all the time, in response to the fact that Jesus was the one that was being praised all the time.  What I found was a whole lot of answers that had nothing to do with JC.  I’ve yet to actually talk to someone that actually has an issue with Jesus.  People will go off about the Church and about Sunday School and about Rod from down the street who judges everyone and then (insert terrible thing).  But JC?  Scratch free.

I like to call this phenomenon the Jesus Treatment.  Basically, it happens when something is great, but those people surrounding or promoting it are sometimes not so great.  It doesn’t take much for something to get the Jesus treatment, and I see lots of stuff getting it today.



There’s many many examples out there, but what’s been bugging me as of late has been “Organic”.  The idea of organic is that you make food, like, for real.  You don’t add anything a chemist invented in a lab, whether it be in the fertilizer or as a pesticide.

What a bunch of douche bags.  I like chemicals in my food very much.  No chemicals?  Oooooh – la dee da, Monsieur Organique.  Organic this, organic that.  A bunch of rich liberals going to Whole Foods trying to be better than everyone else.  Oh, and I hear it’s good for the Environment!  Wah, wah, wah, the Environment.  I need to save the planet, because I love hugging trees and rolling in dirt.

Organic is a good thing.  Just because advertisers abuse the shit out of the word, and people tend to get their panties in a bunch over it, doesn’t mean that it’s not good.  People get annoyed by this Organic idea.  But consider this – why is it that Organic food is labeled as opposed to non-Organic food being labeled?  Like a sticker on every banana telling you how much pesticide was used to make it, or if it’s genetically modified? 

Then there wouldn’t be such a thing as “Organic” food and people would have nothing to give the Jesus Treatment.

I’m just sayin’.


With all this talk of religion, I feel it’s necessary to include this video of Jesse Gavin singing Amazing Grace:

Chapter 28: War Stories, Part 3

June 22, 2009

When we last left off, Space Cadet Sharon had just belittled Connecticut Chris and me for being so concerned about the battle of wild beasts taking place on the roof.

“My village got bombed once a week when I was a kid” was her simple and concise explanation.

How do you argue with that?

What was so intriguing about Space Cadet Sharon was not so much her childhood spent in a war torn Middle Eastern Country, or her subsequent move to Germany where her family lived in a refugee community, nor was it her move after high school to San Antonio, Texas, not the most ideal place for a Muslim to settle down in the United States.  What was so fascinating about Sharon was that it was hard to imagine her having ever stepped foot out of the city limits of Beverly Hills.

A beautiful girl to say the least, Sharon’s striking looks were meticulously enhanced with what sometimes seemed like hours of doing her hair and makeup.  I’d imagine this is a bit of an exaggeration, as is bound to happen when 11 people share 1 bathroom.  But man oh man did she seem to take forever.  It paid off, however, as she seemed to always look “camera ready”.  It was easy to forget that her life had not been spent in the part of LA with the White Street Signs, but from time to time you’d get a sobering reminder.

This was one of those times.  Sharon got her yogurt and went back to her room.  Connecticut Chris and I looked at each other in emasculated shame.

You kind of had to be careful what you said around Sharon.  One time someone mentioned that the food they were eating was organic and the volcano erupted:

“Ugh!  You people with your organic.  Organic, organic, organic!  Everything has to be so – ugh!  Why can’t things just be things.”  Feeling the need to justify her outburst, she reminded everyone: “I’m sorry, I just – I work at an organic spa, and I get sick of it sometimes.”

Note to self: Ease up on the O-talk.

Sharon’s frustrations were countered by her child-like enjoyment of messing with people.  I noticed a few times she had strung people along with some sort of white lie, getting that twisted sense of satisfaction that we all enjoy from time to time.  Ha ha – I fooled you!  (you know the kind).  Despite having noticed this quality about her, I still wasn’t able to tell whether or not her being pregnant was just a plot to mess with me or was in fact a complicated matter she was dealing with.  It came up so naturally.

Talking about one of the new roommates, she mentioned that she didn’t feel comfortable around him yet.  “He doesn’t even know I’m pregnant.  I just don’t see him as, like, that kind of a friend.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle a bit.  “Pregnant?”

“Shut up” she said, playfully hitting me with that extra oomph to let me know that I should really not joke about that.  Seeing a mystified look on my face, she felt the need to check in: “I told you I was pregnant, don’t start with that.  Oh what, did you just think I was getting fat?”

Come to think of it, I guess I had noticed that Sharon had put on a few pounds.  I’m not the sort that goes out of my way to keep tabs on my roommates’ physical appearance, so the fact that I had noticed speaks of how noticeable it must’ve been.

