Friday, April 30, 2004


Every day I drive home from work exactly the same way. Normally, I tend to shy away from this monotonous sort of thing, but I feel as if Los Angeles has forced me into this predictable behavior. If you stray from the direct route, you’ll always get caught up in something or behind someone and it will always take you longer to get home.

But that’s not the point of the story. Sometimes, because of my job, I have to work late and end up driving home about the time most people are watching the evening news and getting ready for bed. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, especially if you like observing people.

Over part of my regular route I travel a good long portion down Highland Avenue, which takes me directly through the heart Hollywood. There are three intersections I don’t mind getting stuck sitting at the light. You know how Dante’s Inferno has the nine circles of Hell? I like to view these pauses in my journey home as the three intersections of Hollywood.

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

First, is the intersection of Hollywood and Highland. This is right in the center of the Hollywood everyone knows and loves. The Chinese Theater is just down the street, Ripley’s Museum sits on the corner, and there’s a fancy new temple to consumerism that was just built recently, the new Hollywood and Highland outdoor mall. I love stopping here because there are usually lots of tourists walking around. They’re usually looking down to the ground, trying to find their favorite star on the walk of fame, or looking up at the new video screen that advertises 7-Up, The Hollywood Reporter and other sorts of things. I often also see a guy dressed as Spiderman running across the street, but I’m not really sure what that’s all about. Anyway, It’s nice. Everything’s clean and people get their own taste of glamorous Hollywood… Kind of like I felt when I first started working in the entertainment industry.

Then I drive a little further, down to the intersection of Sunset and Highland. Here, you still get a bit of the glitz of Hollywood. Hollywood High School lives at this intersection and has such illustrious alumni as Carol Burnett, Judy Garland, and Laurence Fishburne. It also starts to get a bit seedier here. At night, on the corner opposite the Carl’s Jr. (who now have healthy low-carb cheeseburgers), I often see the “just-shaking-your-hand-but-really-passing-drugs-to-you” meet and greet. I figure anyone who hangs out at a payphone for any length of time can’t be up to any good. Who these people are fooling, I don’t know, but at least they’re pretending. It’s kind of like I felt after being in “The Biz” after a couple of years.

A little further down is Santa Monica and Highland. This is the final stoplight destination of my descent into Hollywood. There’s a mini-mall here, complete with a porn store and donut shop, and across the intersection is everyone’s favorite gourmet Mexican food, Del Taco. As you can tell, it’s a real high-end neighborhood, but that’s not the best part. It’s the hookers. I think they’re transvestite, or transsexual or hermaphrodite or something, but business must be good, because they’re usually out there strutting their stuff. I swear to god, they shake and swish their hips around more than any woman I’ve ever seen. They just go about their business, walking the crosswalks, hanging out in the donut shop and approaching the occasional car that pulls into the parking lot. Sure, I’ve seen them get busted a few times, but what I like about them is that they aren’t even trying to hide the fact that they’re prostitutes. Yes, kind of like how I feel now. Using my writing skills for a dating show is kind of like being a whore for Hollywood, but at least I’m not trying to pretend it’s something else.

Thursday, April 29, 2004


Not much happened at my job today, except a bunch of extra work was dumped in my lap. Apparently, we now have to tone it down, WAY DOWN. We're doing things like bleeping out words such as "jackass." We're doing things like removing shots of guys without their shirts on. We're doing things like blurring women's breasts if there's even a hint of a hard nipple.

I suppose a few words of appreciation are in order... Thanks, Janet. Hope that little Superbowl stunt works out for you.

On a lighter note, here are a few photos of my dog wearing different hats. His name is Bob and if he looks a little annoyed, it's probably because I've been taking pictures of him like this since he was a puppy and he's had enough, dammit!

Tuesday, April 27, 2004


Yep, another day of producing television with no socially redeeming value.

Not surprisingly, the longer I work in television, the less television I seem to watch. You see, I’m not even really a fan of reality TV. Sure, I’ll cop to watching Survivor (this is anonymous, right?), but that’s only to tide me over until the new season of Six Feet Under.

I used to feel kind of bad about being a cog in the great reality television machine, but I’ve become jaded over time and the paychecks have come in handy. Painfully, I must admit that somewhere in the depths of my soul, I derive some pleasure in watching people making complete fools of themselves. I’ll spare you the train wreck analogy.

You’d think after all this time, people would learn that there’s a good chance of being embarrassed coming on a dating show like mine, but they don’t.

This is the future of America, folks. People who think “conversate” is a word. People who think flashing the golden globes or twig and berries within five minutes of meeting someone is the best way to get attention. People who dance like THAT, and you know what that means. Every day there’s a whole new crop of 21 to 25-year-olds wanting their slice of the pop culture pie, and every day, I’m there to help them humiliate themselves.

