Note: In keeping up with my “Past Blogs Not Posted Series (unofficial title), this blog has ceased to be a liveblog. The movie was released in theaters months ago and the DVD release is looming on the horizon. I saw the trailer originally in the theaters, and since I didn’t have my laptop on me (just a handheld camera to record “Land of the Lost” on), nor a tripod (handheld camera—gives everything an indie feel), I couldn’t jot down notes until a later date. So I guess you could say this never was a liveblog (you could say that—but you don’t have to be a jerk about it).
0:00
THE FOLLOWING PREVIEW HAS BEEN APPROVED FOR ALL AUDIENCES BY THE MOTION PICTURE ASSOCIATION OF AMERICA. Hey, that’s me!
0:03
Sam Witwicky (the alcoholic kid from the first Transformers) mentions college to his robot sex slave, Bumblebee. The retarded car starts playing, “I’m So Excited,” by the Pointer Sisters to express his excitement. The rug is pulled out from under him though when Sam tells his only friend he’s not taking him to college. The robot sulks and wonders who will fuck him late at night (I assume).
0:14
Swooping helicopter shot of a college campus (a trademark Michael Bay camera trick). Dad Witwicky cracks a joke about having to pay $40,000 a year for college. Not to worry, Dad. If I know college kids, Sam will put in one week of intense studying, then congratulate himself by partying the first weekend at a guy’s house a friend knows for the next sixteen weeks. After the end of the whatever $40,000 a year university you’ve chosen kicks him out, he can try a community college closer to home. And when he’s bored with that, he can find a job doing road construction AND keep his costly drinking habit he’s developed alive.
0:22
Megan Fox is straddling a motorcycle in the most awkward and unconventional way I can think of, wearing cutoff jean shorts that are so short I’m pretty sure I can see her vagina. We learn she and Sam are going to try a long distance relationship while he’d busy failing out of college. Okay, I buy the two story tall transforming robot aliens from outer space thing that inauspiciously hide behind trees in the middle of the suburbs breaking shit in the dead of night and no one seeing them, but a long distance college relationship working out? You have created something no one could suspend disbelief about, Michael Bay. Well, not you personally—the screenwriters that wrote the script that you probably didn’t bother to read did that.
0:31
Sam drops a piece of rock on the floor, probably an important plot point. Most likely it’s a plot device that will make no sense and be forgotten about over the course of the movie.
0:40
Sam flips out in the middle of one of his college classes, complaining of “seeing symbols.” It’s called math class. Those are addition and subtraction symbols. The California school system has failed you Sam Witwicky, like it has so many others.
0:44
Meteoroids* fly towards earth, quite possibly stock footage from "Armageddon." Michael Bay, you self-referential genius, you.
0:46
Optimus Prime stands in the middle of a college campus, in plain daylight.
0:50
Meteors** hit towering buildings. A shot-for-shot comparison to “Armageddon” is needed. Michael Bay might be plagiarizing himself.
1:03
Agent Simmons, played by, once respected character actor John Turturro, shows up for the sequel wearing a dickey around his neck, telling Sam, “What you are about to see is top secret. Do not tell my mother.” Does this imply that Sam somehow knows Agent Simmons’ mom? Oh wait, I get it. This is what Michael Bay calls characterization. Agent Simmons is telling Sam and the audience that he’s a mama’s boy, and he wants everyone to know that, because most mama’s boys love publicizing that fact about themselves.
1:08
We’re now in Egypt. I know this because there are pyramids and camels. Bumblebee is also there. So Sam wouldn’t take his love dummy with him to college, but he would drive Bumblebee across the Atlantic Ocean, to Egypt?
1:12
Another sweeping helicopter shot. This trailer could become a drinking game.
1:13
It has been confirmed that Shia LeBeouf has turned this trailer into a drinking game.
1:14
Decepticons are underwater digging up the remains of Megatron—I think. Truth be told, all of the Transformers look alike, and without any discernible features amongst them, I have no idea who the hell is doing what to whom.
1:25
“From Director Michael Bay” flies away from the screen. It confuses me how this is a selling point for the movie, because people who actually pay attention to who directs a movie would automatically be turned off from watching a movie that Michael Bay directs. For people that don’t care about this sort of thing (i.e. the people that go see “Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen”), this is meaningless information to them. The two seconds it took to mention the director would better be served showing Megan Fox getting fisted by an Autobot.
1:27
A Decepticon (I think) swats the United States flag off the top of the Brooklyn Bridge in an act of defiance. This makes the Decepticons no better than them sumbitch Al-Qaeda terrorists we went to Iraq to stop. And just like that Toby Keith song says, we’ll put a boot up their shiny chrome asses, too.
1:29
Some shit starts to blow up. A Transformer transforms with the aid of a several million dollars of CG. The same effect could have been done with some Reynolds Wrap and a match, because that’s kind of what the transformations look like anyway—just a bunch of shiny scraps flying around until they look like what they’re supposed to.
1:37
“And Executive Producer Steven Spielberg” lands on the screen. Okay, this credit makes more sense than the Michael Bay one to an extent. The laymen know Steven Spielberg. He has some capital to his name. It’s not worth as much as it was, say in the early-nineties, when he could have released a home video of himself trying to ride a skateboard in his driveway and have it gross over $100 million domestically, but he’s still a household name. But he seriously hurts his own credit by attaching his name to this project. The guy made “E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial” and “Schindler’s List” and “Jurassic Park” and “Munich” and “Saving Private Ryan.” Ah, shit. Who am I kidding? He doesn’t care anymore. Spend less time going home and being a father and more time making good movies, jackass.