I decided to let it go, as the subject quickly changed back to the new roommate.

I felt like there was a 50/50 chance that she was really pregnant.  There was no indication whatsoever that she was trying to pull a fast one on me, and the only reason I thought she might not be pregnant is because she had also told me she was celibate as part of her faith.  Who knows with Space Cadet Sharon.   I decided to keep my ears peeled and not bring up the topic.

A few nights later a typical scenario went down.  Sharon was hanging out by Chris’s computer as he was retouching her headshots and editing a reel for her.  I was on an earlier schedule at the time, so I was in the habit of falling asleep with the light on during their boisterously fun conversations.  I had decided to turn in, but was unable to actually fall asleep.  After  few minutes of silence, I hear Sharon quickly shift gears.

“I think Jesse is asleep” she said in a somber tone, allowing me an opportunity to speak up with a very long pause.  “I hate him.”

I could tell in the way she said this that she was not talking about me, but rather someone that had previously been discussed between the two of them.

“I know it’s wrong to hate, but I really hate him for what he did.”  I could sense the awkwardness on Chris’s part as he chose not to say anything.  “It’s not too late for me to get rid of it” she said after a long pause.


Chris kind of chuckled at this out of discomfort with the topic and was quickly quieted by an “it’s not funny” from Sharon.  “I’m only ten weeks, I have until twelve before I have to decide.  It’s going to make my life miserable.  Miserable.  I can’t afford to raise a kid.  I know that sounds terrible Chris, but it’s really going to make me an angry person, but the only other option is…it’s wrong.  I can’t do that to a living being.”

So at this point I am technically supposed to be asleep.  This being a common scenario, it’s safe to say that Sharon was just waiting for me to zonk out ‘til she had her talk with Chris.  The two of them were pretty close, and maybe she felt comfortable confiding with him on such subjects.

Or maybe she is an incredible liar. 

How could I think this?  What a horrible person I am to think that the pickle this poor girl had found herself in was actually a fabrication created solely for the purpose of having fun with me.  What a jerk I am.  I finally managed to doze off, not wanting to hear any more of this without knowing if it was meant for my ears or not.  I’d have to wait this one out.

“Jesse, you got something from Screen Actors Guild and something from Progressive” said Lamar as he handed me two pieces of mail a few days later.  Several us were hanging out in the living room working on our respective laptops.  I took my two pieces of mail and went back to my email.

“Whoever ‘current resident’ is got sent a magazine on pregnancy” I heard Lamar say as I was typing away, a clear bemusement in his voice at the idea of someone in this house actually needing such a publication.  The same type of bemusement I heard in his voice when “Life Extension” Magazine came addressed to me, compliments of my grandmother.  Not that we don’t all want to extend our lifespans, it’s just an odd magazine to see show up in the mail is all.

“That’s mine!” chirped Sharon.  I looked up to see a big smile on her face as she took the magazine and retired to her room. 

No one said anything about what had just happened.

Hmm.  At this point I’m starting to think myself a bit of a jerk for ever doubting the veracity of her claim.  A few nights later, however, when she lights up a cigarette on the porch after it being proffered by a new French girl, I got to thinking.  I got to thinking why she was smoking a cigarette, especially since she had always given Celeste such a hard time about how bad it is for you.  And here she was smoking.  That was odd by itself.  Add in the fact that she allegedly pregnant, and I couldn’t help but see the light.  This was clearly being done to test me.  Would I tell her to stop smoking because she is pregnant?  Did I even believe it at this point?  She was testing the waters, and it was necessary for her to do something she had always been so adamantly against in order to do it.

This girl isn’t pregnant, she’s crazy.  And she is messing with me.

Or was she?  Oh dear God, it’s an odd thing to accuse someone of, don’t you think?  And the way everything was happening was so natural that it would have required very careful calculation. 

I decided to rest on it.  A few days later she came into the house and seemed very upset.  A bit wary, I asked her what was wrong, fearing the possibility that it would be something about the “baby”.

“I had my heart broken tonight.” 

I didn’t like where this was going.  Get to the point, Sharon!  What about the baby broke your heart tonight?  Huh?!  I regretted asking.

“What happened?” I reflexively asked, biting my tongue just a moment too late.

Now that I had set the ball rolling, she’d be able to run with the pregnancy thing and it would once again seem unforced.

“This big time talent manager that comes into my work found out that I was an actor and told me I’d never be able to be an A-List or even a B-List actor because I’m Persian.”


