IST-LHR-LAX-PHX

4 airports
3 airlines
6 security checks
27 hours on an airplane or in airports
10 hour time change
1 massive case of let lag

...and we're not even home yet.

PHX-LAX

I've written before about my deep love for Los Angeles, so I'll spare you a rehash, but it does feel good to be back. When drove out of the rental car place yesterday and eased onto a crowded freeway while listening to KCRW, it was like putting on a favorite pair of jeans.

I'm on an internet kiosk with a time limit, so I can't write much, but I had an experience that pretty much sums up the Los Angeles experience for me. I was driving onto the Prospect Studios lot (used to be the LA headquarters of ABC until Disney bought them) and my friend Thomas was getting out his ID badge for the security guard. The guard recognized Thomas and said, "You're cool, babe."

That's right, I'm back in LA.

Crispos are in the house, and most delicious.

Tonight Chinese food in Orange County.

Tomorrow, we leave for Turkey.

TAXI KARAOKE

Several years ago, I was waiting for a table at the Crab Cooker in Newport Beach with some friends. A taxi drove up and asked us a question, and a silly exchange followed. (I don't remember what about, it was five years ago, after all.) Then he drove off.

About 10 minutes later, he returned and this happened... (sorry about the dark video)

This little clip makes me a bit homesick for southern California. Believe it or not, silly little moments like this weren't all that out of the ordinary when I lived there. I don't exactly know why this was so, but I miss the surreal and whimsical little asides SoCal offers. I miss it every day.

Glad I'll be seeing the place, if only for a day or two, next month.

AND THE OSCAR GOES TO...

UPDATES IN ITALICS

Ever since I lived in LA, I've had a certain affection for the Oscars. It's bigger than the Super Bowl down there, and the betting pools are just as competitive. So in honor of the ceremony later today, I thought I'd offer my predictions. I think it's pretty easy pickings this year, so it's much less likely that I'll be revealed as the complete poser that I am.
The votes are in, and I have, in fact, been revealed as a complete poser. Let's review my choices:

BEST PICTURE:
There Will be Blood
Oscar voters are old people who love movies with an epic sweep that "tell the story of America." This is that film. It will win big tonight.
It did not, in fact, win big. But I really do believe that this was the best film of the five nominated. But it's hard to get bent out of shape about the Cohens winning awards. They're quite good.

BEST DIRECTOR:
Paul Thomas Anderson, There Will be Blood
The Cohens are certainly in the running, but they've won before, and Anderson is proving himself a unique voice in American film. He'll get the statue.
The Cohens were in the running, and they ran away with this one. I'm 0 and 2 so far. Not good.

ACTOR IN A LEADING ROLE:
Daniel Day-Lewis, There Will be Blood
Oscar voters love a showy performance, and this one is over the top. It's an amazing performance, too, and worthy of recognition. This one is a sure thing.
There we go. You didn't have to be all that bright to figure this one out. It really was a sure thing.

ACTOR IN A SUPPORTING ROLE:
Javier Bardem, No Country for Old Men
I want to vote for hometown hero Philip Seymour Hoffman in "Charlie Wilson's War." He's great in that movie, and in every other movie he's been in. But he's already won a "Best Actor" statue, and the Oscars tend to spread the love. And Bardem is absolutely terrifying in "No Country." I was frightened every second he was on the screen.
Yeah, I get another one right! I'm back to batting .500!

ACTRESS IN A LEADING ROLE:
Julie Christie, Away From Her
This is another one of those sure things. She's a great actress, the Academy wants to recognize her again while she's still around. And she plays a woman with a mental illness. Oscar voters love mental illness.
Who the hell is Marion Cotillard? I was positive I got this one right. I didn't see Ms. Cotillard's performance, so perhaps it's brilliant. Now I'm 2 and 3.

ACTRESS IN A SUPPORTING ROLE:
Cate Blanchett, I'm Not There
When in doubt, go for the woman in drag (or the woman playing a prostitute... but there aren't any of those this year).
Tilda Swindon? Aww, come on! She was great in "Michael Clayton," but still... I didn't call it. I'm batting .250, and things are looking worse.