1:38
Megan Fox cries. This was done purposefully to bring in a female demographic. That one second of emotions shows that there will be plenty of stuff Hollywood thinks women are into, like sadness.
1:39
Some robots fight, some shit falls over, people scream.
1:46
In a forest full of coniferous trees now, Optimus Prime (I recognize him because Michael Bay decided to paint gay flames on his legs), chops at what I am once again assuming are bad guys with his arm swords. Wait, arm swords?
1:48
Sam contorts his face and screams, “OPTIMUS!”
1:49
Optimus Prime is launched into the air, landing with a thud by a tree he might have previously cut down with his arm swords. Then, an overdub of him saying, “Fate rarely calls upon us at a moment of our choosing.” That’s probably supposed to be profound and meaningful, but it’s not. It’s just stupid and lazy. Fate, by definition, is the universal principle or ultimate agency by which the order of things is presumably described. You don’t choose fate—fate chooses you. So there is no “rarely.” Ah, well. If that’s the only error this movie has, they should count their blessings.
1:55
Back in Egypt, a Transformer is climbing one of the pyramids. It also marks the start of a bunch of quick shots—sometimes with things happening. Other times they just settle for a shot of Megan Fox looking at something, or Marines running away, even though a Marine never runs away. Semper Fi.
2:09
The big Transformer that was climbing the pyramid starts to suck stuff up. Symbolism. It’s able to vacuum up heavy rocks and a two-ton Transformer, but not Shia LeBeouf or Megan Fox.
2:15
“Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen” title made out of scrap metal transforms in front of our very eyes.
2:21
The title shatters, forming the Decepticon logo. Admittedly, that was actually pretty damn cool.
There you have it, summer movie fans. I hope you choose to read my dictations of what happened during the trailer as opposed to running out to the local YouTube and just watching the damn thing yourself.
*Any of the small bodies, often remnants of comets, traveling through space: when such a body enters the earth’s atmosphere it is heated to luminosity and becomes a meteor.
**See above.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
“My Anus Is Bleeding”
Note: This event came at the eclipse of 2008, if I’m not mistaken. Being a few months short of a year from this date in time, and without giving anything away, I hope the leak was dammed up once again and is not still running like a civ.
Los Angeles is considered one of the most stressful cities in the United States. Between traffic, hippies, and the cost of living, it is easy to see why. But it goes further than that. Even simple daily errands cannot be completed without a song and dance number.
Like paying my phone bill. Having some time to spare on my way to work, I stopped into my cell phone provider’s store in Koreatown (or K-Town, as the natives know it as). The simple task of leaving my car, strapping on a bullet-proof vest, doing the “roadie run” to the nearest cover, and walking into the Verizon store was complicated in a way only Los Angeles can make it.
Within moments of stepping out of the Cougar, a man either missing or ignoring my Iowa license plates waddled up to me and said, “Excuse me, neighbor. My name is…”
The man gave me his name at precisely the exact same time I started thinking about eggplants, so it escapes me.
“…And I have a favor to ask of you. You see I am a man that has been affected by AIDS. But don’t worry, you can’t get it from just standing here with me.”
With that information, it made me wonder how this man did get AIDS. My guess was unprotected gay sex while doing heroin intravenously and sinning against a Republican in the Eighties. The man proceeded to lift his right shirtsleeve to show me how AIDS has ravaged any muscle he might have had at one time. Then he continued.
“…Please good neighbor. I am a man that believes in keeping his word. My family is not home and I have started to bleed anally.”
At which time the man turned around to show me the ever-accumulating anal blood stain on the seat of his light blue jeans. At which time, I forced myself from laughing. Unfortunately, I could not stop myself from cracking a smile.
“…I am in need of an anal suppository immediately if I want to stop the bleeding. I have a prescription here in my hands…”
Now the anal suppository prescription was in my hands. I read it over. His blood plug was to be picked up at Rite-Aid. It came at a cost of thirty-seven dollars and some odd cents. Boy, anal suppositories have sure gotten expensive. And how am I not laughing uncontrollably right now? I’ve been handed a prescription for someone’s anal suppository.
“…I am short seventeen dollars, kind neighbor. I am a good man with a good family. If you can please give me a ride and the money to make up the difference, I will return you your money and give you extra for gas. Oh, don’t worry about the bleeding. I have a towel I could put down in the seat of your car.”
The immediacy of the issue forced me to think quickly. My thought process was along the lines of, “Okay, a man with AIDS has just run up to me asking me for money and a ride to the suppository store (giggle) to stop his anal bleeding, and he plans to put a towel down in the passenger seat of the Cougar to keep the AIDS blood from reaching my seat. I can’t wait to blog about this.”
My response was, “I’m sorry sir, but I can’t do it.”
His eyes widened and his mouth fell agape.
“I can give you a little bit of money to help pay for the suppository, but I don’t have seventeen dollars on me to cover the difference. But I’ll give you what little I can.”