Ostensibly Middle Eastern, Sharon was constantly having to hear people’s thoughts on how her ethnicity fit into her acting options.  It’s odd that I never gave this too much weight, as I am well aware from my time in New York how important external appearance is, Hollywood obviously being worse.  All I ever thought of Sharon as was beautiful and seeming like she’s from Beverly Hills.  How could I not realize how big of an issue this was?  She went on to talk about how she didn’t even ask this guy’s opinion or anything and how Slumdog Millionaire cleaned up at the Academy Awards and how it just plainly sucked that people couldn’t have an open mind about things.  It killed me to hear all this, as Sharon was terribly talented and worked extremely hard on her career in the little spare time she had from her two survival jobs at the aforementioned organic spa and as a greeter at a gym.

As Sharon vented her frustrations, I thought to myself that it might not be the right time to ask if she was really pregnant.  When I found out weeks later through Connecticut Chris that she wasn’t, it made it even harder for me.  Clearly this lady is a great actor.  She’s also smart enough to think of ways to not make things too obvious.  If the great lengths she went to to play a trick on me is not indicative of a great sense of humor, then I don’t know what is.  And here she was in Hollywood, the best place for her to be.  A place where people are accepted for who they are.  And yet…

Something she’d never be able to change would be the first thing people would think of when they met her.  And it wouldn’t be the Beverly Hills quality she exudes.  It wouldn’t be the hours she spent hogging the bathroom in order to do her hair and makeup.  It wouldn’t even be the crazy brain of hers that devised a plan to make me think she was pregnant, just for kicks.  It would be her ethnicity.  And this would be her battle.

Midweek Rant #18: Telling Old People They’re Going to Die

June 18, 2009

It’s safe to say we’ve reached that point where it’s socially acceptable to tell people they’re going to die from smoking cigarettes.

I myself fall into the very large category of “only when I’m drinking” smokers.  This, the largest group of twenty-somethings, would be willing to name their first-born children after you if you were to bum them a cigarette at a party or outside a bar.  Fortunately there exists this arena in which smokers can not only avoid vilification, but also achieve ‘hero’ status by providing a fag to someone that’s totally jonesin’.

Outside of this arena, however, the “only when I’m drinking” smokers will keep quiet and be of no assistance as the “never would I ever” smokers sling rocks of Truth at poor, defenseless, and helplessly addicted smokers.  Clearly not having enough will power to beat their addiction, they are no match for the self righteous do gooders on a quest to rid the world of this awful plant…tobacco.

I have known “never would I ever” folk that would do hard drugs – mushrooms, cocaine – and yet they would go out of their way to scold someone for smoking.  Lots of people smoke pot, which contains as many if not more carcinogens than tobacco, and for some reason they just don’t “get” how people could smoke cigarettes.  Someone might be an absolutely perfect citizen and do nothing wrong at all, and yet still they will be an asshole and a hypocrite if they choose to berate someone for exercising a God-given freedom in a legal manner, when done in a courteous and respectful way.  Yes, cigarettes are terrible.  But two wrongs don’t make a right.  

People are people, and we like to put each other down when possible.  It’s a bummer, but it happens.  But regardless of how much veracity there is in the attack, I find it completely unacceptable when this is done to old people.

Here’s the thing.

Old people have lived much longer than you, and no matter how smart you think you are, they are smarter…because they lived longer than you.  Sure, they don’t even know how to turn on a computer, let alone send an email.  They don’t know how to do that crazy hard Calculus problem you got right on your last exam.  They may have only been educated through the 8th grade, but trust me – they’re smarter than you.

They understand that smoking is bad for them.  If you were as smart as they were, you’d understand that telling them they’re going to die from smoking is not going to help them quit.  Please stop talking down to them and let them enjoy the rest of their lives.


Chapter 27: War Stories, Part 2

June 15, 2009

On to Chris’s story…

Freshman year of college in Boston.  Dorm renovations had taken longer than expected, so students were put up at a Double Tree Inn in Chinatown for a few weeks until they were ready.  Walking back from a night of cavorting, Connecticut Chris and his buddy Glenn were just a block away from their hotel when Glenn decided to sprint full speed to their destination. 

“Huh” thought Connecticut Chris.

Now I can attest to the odd bursts of behavior that college kids are susceptible to after a night at the bar.  Most memorable for me was the subway ride home during my summer at NYU when the entire group I was with simultaneously decided to take on monkey personae, using the overhead bars as tree branch substitutes.  At no point did anyone suggest we act like monkeys; we just all happened to be on the same page about it being the right thing to do.

Unfortunately for Chris, this random Carl Lewis impression was no monkey business.  He was sprinting for a reason.

“Yo, where’s your friend going?” Chris heard just behind him.  By the time he registered what was going, he had a guy on each side of him.