ANIMATED FEATURE:
Ratatouille
Persepolis is beautiful and moving and fun, but betting against a Pixar film is a losing game.
Nice. My safe bet paid off. I've won three and lost 4, that's not all that bad.

ART DIRECTION:
There Will be Blood
When in doubt, go with your "best picture" choice. Many lazy Oscar voters do, too.
My system is breaking down. "Sweeny Todd." 3-5 and I'm in some real trouble now.

FILM EDITING:
There Will be Blood
See "Art Direction."
The Borune Ultimatum. I didn't even give the blockbuster films a chance this year. My bad, 3-6.

COSTUME DESIGN:
Sweeny Todd
"There Will be Blood" is not nominated, so I'm taking "Sweeny Todd" because Tim Burton's people usually do a good job in that department.
Elizabeth: The Golden Age. This is bad, this is really bad. 3-7.

CINEMATOGRAPHY:
Atonement
I normally use the "best picture" coattails rule, but "Atonement" has a 5 minute tracking shot that is pretty amazing. Film nerds go crazy for that type of thing. That shot alone will earn it an Oscar.
OH COME ON! The only bone I really throw to a film other than "There Will be Blood" is won by... "There Will be Blood"! 3-8 I've never been so humiliated.

I've not seen enough of the documentary or foreign language films to make an informed decision, so I'll stop my predictions here. Sadly, I won't even be able to watch the broadcast live. I'll be anchoring a newscast on a competing network. Oh well.

I consistently win any Oscar betting pool I'm in. I've never done this bad in my adult life. What's the difference? I posted my predictions online for the first time this year. Lesson learned.

THUG LIFE IN PINK

First published in the Daily Sundial, March 29, 2004

It is clear from recent headlines that the gang problem in Los Angeles has gotten completely out of hand. And when I say Los Angeles I mean, of course, Orange County. What else can you make of the recent news from Newport Beach? Six boys at Ensign Middle School were banned from appearing in a class photo because they were wearing pink. School officials were concerned the color might be associated with gang-related activities.

So pink is now a gang color? And not just pink, mind you, students called the color “Easter pink.” If I’m not mistaken, “Easter pink” is a pastel. Gangs, for the most part, try to project a tough, even menacing image. If today’s gangs are trying to achieve this by using pink, it is clear every other color on the palate has been taken. That means, somewhere out there, you can probably find the “Pacoima Periwinkle Posse” the “Torrance Terra Cotta Terrorists” and the “Eastside Eggshell Mobstaz.” Obviously flax, snow pea, oyster, geranium, sunwash, canal blue, watermelon, stone, mocha, tinted aqua, robin’s egg blue, willow, and off-white* were also taken by other street hooligans.

To be fair, finding a good gang color has been tough for some time. As early as the 1980s, the Bloods and Crips had locked up two thirds of the primary colors. Sure they made peace, but they didn’t put red and blue back into the rotation for new, up and coming gangs to pick. So now that all the solid colors have been taken, what are the new thugz to do? Madras plaids are probably the direction you’ll see things go. By adding several colors and patterns, the combinations could be endless. Perhaps this is how tartans got started in Scotland. If the madras trend plays out, America could face the ugly sight of elderly people being attacked for their vacation-wear.

But what of this gang in pink? Just what are they up to? I asked a few friends and I got no suggestions more helpful than, “Well, maybe they work at Fredrick’s of Hollywood.” That was so absurd, it didn’t merit consideration. These are gangsters; they’re not going to be selling lingerie. The real answer is much more obvious: they’re selling Mary Kay cosmetics. Mary Kay sells cosmetics through direct and multi-level marketing. If you sell a lot of Mary Kay product, the company will give you a pink Cadillac. Perhaps Easter pink?

These ingenious Orange County gangsters have mixed mob thuggery with multi-level marketing, and it is obviously a potent combination. They’ve got the Newport-Mesa Unified School District running scared. Perhaps the school principal had been forced to buy cases of lip gloss under fear of violence. I’m sure that fear is real. I’ve compiled a brief history of how the Newport Mary Kay Gang, also known as “The K-G,” rose to power. It is, indeed, a frightful saga.