This is true. I really did not have seventeen dollars to give. But I forked over a couple of dollars, said he did not have to worry about paying me back, and tried to get away, feeling slightly guilty, but at the same time, not wanting a complete stranger who was bleeding out of his ass in the passenger seat of the Cougar.
“Please sir. I have very good karma and will pay you back for your kindness just as soon as my family returns.”
His karma must not have been that good, as he was bleeding anally due to his immune system being destroyed by the AIDS bug, and I was turning him down for a ride to the drug store, where upon arrival, would have to purchase and use a suppository. I didn’t tell him this part. It sounded like he had enough problems going for him right now. For me to bring up that I thought his karma was not as good as he perceived it to be would just be adding insult to injury.
“I’m sorry sir. But I just can’t. I really have to go, but I wish you the best of luck and pray things work out for you,” I said.
I left the man whose name I never learned to his own devices in trying to find a gooder Samaritan than myself. With my two U.S. dollars in his possession, he would have enough for a bus fare, and I’m assuming if he showed up at a Rite-Aid in the same state he was in for me moments ago, they’d have no problem waiving the prescription cost and fix him up. If anything, by the time he arrived, they’d show more sympathy for him because his jeans would look like the elevator doors had opened up in Stanley Kubrick’s “The Shining.”
After paying my phone bill, I saw the man across the street still looking for a ride. A sting of guilt hit my conscience. It was probably the severity of the situation sinking in. This man clearly had a serious malady and I was treating it like just another day in La La Land. On the other hand, this is just another day in La La Land. It’s this kind of thing that happens all the time here. Complete strangers come up to you and ask for help ranging from going into a store and buying them CO2 cartridges to watching their pet llama while they take a piss on a head of lettuce being held by a grade school aged boy in gym clothes.
But the man with AIDS and the line at the cell phone store had chewed up what spare time I had to reconsider my decision. I still had a job to get to, and there are 9 million other people in Los Angeles that can probably aid the man with AIDS. This is me paying it forward.
Los Angeles is considered one of the most stressful cities in the United States. Between traffic, hippies, and the cost of living, it is easy to see why. But it goes further than that. Even simple daily errands cannot be completed without a song and dance number.
Like paying my phone bill. Having some time to spare on my way to work, I stopped into my cell phone provider’s store in Koreatown (or K-Town, as the natives know it as). The simple task of leaving my car, strapping on a bullet-proof vest, doing the “roadie run” to the nearest cover, and walking into the Verizon store was complicated in a way only Los Angeles can make it.
Within moments of stepping out of the Cougar, a man either missing or ignoring my Iowa license plates waddled up to me and said, “Excuse me, neighbor. My name is…”
The man gave me his name at precisely the exact same time I started thinking about eggplants, so it escapes me.
“…And I have a favor to ask of you. You see I am a man that has been affected by AIDS. But don’t worry, you can’t get it from just standing here with me.”
With that information, it made me wonder how this man did get AIDS. My guess was unprotected gay sex while doing heroin intravenously and sinning against a Republican in the Eighties. The man proceeded to lift his right shirtsleeve to show me how AIDS has ravaged any muscle he might have had at one time. Then he continued.
“…Please good neighbor. I am a man that believes in keeping his word. My family is not home and I have started to bleed anally.”
At which time the man turned around to show me the ever-accumulating anal blood stain on the seat of his light blue jeans. At which time, I forced myself from laughing. Unfortunately, I could not stop myself from cracking a smile.
“…I am in need of an anal suppository immediately if I want to stop the bleeding. I have a prescription here in my hands…”
Now the anal suppository prescription was in my hands. I read it over. His blood plug was to be picked up at Rite-Aid. It came at a cost of thirty-seven dollars and some odd cents. Boy, anal suppositories have sure gotten expensive. And how am I not laughing uncontrollably right now? I’ve been handed a prescription for someone’s anal suppository.
“…I am short seventeen dollars, kind neighbor. I am a good man with a good family. If you can please give me a ride and the money to make up the difference, I will return you your money and give you extra for gas. Oh, don’t worry about the bleeding. I have a towel I could put down in the seat of your car.”
The immediacy of the issue forced me to think quickly. My thought process was along the lines of, “Okay, a man with AIDS has just run up to me asking me for money and a ride to the suppository store (giggle) to stop his anal bleeding, and he plans to put a towel down in the passenger seat of the Cougar to keep the AIDS blood from reaching my seat. I can’t wait to blog about this.”
My response was, “I’m sorry sir, but I can’t do it.”
His eyes widened and his mouth fell agape.
“I can give you a little bit of money to help pay for the suppository, but I don’t have seventeen dollars on me to cover the difference. But I’ll give you what little I can.”
This is true. I really did not have seventeen dollars to give. But I forked over a couple of dollars, said he did not have to worry about paying me back, and tried to get away, feeling slightly guilty, but at the same time, not wanting a complete stranger who was bleeding out of his ass in the passenger seat of the Cougar.
“Please sir. I have very good karma and will pay you back for your kindness just as soon as my family returns.”
His karma must not have been that good, as he was bleeding anally due to his immune system being destroyed by the AIDS bug, and I was turning him down for a ride to the drug store, where upon arrival, would have to purchase and use a suppository. I didn’t tell him this part. It sounded like he had enough problems going for him right now. For me to bring up that I thought his karma was not as good as he perceived it to be would just be adding insult to injury.