Let this be a warning to you. If you come on my show, I will make fun of you. Mercilessly. And I won’t feel bad about it.

I have to be racking up major amounts of bad Karma, right? I’ve thought about this and my place in the universe a lot. I figure since my wife has just gotten her Ph.D. (note to self: wife is smarter than you… watch your step) in clinical psychology, I’m set. I tear them down and she builds them back up. The way I see it, she’s the Yin to my Yang, doing right in the world where I’m doing wrong.

Then again, people have told me to stick it up my Yin-Yang, so I’m not really sure where that leaves me.

Monday, April 26, 2004


Just a few notes:

1. There are irises blooming on my patio. They are beautiful.

2. My Date With Drew is a really funny, sweet and great movie. This little documentary is continually winning awards at festivals across the country and when it comes out in theaters, I highly recommend you go see it.

3. Just so you know, I recently bought a gold tooth.

A few notes on the notes above:

1. We grew the irises from bulbs. Ain’t nature great?

2. How have I seen My Date With Drew, if it isn’t in theatres yet? I have a friend who, let’s just say, is heavily involved with the film and I am very proud of the filmmakers.

3. The "gold" tooth wasn’t from the dentist mind you, but from a vending machine. I have no idea why I bought it, other than I had fifty cents burning a hole in my pocket. The bummer is, it won’t stay on my tooth.

Saturday, April 24, 2004


A full confession.

Recently, my wife and I were out walking the dog early in the morning. As we strolled along the sidewalk (in a commercial business area - not residential) my wife looks down and sees an envelope on the ground. Not just any envelope, but one of those bank ATM deposit envelopes with the two holes in them, and through the holes, we could see what looked like cash.

As I picked it up, I noticed the only markings were for the particular bank it belonged to and where someone had written in pencil, "for deposit in checking."

No account number. No name. No nothing.

Of course, I had to open it and see how much was inside. Damn, if it wasn't $260! Cash. And no deposit slip. Nothing but cold, hard cash. We gave each other a look as if to say, "what do we do?" and then looked around. Being early in the morning, no one was around. None of the businesses were open. Just me, my wife and our trusty ol' dog standing on the sidewalk with $260 and a decision to make.

Now, I suppose we could have taken the money to the bank where it was intended to be deposited, but what the hell were they going to do? Besides, the nearest branch of that particular bank was a good mile away.

I suppose we could have put up signs all over the neighborhood saying "FOUND MONEY," but really, let's be serious.

And just for the record, if it would have been a wallet, or there was some kind deposit slip or account number or any sort of identification, we would have returned the money to it’s rightful owner. At least I think we would.

So, yes, we decided to keep the money. Yes, we felt bad for the person who had lost it. And whoever you are, I hope it wasn’t your rent money or the money to pay for your cousin’s dialysis machine.

Of course the feeling bad part goes away pretty quickly when you start thinking of how you could spend this stroke of good luck. I suggested we spend it on hookers and blow, but my wife wanted to buy a coffee table. You guess where them money went.

Thursday, April 22, 2004



It just occurred to me that a haiku I wrote in response to a comment below wasn’t actually a haiku at all. Either that, or I’m the founder of the surrealist neo-classical haiku movement.

At any rate, here is the corrected poem in correct haiku format:

mr. t gets hot
but wears socks with his flip-flops
i love his mohawk


I don't know if anyone is actually reading this, but if you're looking for something interesting, I suggest checking out a couple of links I’ve posted over to the left. Especially Rance and Life at TJ’s Place.

Rance is supposedly a blog written by Hollywood star who wishes to remain in the shadows. Some think it’s Owen Wilson, or Johnny Depp, or John Cusack, or George Clooney. Others suspect it’s written by an attention starved b-list actor or even an assistant to a b-list actor. Heck, it might even be written by me. And for all you know, I might be a 300 lb pimply-faced 19-year-old who writes these things when his mother goes to work.

Life at TJ’s is a blog written from a whole other world: the life of a Midwest strip joint manager. Great fodder for a blog, but it’s really not the salacious nature of the work, but rather the thoughtful insights and observations that make it a good read. And anyone who pens the phrase, “He smells like dirty scalp” is tops in my book.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004


Let me start off by saying that there’s a motto I try and live by: Be completely at ease in places you have no business being. Sometimes, when I’m in a situation where I feel like a complete moron, it helps me calm down and pretend I actually belong. That, and sometimes it helps me get away with stuff.

It definitely helped the night I attended Hugh Hefner’s Birthday party.