1996: A band of ambitious pink-clad teens begins selling Mary Kay cosmetics. Within months, they began moving into the turf of the Mission Viejo Melaleuca Madmen, a small-time posse dealing vitamins and facial scrubs. The Melaleuca’s fold quickly and later form a local chapter of the Young Republicans.

1998: Through a combination of terror and makeovers, the K-G control most of the direct-market cosmetic traffic in Orange County. Every K-G member is awarded a pink Cadillac. The day the cars are delivered, the K-G unleash a vicious wave of drive-by shootings directed at the region’s last surviving Avon ladies.

1999: With their new mobility, the K-G expand northward, taking down the Gardena Tupperware Crew. The T-Cs leader is found dead with a mascara stick in mouth. His rouge also didn’t complement his eye-shadow. This deliberate humiliation put L A County’s gangs on notice: mess with the Newport Mary Kay Gang at your peril.

2000: Nothing happened. Y2K bug, whatnot.

2001: K-Gs took on the Westside Amway Gangstaz, one of the most powerful multi-level marketing gangs the city had ever known. The Amways were known for their wide array of cleaning products and their almost fanatical devotion to the gang, kind of like Scientologists, but with drain-cleaner. Many gallons of fake-Windex were spilled on the streets of Inglewood during the violent battle. The K-Gs emerge from the battle victorious. Their power is unchallenged in all of Southern California.

2002: The administrators at Ensign Middle School notice some of their students are dressing and acting in an unusual manner. For instance they’ve been in middle school for six years.

2003: A staff meeting is called to discuss the problem.

2004: After much deliberation, members of the Newport Mary Kay Gang are denied a place in their 8th grade photo. Ryan Seacrest gets involved. Being in a gang seems pretty lame after being defended by the host of American Idol. The K-Gs soon disband. Some begin selling herbal Viagra over the internet.

*All these colors were taken from this month’s J. Jill catalog.

I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU MATT & JOHN

So "I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry" opened in theaters this weekend and is now the #1 movie in America. This is bad news because the film looks like complete crap.

I've not seen the film, but it looks like two guys get married (I'm assuming in Massachusetts) to keep receiving health benefits or something. But these are two really manly guys so, you know, being gay is lame. So they mince about in public to keep the ruse up. But when nobody is looking, they prove how straight they are by burping and farting a lot and drooling over Jessica Biel's boobs.

If they really wanted to do the film right, they should have adhered to the first rule of the fake marriage genre: the people who pretend to be married discover that they actually are in love. Now that would be a daring comedy.

And what's more, this film doesn't look anything like my experience of pretending to be gay to cheat the system. I should explain.

It happened when I lived in LA. One of my best friends in town was a delightful gay Canadian named John. He had a high paying job working on the Tonight Show. I was unemployed and living in a garage. We met when I interviewed for a job. I didn't get hired, but John and I became good friends.

One Saturday afternoon, John called:

"Hey Matt, want to go to Disneyland?"

"You know I can't afford that."

"Of course you can't afford that. I'm paying, but I'll need your help with something."

He arrived about 30 minutes later and explained further.

"Here's the thing, Matt: every employee at Disney is a big old screaming queen." (apparenly he's allowed to say that)

"I didn't know that, but I guess it makes sense."

"So I need you as eye candy." (what with my rugged Stone Phillips looks)

"I don't get it."

"When the ride operators see us together, they'll assume we're 'together' and they'll let us cut in line."

"Shut up!"

"No, really, it works. It's like a secret club."

"Do you really think they'll believe I'm gay?"

"Every last one of my friends think you're gay, so I'm pretty sure the folks at Disney will, too."

"And they're going to let us cut in line?"

"Oh yeah."

So we arrive at the Happiest Place on Earth™ and get into the Indiana Jones line. We weave our way through the line's many caverns until we reach a place where the Head Line Guy (not sure what the actual title is) can see us. He gets on his tiptoes, points to us, and waves us forward. I couldn't believe it.

At the Matterhorn, a man came and opened a special gate that directed us straight to the next available train. Amazing. I had never seen anything like this.

Then we hit Space Mountain and learned the limits of the Disney Gay Underground. A girl was running the line. Humf! We pouted as we actually had to wait in the entire line.

With the excepion of that one incident, my day at Disneyland was filled with the kind of VIP treatment usually reserved for heads of state or those kids who are dying. A good time was had by all. (And I didn't even have to put out!)