“I’m sorry sir. But I just can’t. I really have to go, but I wish you the best of luck and pray things work out for you,” I said.
I left the man whose name I never learned to his own devices in trying to find a gooder Samaritan than myself. With my two U.S. dollars in his possession, he would have enough for a bus fare, and I’m assuming if he showed up at a Rite-Aid in the same state he was in for me moments ago, they’d have no problem waiving the prescription cost and fix him up. If anything, by the time he arrived, they’d show more sympathy for him because his jeans would look like the elevator doors had opened up in Stanley Kubrick’s “The Shining.”
After paying my phone bill, I saw the man across the street still looking for a ride. A sting of guilt hit my conscience. It was probably the severity of the situation sinking in. This man clearly had a serious malady and I was treating it like just another day in La La Land. On the other hand, this is just another day in La La Land. It’s this kind of thing that happens all the time here. Complete strangers come up to you and ask for help ranging from going into a store and buying them CO2 cartridges to watching their pet llama while they take a piss on a head of lettuce being held by a grade school aged boy in gym clothes.
But the man with AIDS and the line at the cell phone store had chewed up what spare time I had to reconsider my decision. I still had a job to get to, and there are 9 million other people in Los Angeles that can probably aid the man with AIDS. This is me paying it forward.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Jack, Me, & Dupree
Note: This blog entry comes to us from the tail end of 2008. Nothing this cool has happened in the world since. So go ahead, Kremlin Joe—let fly with the nukes.
In a previous blog, I was quick to assume that were I ever to meet Jack Nicholson, my favorite actor, and quite frankly, someone whose life philosophies deeply intrigue me, I would begin to “infinitely crap my pants.” As it turns out, this is not the case at all.
On this day (December 19 for those keeping score at home), I arrived at work that morning only to find out in our morning huddle that we were to have a special screening that day upstairs and a VIP guest in attendance. It turns out this VIP is none other than Jack Nicholson. While everyone else looked around and murmurs of how cool that was could be heard, I stood with my mouth agape that the man himself would be frequenting my theater this day. My knees buckled a little and my heart was sent aflutter. I felt the same way I’m sure thousands of women have felt over the years after Jack has made passionate love to them for days, if not weeks, on end.
We have a little unwritten rule at our theater, but one that is abided by nonetheless: if an employee’s favorite actor pays a visit, that person gets to help that guest out. The night Al Pacino was in attendance, I was set to help him out, but another worker informed me Pacino was his favorite actor, so I stepped down and let him take my place. I’m not sure what happens if two people share the same favorite actor. It hasn’t come up yet. I assume it will be up to the actor him or herself to choose a favorite then.
While setting up box office, I was flitting around like a humming bird, hovering from one stanchion to the next. The next hour was essentially me talking at a rapid-fire pace about how awesome Jack is and how awesome it is that he was going to be there with my friend Jeremy between selling guests tickets. Jeremy being an aspiring filmmaker himself and also an admirer of Jack had lots of input on the subject. His favorite actor is Daniel Day Lewis, so if he is ever to appear at our theater, wearing mismatched socks and an overcoat that doesn’t match his pants, I predict a role reversal.
In no time at all, the people arriving for the special screening ambushed us—you know, the one Jack was supposed to be a part of. 250 people stormed up the stairs at once. They skipped the box office line and headed straight for the concessions. My bosses, being awesome and doing everything in their power to accommodate the unwritten rule, sent me over there to mingle with the crowd and get me in the middle of the action where Jack would be. Wave after wave of people came—producers, agents, Brendan Fraser, but no Jack. The guests got their complimentary foodstuffs and left behind nothing but dust and straw wrappers. Phooey.
Returning to Box, Jackless, Jeremy and I started making light of the situation. Whenever a new face would appear from the tip of the escalator, we’d both start jumping up and down, yelling in a hush, “Jack, Jack, Jack!” only to follow it up with a, “Nope. Old lady. False alarm,” or a, “Wait, no. Only Martin Scorsese,” or, “Never mind. It’s just Bruce Springsteen.” This went on for a while. Too long come to think of it. The novelty should have worn off well before it did. Come to think of it, the novelty never wore off. We just wore ourselves out physically from doing our little joke so many times.
After waiting all morning for our VIP, the fervor died down and we all accepted the fact that we had been duped. The movie was about to let out and still there was no Jack to be found. Jeremy and I were back to talking about movies, in particular, “The Aviator,” which has been a point of conversation for a couple of weeks now, and this and that, these and those.
And then it happened. Who should appear from the escalator? It was him. It was Jack.
I turned to Jeremy, who was busy texting underneath the box office counter.
“Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy,” I said over and over.
He looked up and saw what all the to do was about. As reported earlier, I did not begin to infinitely crap my pants, nor did Jeremy. But we were both in awe of the silver screen icon there in our midst. The man we grew up knowing as the Joker and later in life would come to recognize as Jake Gittes and Randall P. McMurphy and a deranged Johnny Carson. And just like that, he was out of our sight and on his way upstairs for the screening.
Reaching for a walkie, I radioed management to let them know our VIP was finally here. Based on their mannerisms coming out of the office, they were pretty excited to hear this too. Plans were set in place to accommodate the actor and the fellow he arrived with, who if I’m not mistaken, was a producer on the film. Bless my manager’s hearts, they assigned me the task of making sure director’s chairs were set up for the guests and that they had water bottles and microphones for the Q&A that was to follow the film.