It wasn’t at the mansion, but at a chic bar on Sunset Boulevard where only the beautiful people get past the velvet rope. Yes, yes… How could I possibly manage to get past the gatekeepers of a world that only exists in the imaginations of most men? Well, this is the part where I skip some of the details. Let’s just say that I was with someone and we didn’t have to wait in the line. As a matter of fact, I don’t even think I touched the velvet rope.

Before I get to Hef and his birthday, let me explain a little bit about the goings on in this club. I did spy a few celebrities there… I saw an aging, but still bankable action star, an alum of Saturday Night Live-turned sitcom star, and someone who has been caught having sex with teenage girls. I think there were more, but as I’ve said before I’m not much into the celebrity deal. (note to self: you say you’re not into celebrities, but haven’t your last two entries been about that very subject?)

Throughout the club are good looking young guys, a few overweight, middle-aged men with loads of money, and lots and lots of beautiful women. And I don’t mean your run-of-the-mill good looking, I mean, take the best looking woman you’ve ever seen and multiply that by 10. As I’m wandering around, I’m thinking, “Where do these people come from?” I’ve never seen them out on the street, in the grocery store or using the automated teller machine. For god’s sake, where is the justice in the world? These people have ALL the looks. How about some for the rest of us?

These people were dancing and drinking and mingling. And it was hot, and it was sweaty, and they still looked like a million bucks. I still have one song stuck in my head that was playing at one point: Get Ur Freak On. Seems appropriate that this song will be forever attached to my fond memories of Hef.

Anyway, about Hef… Hef frequents this club on a certain night of the week and has a whole area in the back roped off for him and his entourage. By entourage, I mean 7 to 8 women who have graced the pages of Playboy and a couple of bodyguards. Yes, another velvet rope, but this is a super-duper-extra-strength V.I.P. velvet rope that NOBODY gets past without permission of Hef or his head bodyguard.

Behind that rope sits Hugh Hefner and a bunch of giggling playmates, and in front of that rope is me. Now, one might think, “There is no way in the world you could get past that rope… Right? Well, that’s probably true, but the person I was with somehow talked their way in and we were allowed to sit BEHIND the velvet rope.

So, we sat near Hef and his little harem. And I say near, because in the spirit of full disclosure, I have to admit that we were sitting at another table 5 feet away, and we didn’t really talk to Hef or his girls, because there was some sort of unsaid understanding. As I was sat there, I kept thinking about my motto. I mean, what business did I have being in that club? None. What business did I have being in Hugh Hefner’s private party space? None whatsoever. What business did I have being in close proximity to Playboy Playmates? None. Zip. Nada.

But there I was.

And the interesting thing was the reaction of the people on the other side of the rope. They must have been thinking, who the hell are these two, sitting back there with Hef? It was strange. These beautiful creatures would lean over the rope and ask if they could come in and sit with us, they would flirt, they would offer to buy us drinks. One girl flashed us her breasts and another would have done lewd things if we had asked her to (and for the record, we didn’t). Of course, we told them all no and acted cool as if we belonged there, but really we were scared we’d get kicked out for even thinking about it.

It was surreal seeing Hef get out and dance with the Playmates. The girls’ hands were all over him and he loved every minute of it. Whether or not you condone this robbing the cradle kind of activity, you have to admit it’s a pretty amazing thing for a guy who’s starting to look down the barrel of 80.

Eventually, they brought out a birthday cake. Hef blew out the candles, fed frosting off his fingers to some of the girls and we raised our glasses in a toast to the founder of Playboy.

Not much later, they all got up to leave. For a moment, it looked as if we might be invited to wherever they were going, but alas, the clock hit midnight and my carriage turned into a pumpkin.

Hugh Hefner had left the building and there I was, an average person floating in a sea of beautiful people, but feeling at ease in a place I had no business being.

Monday, April 19, 2004


I pity the fool!

As promised, here is the picture of Mr. T and yours truly.

Notice three things:

1. How puny I am

2. How big Mr. T is

3. Mr. T is wearing socks with his flip-flops

Did I mention I met Mr. T?

It's true.

One day I was in my office, diligently working. I had the door closed, mind you because the area just outside my office gets very loud, being a newsroom for a celebrity rumor-mongering television show.

Let me take a moment and go off on a tangent… I’ll never forget the time the Paris Hilton video first came in. It was like sharks to chum. There was such a buzz of excitement in the air that I had to stick my head out to see what was going on. Everyone was gathered around a production assistant’s desk watching ol’ Paris in all her night vision glory. Granted, this was a legitimate work related activity being celebrity news, but how does this fit in with the corporate sexual harassment policy? Now since I don’t work for this anonymous celebrity gossip show, I wonder… What is the number for human resources again?

