Today I get a random phone call from a friend.
"Hey, Jack...it's Tony." said voice said.
Pondering for a moment, I vaguely remember a Tony from high school.
"What's up?"
"I need your help tonight. You down?"
Friday evening in Los Angeles, of course nothing's happening.
"Sure. What are we doing?"
"We're gonna go beat the shit out of this high school kid that told me to fuck off."
At this point, I should inform you that I am 28. Class of 1996. And Tony is class of 1995.
"Let me get this straight...you want to beat the shit out of a high school kid that told you to 'fuck off'?"
"That's the plan. You up for this? We can wait outside of the Wendy's that he works at and take care of a little some somethin' of business."
After careful consideration...
"Tony, you do realize that we can go to jail."
"What-"
"We're grownups. And I live in Hollywood. Not Minnesota."
An intriguing long pause...
"Man, I thought this 818 number was like a 1-800 cell number. Who do you know that's in town that may help me?"
"My best friend...Andy. Call him."
I hung up soon after and really thought about this verbal exchange. Is it possible that some people stay trapped in a moment and never step beyond it?
Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
being kevin federsleazy
In this day and age of popularity, one begins to question how one becomes popular? Celebrity status has shifted from the choice and pristine (Marilyn Monroe, Humphrey Bogart) to the all out whorelandish (one-night in Paris, Po-pos in da hizouse-k-FED). How is this possible? I mean K-FED keeps knocking up the choice girls (i mean i secretly have a thing for Britney) and Paris asks a judge for a sandwich when she's in court. My god, what is this world coming to? Tom Cruise is trying to birth the second coming of L Ron Hubbard, Lindsay Lohan is in a Robert Altman film and Vin Diesel is defending his non-gayness by saying that he only dates Euro-women. With all this in mind, I have decided to form a fan club for myself. I am now taking applications. Who wants to enlist and join the ranks of Jackspace?
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
...purposeful imperfection
...I once met a man named Dreaming Bear and he wrote a book entitled Literati. ...and in this book he began every fucking sentence with elipses and ended them the same way... ...Dreaming Bear called this purposeful imperfection... ...because life is imperfect and there are some people out there attempting to be perfect... ...and Dreaming Bear stated that he was born perfect and he now strives to be imperfect to fit in with the rest of society. No joke. I have no idea why I thought of that perfect soul this morning. Perhaps it is because I am trying to be perfect like him today. Perhaps not...
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
in the beginning
to post is life. undefined, unrestricted, and oh such a beautiful thing. My god, if Kafka could've blogged or Nietzsche or Beckett! These men would've changed the blogging world as we know it.
Let it be known that I am Jack. Unrefined, low-cholesterol, and heart healthy. That is me. My life and times have led me from an undisclosed part of the midwest to the tarnished town of hollywood where the women have more plastic than the cars. I love it here, don't get me wrong, but the mere fact that when one meets another, the look of shock consumes you if the other said person was actually born here.
I am a writer. It actually has taken me a few years to admit that. Once in a while I might say that I am a surrealist. I once told a girl that I was with the EPA and she asked if I could read her mind. No joke.
After attending the AFI for writing, I found myself thrown at the wolves with blood streaked underwear. Everyone seemed to be my friend within the intricate web of studios until they got what I willingly gave them. Then they soon forgot my name. Such is life.
Being a scholar of life, film and coffee, I must share an anecdote of time spent in a posh spin class. Spinning is the brainchild of Tom Cruise, err wait, I'm not sure who designed the concept. Moving on. I was waiting bated breath to sweat my ass off in this gem of a class I found in WeHo (waiting because there's typically a standby wait list for the ones who don't like to purchase a series of classes for thousands of dollars) and this woman rushes in and says;
"Did you hear about @#$%?" said woman said.
"No-what happened?" said employee said.
"She ran into a pedestrian on La Cienega." said woman said.
"Oh no! How is she? (in this order) How is the pedestrian?" said employee said.
"She's fine. The guy seems okay--looks like a broken leg. What are we going to do with her bike seat?" said woman said.
(now at this point, I am HOWLING on the inside.)
"I don't know...do you think she'll wrap things up with the police before class begins?" said employee said.
Another woman chimes in as she walks through the door.
"I just saw #$%^&^. She's okay. I think the guy just has a bone-fratcure. He should be able to walk it off." said other woman said.
At this point in the ensuing conversation, I lost all train of thought. Another man runs in the place...
"#$%^& isn't going to make it. The cops have more questions for her." said other man said.
"Jack, you're in. Go get a bike." said employee said.
By the time I was in the saddle, I secretly thanked the heavens for pushing that pedestrian into said woman's lexus.
Let it be known that I am Jack. Unrefined, low-cholesterol, and heart healthy. That is me. My life and times have led me from an undisclosed part of the midwest to the tarnished town of hollywood where the women have more plastic than the cars. I love it here, don't get me wrong, but the mere fact that when one meets another, the look of shock consumes you if the other said person was actually born here.
I am a writer. It actually has taken me a few years to admit that. Once in a while I might say that I am a surrealist. I once told a girl that I was with the EPA and she asked if I could read her mind. No joke.
After attending the AFI for writing, I found myself thrown at the wolves with blood streaked underwear. Everyone seemed to be my friend within the intricate web of studios until they got what I willingly gave them. Then they soon forgot my name. Such is life.
Being a scholar of life, film and coffee, I must share an anecdote of time spent in a posh spin class. Spinning is the brainchild of Tom Cruise, err wait, I'm not sure who designed the concept. Moving on. I was waiting bated breath to sweat my ass off in this gem of a class I found in WeHo (waiting because there's typically a standby wait list for the ones who don't like to purchase a series of classes for thousands of dollars) and this woman rushes in and says;
"Did you hear about @#$%?" said woman said.
"No-what happened?" said employee said.
"She ran into a pedestrian on La Cienega." said woman said.
"Oh no! How is she? (in this order) How is the pedestrian?" said employee said.
"She's fine. The guy seems okay--looks like a broken leg. What are we going to do with her bike seat?" said woman said.
(now at this point, I am HOWLING on the inside.)
"I don't know...do you think she'll wrap things up with the police before class begins?" said employee said.
Another woman chimes in as she walks through the door.
"I just saw #$%^&^. She's okay. I think the guy just has a bone-fratcure. He should be able to walk it off." said other woman said.
At this point in the ensuing conversation, I lost all train of thought. Another man runs in the place...
"#$%^& isn't going to make it. The cops have more questions for her." said other man said.
"Jack, you're in. Go get a bike." said employee said.
By the time I was in the saddle, I secretly thanked the heavens for pushing that pedestrian into said woman's lexus.
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