The movie ended, the crowd applauded, I did my job and sat back and watched the Q&A. Had anyone have asked me to return to work, I’d have refused outright. Fortunately, such a ridiculous request was not desired of me.
Jack and the producer took the microphones and bottles of water in their director’s chairs, although both remained standing rather than sit in the director’s chairs I set up. The producer introduced the man that needed no introduction (Brendan Fraser looked a bit befuddled, but such is life for Brendan Fraser), and he spoke.
His voice was a bit raspy, but most definitely his signature vocal croon. He went on to talk about independent cinema and how hard it is for them to get made these days compared to back then (remember, Jack was involved with “Easy Rider,” one of the most successful independents of all time), because the studios don’t like competition, and how it is such a relief to see that the movie shown on this day at my theater could still get made in the current climate of filmmaking. It was a brief speech, but powerful and endearing. Jack sat the microphone back down on the director’s chair, took his water, and exited to a round of applause. He scuttled past my managers and me, and just like that, it was over.
Until one of my managers turned to me and said, “Go with him.”
Okay.
I hurried to catch up to Jack. He was making his way down the escalator this time. I called out, “Mr. Nicholson.”
He turned to me and we locked eyes. I couldn’t believe this moment was happening. I won’t say time slowed down or sped up or anything cliché like that—rather, it remained the same. It’s just at a moment like that you realize how quickly a few seconds goes by.
“Mr. Nicholson. I just wanted to let you know that you are my favorite actor and I wrote a screenplay with you in mind and I hope someday we’ll get a chance to work together,” said I. Ugh. So stupid. He hears crap like this all the time. Way to be a jackass in front of Jack, ya jackass.
“Well thank you, I appreciate that.”
Huh. Did I just get a thank you from Jack Nicholson? I turns out I did, and from there we continued to make small talk. He asked me my name, I told it to him, and we shook hands. Now on the escalator, I asked him what his affiliation was with the movie today, not having seen it when I last checked his filmography on IMDB. Turns out there was no affiliation with the movie whatsoever. Tommy Lee Jones was supposed to show up for the Q&A but could not make it, so the producer, a longtime friend of Jack’s, asked him to come down today to say a few words. Whatever works, I guess. I’m not complaining.
From there, we continued our small talk. Jack told me how he never had a problem knowing if a movie was going to suck or not, and neither could people that work at the box office. It was around this time we passed the box office, Jack and I side-by-side, when another one of my managers saw us. His eyes got wide and had a kind of, “What?” look on his face. It was delightful.
We made our way down another escalator to an elevator that would lead to the parking garage floor where Jack was parked (G2). It was here that we parted ways. Jack wished me luck on everything, and I thanked him, and told him it was an honor to meet him, which it was. The elevator door popped open, Jack did a funny-looking hop, asked if it was going down, and was gone, probably making whoever was in the elevator’s day.
Back at work, the managers wanted to know every little detail. I thanked them for letting me do everything I just did, and they sort of played it off with a, “Well, we can’t just let Jack Nicholson leave the theater by himself.” Thanks managers. You’re the best.
Over the next several days, lots of actors will wander the halls of Landmark Theatre—Mickey Rourke, Marisa Tomei, Evan Rachel Wood (all there for a Q&A of, “The Wrestler,” and Benicio Del Toro was there for the special road show edition of “Che” (of note, Jack and Benicio worked together on the movie, “The Pledge”). Diane Keaton, who teamed with Jack in the movie, “Something’s Gotta Give,” also came through box that day, but nothing quite lived up to the golden standard, nor could it.
Thus far, California has had some major lows, but some serious highs too. For every Pas’Ta Weat playing “Kandy Store” at six in the morning there is a Jack Nicholson wishing you the best of luck on all things. Neither of the above examples would’ve happened were I still in Iowa.
In a previous blog, I was quick to assume that were I ever to meet Jack Nicholson, my favorite actor, and quite frankly, someone whose life philosophies deeply intrigue me, I would begin to “infinitely crap my pants.” As it turns out, this is not the case at all.
On this day (December 19 for those keeping score at home), I arrived at work that morning only to find out in our morning huddle that we were to have a special screening that day upstairs and a VIP guest in attendance. It turns out this VIP is none other than Jack Nicholson. While everyone else looked around and murmurs of how cool that was could be heard, I stood with my mouth agape that the man himself would be frequenting my theater this day. My knees buckled a little and my heart was sent aflutter. I felt the same way I’m sure thousands of women have felt over the years after Jack has made passionate love to them for days, if not weeks, on end.
We have a little unwritten rule at our theater, but one that is abided by nonetheless: if an employee’s favorite actor pays a visit, that person gets to help that guest out. The night Al Pacino was in attendance, I was set to help him out, but another worker informed me Pacino was his favorite actor, so I stepped down and let him take my place. I’m not sure what happens if two people share the same favorite actor. It hasn’t come up yet. I assume it will be up to the actor him or herself to choose a favorite then.