“I don’t know” Chris said, keeping his cool.

“Call him back” the other guy sternly suggested.

“No” Chris succinctly replied.

“Yo, give me your wallet” said the first guy, his imperative imbued with an ominous ‘or else’ undertone.

“No” Chris once again said.  At this point he realized that there was no easy way he was going to get out of this situation without losing his wallet.  If you remember my story from last week, it was at this juncture when my mind got to working.  After briefly considering getting all Irish on the guy that had snuck up behind me, I came to the conclusion that it was not worth the risk and complied with his demand that I give up everything I had. 

This where my story differs from that of Connecticut Chris.

A block away from safety, he opted instead for a preemptive strike.  As one of the guys started a reiteration of the “give me your wallet” demand, Chris quickly jabbed him in the sternum.  Knowing that the other guy would be quick to act, he immediately went in for a hook, only to find himself a fraction of a second too late.

The quick spin required to optimize the surprise factor of his attack gave him just enough of a look to see what it was that would foil his 1-2 combination: a pair of brass knuckles.

Seeing stars, Chris made a valiant effort to take on both guys, holding his own for a good forty-five seconds, his only counter to their brass being the handfuls of gravel available to him from the run-down parking lot they were in.  After almost a minute of throwing haymakers he reached the point where it was clear that he was being overpowered.  There was nothing to do now but do his best to protect himself, so he took a fetal position as they went to town. 

After ten of the longest seconds in the history of the planet, Glenn finally came to the rescue back from the hotel.  Not realizing that he had left Chris behind until he got inside, he unsuccessfully tried to find security until it became apparent he’d have to take things into his own hands.

Rocks being thrown at them from the returning college kid, the two muggers finally decided to call it a day.  What should have been a simple mugging turned into a nightmare.  Little did they know that Connecticut Chris, no hood up at this point, would put up such a fight.

“Yo, let’s go” one said to the other after getting pelted with a stone.

Glenn continued to fire away as he ran to Chris’s aid.  Before he could reach him, Chris was already up and back in action with a handful of rocks.  Seeing a giant one, about the size of a football, Chris’s adrenaline rush prompted him into perfect shot put technique.

“I’d normally only be able to throw that thing like ten feet” he told me as he recounted the story on our drive back from Hollywood.  “But I must’ve thrown it like fifty ‘cuz of all the adrenaline pumping through me.”

Doing their own Carl Lewis impression, the two muggers must’ve been wondering how this could’ve gone any worse as they sprinted across the parking lot.  For one of them, however, all thoughts came to a sudden halt as a football-sized rock hit him in the head.


With the kind of accuracy you’ll only see in an over the top Action Movie and/or Comedy, Connecticut Chris managed to hit his moving target with a mini-crater.  He couldn’t help but celebrate as the muggers body became limp and he fell to the ground. 

“Yeah!  That’s right mother fucker!”

The other mugger stopped and looked down at his friend.  Amidst all this chaos there was the moment when all three of the standing participants quieted down in recognition of what might have just happened.

“Holy Shit, I hope I didn’t kill him” Chris thought to himself.  This is the part that the Action and/or Comedy movies don’t bother to deal with.  Killing people is a big deal.  Even if you’re exonerated in a court of law you’d better bet there are going to be people out there that are going to want to take the law into their own hands.  This could possibly be a life changing event, and all three of the standing were realizing this.

After five seconds of lifelessness, the fallen began to move.  The chaos immediately began again as the standing mugger turned his attention back to Chris, about fifty feet away.

“Yo!  That was fucked up!” scolded the mugger.  Helping up his friend.

“That was fucked up?!  You’re fucked up asshole, you just fucking jumped me” Chris yelled as he started towards them.  Glenn grabbed Chris as the two muggers retreated, a little less like Carl Lewis and a little more like Jesse Gavin in junior high gym class.

“Dude, we gotta get you to a hospital” said Glenn.  Having witnessed what Chris only got to feel while in the fetal position, Glenn had a better grasp on what should be prioritized in this situation.  Chris obeyed Glenn’s demand, despite the opportunity to exact a little justice (granted his shot put had at the very least evened things out).  It was to both of their surprise that the doctor released Chris with no broken bones or notable damage done.  All that remained of the muggers’ dirty work was two black eyes.

Chris and I were just arriving back to North Hollywood when I asked him how the experience changed his life.  On top of wearing the hood up, he started taking boxing lessons.  He wanted to make sure he was never viewed as an easy target again.  The sixth sense he developed was what had saved us that night in Hollywood, as could tell we were being tailed without actually having to turn around.  As for that crucial decision that made all the difference in our comparative stories:

“If that were to happen again I would maybe – maybe consider thinking about possibly just giving them my wallet.  Maybe.”