A much better time, it would seem, than spending 2 hours watching "I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry."

HUMAN INTERACTION IN VENICE

I was going through some old magazines when I stumbled upon this rare (for me) foray into the world of serious writing that was published about 9 years ago. I was actually an email that I sent to some friends after the event in question. It got forwarded around and eventually it got sent to the editor of a magazine, who asked if he could publish it. I said he could.

With a few grammar edits, the piece is unchanged from the original email. The only thing the editors altered was the title. I gave it the title you see above as a reference to the David Mamet play "Sexual Perversity in Chicago." I've never seen the play, nor have I seen the movie they made out of it, so I don't know why I chose the title.

Of course, the editors chose a title that was even more obscure to me. Anyway, enjoy, and I promise I'll write something funny later this week.

The Urban Samaritan: Being and Nothingness
Published March 1998, Sunstone Magazine

In order to fully explain this story, I need to tell another one. About six years ago, just south of my hometown of Rochester, New York, two football players from a local college saw a woman trying to get help at the roadside. They pulled over, got out of their truck, and asked what the problem was. Seconds later, a man jumped out of the bushes and shot each of the football players three times. The man drove off in the football player’s truck, and the woman drove off in the car she said was broken. I read the story later in the newspaper and was, of course, appalled.

But now I’m in Los Angeles—Venice, actually. It’s not the nastiest part of town, but it’s not all that nice either. That’s actually one of the cool things about it.

So I’m off to Hollywood to see the new Parker Posey movie I’ve been dying to see for a long time, but I have to go to the ATM first. It’s after dark, so I drive to an ATM not too far from my house, near the Coast Highway. Across the street from the ATM is a red van with drapes in the window. I park behind it, and an old, somewhat grungy-looking man walks up to my car. He asks me to roll down my window, and I inch it down just a hair.

“Do you have jumper cables?” he asks.

Without thinking, I answer, “Yeah!” because I do.

“Good, I need a jump. My battery is dead.”

I pull my car around to the front of his and realize just how stupid I had been. What was I thinking? This could be any nut, or a killer, or a mugger, or a carjacker, or someone like that. I get out of my car, open my trunk, and look down at my jumper cables.

“Dude, I guess my cables are at home. I was using them for something else, and I forgot to put them back in my car. Sorry, man.”

I drive across the street to use the ATM while the man tries to flag down other drivers. With my money in hand, I scoot back into my car and drive off.

And I feel like crap. I had just lied to a guy and left him stranded on the street. While staring at my jumper cables, I told him they weren’t there. I run through all the questions in my head. What would he have done to me? Would I have helped him if he was a white guy? (he wasn’t) How much danger was I in? How awful a person had I become where I wouldn’t help somebody who was in trouble?

I pull over, take the jumper cables out of my trunk, and put them on the passenger seat. I want to make it look as if I had gone home and found them. Still nervous I drive around the block a few times before heading back to the street with the ATM. And the guy’s still there, trying to get a jump. I pull up next to him, hold up the cables, and yell, “Behold, yon cables!”

“Thanks. You know, most people are just too scared to even help,” he says.

I shrug and give a big sigh. Then his friend comes over. When I was doing my risk vs. morals math, I had only factored in one guy. Now there are two. The second guy is younger, and bigger. He just sort of stands behind the older guy and looks at me. Absolutely positive that I’m going to be on the front page of tomorrow’s LA Times, I hand them the cables.

“Can you come over here and help us?” asks the younger guy. “We don’t want to blow anything up.”

Trying to conceal the sweat that is now forming on my forehead, I quickly attach the cables to my battery. Fifteen seconds later, the van is running. They thank me and I throw my stuff back into my car and drive away quickly.

And I’m still wired and upset from the adrenaline that is now coursing through my veins. And I’m upset by how upset I am over the incident. And I’m upset that I’ve been taught to fear the people around me. And I’m upset that fearing the people around me is basically a good idea and pretty much essential for survival in a big city.

And I turn up the radio as loud as it will go. And I keep telling myself, “You are not a liar. You are not a bigot. You are not dead to the suffering of others.”

And in a few weeks I may believe that again.