While setting up box office, I was flitting around like a humming bird, hovering from one stanchion to the next. The next hour was essentially me talking at a rapid-fire pace about how awesome Jack is and how awesome it is that he was going to be there with my friend Jeremy between selling guests tickets. Jeremy being an aspiring filmmaker himself and also an admirer of Jack had lots of input on the subject. His favorite actor is Daniel Day Lewis, so if he is ever to appear at our theater, wearing mismatched socks and an overcoat that doesn’t match his pants, I predict a role reversal.
In no time at all, the people arriving for the special screening ambushed us—you know, the one Jack was supposed to be a part of. 250 people stormed up the stairs at once. They skipped the box office line and headed straight for the concessions. My bosses, being awesome and doing everything in their power to accommodate the unwritten rule, sent me over there to mingle with the crowd and get me in the middle of the action where Jack would be. Wave after wave of people came—producers, agents, Brendan Fraser, but no Jack. The guests got their complimentary foodstuffs and left behind nothing but dust and straw wrappers. Phooey.
Returning to Box, Jackless, Jeremy and I started making light of the situation. Whenever a new face would appear from the tip of the escalator, we’d both start jumping up and down, yelling in a hush, “Jack, Jack, Jack!” only to follow it up with a, “Nope. Old lady. False alarm,” or a, “Wait, no. Only Martin Scorsese,” or, “Never mind. It’s just Bruce Springsteen.” This went on for a while. Too long come to think of it. The novelty should have worn off well before it did. Come to think of it, the novelty never wore off. We just wore ourselves out physically from doing our little joke so many times.
After waiting all morning for our VIP, the fervor died down and we all accepted the fact that we had been duped. The movie was about to let out and still there was no Jack to be found. Jeremy and I were back to talking about movies, in particular, “The Aviator,” which has been a point of conversation for a couple of weeks now, and this and that, these and those.
And then it happened. Who should appear from the escalator? It was him. It was Jack.
I turned to Jeremy, who was busy texting underneath the box office counter.
“Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy,” I said over and over.
He looked up and saw what all the to do was about. As reported earlier, I did not begin to infinitely crap my pants, nor did Jeremy. But we were both in awe of the silver screen icon there in our midst. The man we grew up knowing as the Joker and later in life would come to recognize as Jake Gittes and Randall P. McMurphy and a deranged Johnny Carson. And just like that, he was out of our sight and on his way upstairs for the screening.
Reaching for a walkie, I radioed management to let them know our VIP was finally here. Based on their mannerisms coming out of the office, they were pretty excited to hear this too. Plans were set in place to accommodate the actor and the fellow he arrived with, who if I’m not mistaken, was a producer on the film. Bless my manager’s hearts, they assigned me the task of making sure director’s chairs were set up for the guests and that they had water bottles and microphones for the Q&A that was to follow the film.
The movie ended, the crowd applauded, I did my job and sat back and watched the Q&A. Had anyone have asked me to return to work, I’d have refused outright. Fortunately, such a ridiculous request was not desired of me.
Jack and the producer took the microphones and bottles of water in their director’s chairs, although both remained standing rather than sit in the director’s chairs I set up. The producer introduced the man that needed no introduction (Brendan Fraser looked a bit befuddled, but such is life for Brendan Fraser), and he spoke.
His voice was a bit raspy, but most definitely his signature vocal croon. He went on to talk about independent cinema and how hard it is for them to get made these days compared to back then (remember, Jack was involved with “Easy Rider,” one of the most successful independents of all time), because the studios don’t like competition, and how it is such a relief to see that the movie shown on this day at my theater could still get made in the current climate of filmmaking. It was a brief speech, but powerful and endearing. Jack sat the microphone back down on the director’s chair, took his water, and exited to a round of applause. He scuttled past my managers and me, and just like that, it was over.
Until one of my managers turned to me and said, “Go with him.”
Okay.
I hurried to catch up to Jack. He was making his way down the escalator this time. I called out, “Mr. Nicholson.”
He turned to me and we locked eyes. I couldn’t believe this moment was happening. I won’t say time slowed down or sped up or anything cliché like that—rather, it remained the same. It’s just at a moment like that you realize how quickly a few seconds goes by.
“Mr. Nicholson. I just wanted to let you know that you are my favorite actor and I wrote a screenplay with you in mind and I hope someday we’ll get a chance to work together,” said I. Ugh. So stupid. He hears crap like this all the time. Way to be a jackass in front of Jack, ya jackass.
“Well thank you, I appreciate that.”
Huh. Did I just get a thank you from Jack Nicholson? I turns out I did, and from there we continued to make small talk. He asked me my name, I told it to him, and we shook hands. Now on the escalator, I asked him what his affiliation was with the movie today, not having seen it when I last checked his filmography on IMDB. Turns out there was no affiliation with the movie whatsoever. Tommy Lee Jones was supposed to show up for the Q&A but could not make it, so the producer, a longtime friend of Jack’s, asked him to come down today to say a few words. Whatever works, I guess. I’m not complaining.
From there, we continued our small talk. Jack told me how he never had a problem knowing if a movie was going to suck or not, and neither could people that work at the box office. It was around this time we passed the box office, Jack and I side-by-side, when another one of my managers saw us. His eyes got wide and had a kind of, “What?” look on his face. It was delightful.