Viewing Chris in a different light, I couldn’t help but think of something that had a happened a few weeks earlier.  The possums that lived on our roof seemed to be brawling with either each other or perhaps an invading creature.  Chris and I were in the kitchen as we heard the shrieking of the battling beasts on the roof.  It started to sound as if they were in the house, which was certainly a possibility given its shoddy construction.  We both held our breath as we listened through the wall, each of us having the kind of schoolgirl hissy fit that would have been far more appropriate on the night we got tailed.

Space Cadet Sharon entered the kitchen from her room.

“Sharon.  Sharon!  Be careful, there’s a battle going on on the roof – they might have gotten inside” warned Chris.

Sharon paused for a second, giving Chris a cold, blank stare.

“My village got bombed once a week when I was a kid” she informed us, continuing on to the fridge to get her yogurt cup.

Space Cadet Sharon: the story has just begun…

Midweek Rant #17: T-Shirts With Geographical References

June 11, 2009

Of all the big cities I’ve ever lived in, of which there are two, Los Angeles has by far the least pride-ridden of the respective natives.  They also have by far the cooler of the natives.  That’s right, those that are from New York City have such a chip on their shoulder about being “born and bred” that it gets in the way of them being likeable in any way.  It’s such a coveted claim that you’ll find people manipulating it with an emphasis on the birth factor to imply that they grew up there. 



John McCain was born in the Panama Canal.  I often wonder if when he goes on ambassador trips to Central America, he brings it up in order to get respect at the local watering hole.

Because native Los Angelenos place very little value on the born-and-bred status, there is very little hesitation on the part of transplants to tout where it is they’re from.  Go to a sports bar on a Sunday afternoon during football season and you’ll see pretty much the entire NFL represented, with no pesky interference of an actual home team.

Which brings me to my rant.

I never thought that this would bother me.  In fact I used to wear my Kelly’s Saloon T-Shirt in New York City all the time in the hopes that I’d run into a SUNY Geneseo alum on the street.  But in the city of Angels, the frequency with which people start conversations with me based solely on the geographical reference on my t-shirt drives me friggin’ crazy.

I have a Maple Leafs t-shirt I got when I was fourteen years old.  I wear it mainly for nostalgic reasons after I found it in my mom’s attic on my last trip to South Dakota. “I used to wear this to ninth grade geometry” I think as I put it on.

“Go Leafs!  I’m from Toronto!” says the over enthused lady behind me at Trader Joe’s.  I’m not wild about the conversation I’m about to have, but hey – I brought it upon myself wearing the logo of such a passionately followed club.  One of the original six for crying out loud.

Note to self: If I wear my Leafs shirt I’ll probably have to talk to people from Toronto about how they’re from Toronto.

Next time it happens is at the gym.  Wearing a t-shirt made for my high school hockey team, I am duped into several minutes of chit-chat by the following statement: “Hey – you’re from Saratoga?  I’m from Guilderland!”  It’s 192 seconds of my life I will never get back.  Nothing is gained, nothing is learned.  Despite our best efforts to reduce our degrees of separation, we don’t know any of each other’s friends.

If I had been wearing this shirt in Clifton Park, this would have never happened.

At this point I’m starting to pick up on the trend.  The logo on my t-shirt is merely, to use a term coined by that nametag guy, a “front porch”.  Some dude in Portland actually started wearing a nametag every day because he noticed it was easier to start conversations that way.  He calls it a “front porch” because people that sit on front porches are easier to talk to than people that sit in their living room.  I’m a big fan of the simplicity of it.  It’s just a nametag, but it makes you far more approachable.

In a town where many people are looking to start conversations with strangers in the name of networking, this approachability I was creating for myself wasn’t quite as simple.  I wasn’t wearing a nametag, but rather a geographical reference.  People were using said reference to start a conversation with me.

How dare they use geographical references for their own agendas?

Where I come from, towns and cities aren’t pawns in some sort of hustling and networking scheme.  They’re the chess board.  That’s right, I’m going with the analogy.  It’s the base, whether it be a cardboard foldaway or a weathered granite surface in Washington Square Park.

OK, I’m done with the analogy.

If you think I’m being ridiculous about this geographical reference issue, either in my paranoia or in my unapologetic overuse of the cumbersome phrase “geographical reference,” please consider this last example:



The countless conversations I’ve had with people from New Jersey, none of which bothered to take the time to notice that not only is it just a mass produced Old Navy design, but that the shirt is making fun of their home state…