Okay, enough sordid tales of me legitimately watching porn at work… As I was saying, I was working diligently in my office… Okay, maybe I wasn’t working diligently. I don’t remember. Maybe I was illegitimately watching porn in my office and that’s why I had the door closed…

Anyway, once again the buzz of excitement piqued my interest. I could hear someone holding court, giving a monologue of sorts, and everyone else laughing. This I had to see. As I opened the door, lo-and-behold, there was one of my childhood idols: Mr. T.

And he was telling stories like nobody’s business. To be honest, I can’t even remember what he was saying, because… HEY, IT WAS MR. T.

Now, we get celebrities in my building every so often and I’ve seen and met a few here and there, but to be honest, I’m not much of a celebrity worshiper. I don’t get too excited and hide behind filing cabinets and pretend I have to go the bathroom, just to walk within 10 feet of Big Celebrity Person so I can say later how they really don’t look that good in person.

But… THIS WAS MR. T. And dammit, I was going to get a picture.

I waited. And I waited. And for some reason, all the cute girls in my office got their picture taken before me. So I waited, and eventually I stood next to him. The person holding the camera said, “smile”, Mr. T growled, and a photo was snapped.

Now before I go on, let me explain something. Mr. T wasn’t wearing his trademark chains and his Mohawk was a bit disheveled. He was sporting what appeared to be workout clothes, sweats and the sort, but they looked to be in pretty bad shape with a few holes and rips. He was also wearing flip-flops with white socks and to top it all off… He kinda smelled.

Now, I can look at this two ways:

1. This was Mr. T, and he had just come from a gym workout to get back into Rocky III shape.

2. This was some homeless guy and the people who work for the celebrity rumor show were playing a bad joke on the guy who always closes his office door.

I prefer option one.

Where is the picture, you might ask? Hmm. That’s a good one. I’ll see if I can dig it up and post it here soon, but in the interest of anonymity, I may have to blur out my face.

You will however, be able to see Mr. T wearing socks with his flip-flops.

Wednesday, April 14, 2004


Being new to the whole blog thing, I recently realized that one of the greatest things about it is the anonymous aspect.

That being said, I would like to reveal a little bit about who I am, albeit anonymously. So, here are some tidbits about me that should be specific enough to learn something, yet vague enough to know nothing:

-I live in Los Angeles, although I grew up in the Pacific Northwest.

-I work in the entertainment industry. More specifically, for a dating show you’ve probably seen. Even more specifically, I write for this show in some capacity.

-I am married.

-I have a dog and a cat.

-I love dark chocolate.

-I hate mushrooms.

I’m sure that I’ll reveal more about myself in upcoming entries, but that should be a start. I have a few stories to tell and here you’ll get to read them.

In honor of all things anonymous, or pseudonymous, as Rance puts it, here are some pictures taken in West Hollywood on a dark and scary Halloween night. Yes, one of them could be me, or maybe not…

P.S. And for all you aspiring writers, or creative types out there, here's a little advice I recently read from Jack Kerouac: "When you get stuck, don't think about the words. Imagine it better and keep going."

Sunday, April 11, 2004


As I was watching Janet Jackson’s musical performance on SNL I had an epiphany: I need my own backup dancers. Not that I would be dancing of anything. They’d just follow me around everywhere I go, doing choreographed routines.

Also while watching SNL tonight, I saw a beer commercial – I believe it was Coors Light – that didn’t make any sense. Not that a nonsensical commercial would be unusual, but I was thinking maybe it’s a new concept in reinforcement marketing. You have to be drunk to understand it.

Friday, April 09, 2004


Holy cow.

You see, I was out walking my dog and as we came up on a busy intersection, we stopped to wait for the crossing signal. As we were standing there, this car cuts across traffic to make a left hand turn... and yep, they weren't paying attention.

And then comes a couple of motorcycles zooming down the road.

One of them barely misses being hit, but the second bike wasn't so lucky. BAM! Right into the car, broadside. As I was witnessing this, I was thinking the rider was going to hit and fly right over the car, but in a moment of last second instinct (or panic) they laid the bike down.

The rider's body slammed into the car, but luckily by the time they hit the car, they had slowed down enough for it not to be a major accident.

I noticed the rider was a woman and she was amazingly calm for what had just happened. She just stood up and looked into the window of the car. Everyone was okay. Thank goodness she was wearing a helmet and leather jacket.

Here's a picture of the bike being taken away.

Damn. My first entry and I'm writing about an accident that happened 20 feet in front of me 20 minutes ago.

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