We made our way down another escalator to an elevator that would lead to the parking garage floor where Jack was parked (G2). It was here that we parted ways. Jack wished me luck on everything, and I thanked him, and told him it was an honor to meet him, which it was. The elevator door popped open, Jack did a funny-looking hop, asked if it was going down, and was gone, probably making whoever was in the elevator’s day.
Back at work, the managers wanted to know every little detail. I thanked them for letting me do everything I just did, and they sort of played it off with a, “Well, we can’t just let Jack Nicholson leave the theater by himself.” Thanks managers. You’re the best.
Over the next several days, lots of actors will wander the halls of Landmark Theatre—Mickey Rourke, Marisa Tomei, Evan Rachel Wood (all there for a Q&A of, “The Wrestler,” and Benicio Del Toro was there for the special road show edition of “Che” (of note, Jack and Benicio worked together on the movie, “The Pledge”). Diane Keaton, who teamed with Jack in the movie, “Something’s Gotta Give,” also came through box that day, but nothing quite lived up to the golden standard, nor could it.
Thus far, California has had some major lows, but some serious highs too. For every Pas’Ta Weat playing “Kandy Store” at six in the morning there is a Jack Nicholson wishing you the best of luck on all things. Neither of the above examples would’ve happened were I still in Iowa.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Sorry I’m Late. I Was Stuck In Traffic
Hey there what’s left of my small but devoted fan base of readers eagerly awaiting an update on things that occurred months ago. Sorry to keep you waiting for a new entry, but not really, because I know you weren’t waiting. In the interim, you went out, got married, signed a loan on a nice but modest home on the corner that doesn’t have much of a yard, but it’s in a good neighborhood and you like the school district, so you took it, settled in, had kids, got that promotion, and it’s a good thing too, because braces aren’t cheap, and set up online banking. With all those things going on, how could you find time to read my anemic blog?
I’ll keep this one short, and hopefully, you can fit this little nugget into your schedule. I also apologize for not getting a new entry out sooner. Hell, even Dallas has updated since I last posted. But I have my reasons:
First, this past year has been extremely busy. I think you would agree if I had had time to write about those incendiary times throughout the past eleven months. Unfortunately, I did not, so you will forever be left in the shadows. When I have not been bogged down with work, things have just been hectic overall and not conducive to anything productive.
Second, the lack of an Internet connection played a large part in me not posting anything. Supposedly, there is a whole mess a Internet out here in Californee, but they want you to pay for it. Not being a believer in paying for things that are basic human needs—food, shelter, and Internet—I refused to buy me up any. That’s also why I’ve lost about fifteen pounds and have lived in squalor.
Finally, I’m just damn lazy. I like to write. But like all things you enjoy, you never want to actually do them if you are supposed to. Someone could come up to me and say, “I want you to sit around in air conditioning all day, playing video games, listening to music, having noncommittal sex with an assortment of beautiful women, eat Oreo cookies, and re-alphabetize a movie collection,” and the first thing I would want to do is tar a rooftop under the noontime sun all while doing wind sprints in full Eskimo gear and Crocs.
I won’t lie to you and say this is my return blog and that there will be frequent posts from here on out, although I am going to try to post more often. However, the aforementioned hurdles mentioned above (see: above), are still present. But I will post some of the blogs I wrote over the past few months of latency and hopefully come at you with an ample sampling of more current blog writings.
Keep your eyes to the skies. This blog and the anniversary of my expedition out to California is coming up (one year already!), so expect a retrospective entry some time in 2011.
I’ll keep this one short, and hopefully, you can fit this little nugget into your schedule. I also apologize for not getting a new entry out sooner. Hell, even Dallas has updated since I last posted. But I have my reasons:
First, this past year has been extremely busy. I think you would agree if I had had time to write about those incendiary times throughout the past eleven months. Unfortunately, I did not, so you will forever be left in the shadows. When I have not been bogged down with work, things have just been hectic overall and not conducive to anything productive.
Second, the lack of an Internet connection played a large part in me not posting anything. Supposedly, there is a whole mess a Internet out here in Californee, but they want you to pay for it. Not being a believer in paying for things that are basic human needs—food, shelter, and Internet—I refused to buy me up any. That’s also why I’ve lost about fifteen pounds and have lived in squalor.
Finally, I’m just damn lazy. I like to write. But like all things you enjoy, you never want to actually do them if you are supposed to. Someone could come up to me and say, “I want you to sit around in air conditioning all day, playing video games, listening to music, having noncommittal sex with an assortment of beautiful women, eat Oreo cookies, and re-alphabetize a movie collection,” and the first thing I would want to do is tar a rooftop under the noontime sun all while doing wind sprints in full Eskimo gear and Crocs.
I won’t lie to you and say this is my return blog and that there will be frequent posts from here on out, although I am going to try to post more often. However, the aforementioned hurdles mentioned above (see: above), are still present. But I will post some of the blogs I wrote over the past few months of latency and hopefully come at you with an ample sampling of more current blog writings.
Keep your eyes to the skies. This blog and the anniversary of my expedition out to California is coming up (one year already!), so expect a retrospective entry some time in 2011.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Work?
Right now, our nation is in economic turmoil. People are losing their jobs right and left, and big companies, the ones that aren’t going belly-up that is, are laying off large chunks of their work force. The United States is staring down the worst recession in eighty years, and I’m starting anew in a California economy running on life support after a writers strike and an impending actors strike. I am so grateful to have a job right now, you have no idea, even if it is a job meant for seventeen-year olds that need gas money so they can drive to their magic shows or buy magazines to flip through or whatever the hell it is kids do these days for fun.
Tonight was my first night of work. Myself, along with the other one they hired on to do the job had an evening of training. One of the coordinators (think assistant manager) sat us down and went through a packet of information that told us all the ins and outs of the job. We each took a turn reading a paragraph; similar to what you probably remember doing when you were in second grade. Remember how you would groan and roll your eyes when it came time for the kid to read that had problems with all consonants and you just could not wait for them to finish so that someone competent could do their thing and continue the march of time? The other hire had a tough time getting through his first paragraph. It took approximately three minutes longer than it should have to navigate to the space break. He fumbled over words like “similar” and “greeting.” Whatever. I’ve already seen the fruits of the labor of the California school system. This does not come as shocking, simply disappointing.
I proceeded to read my paragraph with the utmost of ease. Thanks for reading to me when I was younger, Mom. Also, for not giving me Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.
Then it came time for the coordinator to read (remember: coordinator=assistant manager). The coordinator was having just as much trouble as the other new hire getting through his paragraph. That was disheartening for several reasons. But you, dear reader, probably see this as disheartening for your own reasons, so I’ll let you fill in the blanks yourself.
After writing my signature and date multiple times on several different sheets of paper regarding protocol we didn’t actually go over, it was time for hands-on training. I liken it to taking center stage at a Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey circus show, but I have been known to embellish things before, and this time is no exception.
Tonight, we were trained on how to seat guests of the theater. This involves waiting for a guest to arrive with a ticket, walking them up the aisles to their designated row and seat, march back down the stairs and proceed to wait for the next guest. That’s it. And I’m getting paid $9.00 an hour to do it. I worked at a grocery store as an assistant manager for that rate, where a slow day consisted of doing the nightly bookwork, hopping on a cash register when lines got too long, running stock, solving any grievances that came up regarding a food stamp card that had been used so many times the electronic strip would no longer read, and keeping a Bosnian from cracking the skull of some black guy with a tire iron. I worked at a meat packing plant for $9.00 an hour with a man from Laos named Tom Rasavong (enough said). Now I’m getting paid $9.00 to show people to their seats at a movie maybe a dozen times an hour. Once all the movies go in, there is nothing required of me until it’s time for a movie to let out, at which time I open the door and thank people for frequenting our theater. It feels like there is more that I need to be doing. Should I be building something? Maybe do some high dusting? Any pedophiles in a van out front I need to call the cops on? Nope. I was told just to seat and not worry about anything else. After the shows have started, I find myself wandering in and out of theaters, watching tidbits of several different movies over the course of my shift. Within the first week I’ll have probably watched the semi truck flip over in “The Dark Knight” at least two dozen times. I’m strangely drawn to “Vicki Christina Barcelona.” I’m not a huge Woody Allen fan and had never actually seen one of his films until a couple years ago when a certain someone turned me on to them. Yet, I keep coming in time and again to watch it. Maybe it’s because the other movies playing right now include some snobby French film called, “Tell No One,” that has such overt symbolism it would make Oliver Stone blush, a documentary called, “Man On Wire,” (which I predict you will come to know as an Academy Award winning film in 2009) that is really a movie you don’t want to just jump into select parts of (plus, it too, has a glut of French people in it), “Bottle Shock,” a movie about wine (again, too French), “Traitor,” starring Don “Hey, Remember When I Was Bankable In Everything? Remember?” Cheadle, and “Mister Foe,” a movie starring the boy that was Billy Elliot.
As things would have it, I made my first industry connections at Mister Foe. I seated two gentlemen the next night, whose names were Brian Taggert, a writer, and Bob Thompson, a producer. After asking if I were in actor, I explained to them that no, I was a stunt performer/ writer. If I had still had my nametag from the Santa Monica rooftop pool party, there would not have been any question as to what I was. Nevertheless, we chatted until the movie started, exchanged information, and made plans to talk in the future.
When the call of duty is not calling for me and I’m not sneaking in to watch The Joker perform a magic trick, I talk to the other people I work with. Most are high school kids; some are young community college upstarts. As I do so, I carry somewhat an heir of superiority about me, coming as no surprise to anyone that has ever talked to me. However, this is different because I feel this job and the current situation is below me. Yet, seeing as how this is the only job I’m apparently qualified for, maybe my erudition is falsely acquired. Maybe this is exactly where I belong. No, that’s not true. I know the difference between a nickel and a quarter, and I also know not to put them in my mouth and swallow them (we’ll keep working on that one, Max. Remember, baby steps). But hey, it’s a start. Something to keep me in Los Angeles until something more up my alley comes along.
Returning home to the hostel, Ruby and Rose were already asleep, as it was past 8:00. Both need approximately ten hours of sleep a night, and then they awaken early so they can get a start on tilling. That left me alone with a glum Sait. He was sitting at the dining room table, catching up on episodes of “24.” I went up and asked, “Hey Sait. How was your day?”
“I miss Marko,” was his response.
Poor guy. Sait arrived from Turkey around the same time Marko showed up in California andboth hit it off immediately. They would wake up at the same time, spend practically every waking moment together, and both turned in at the same time every night. They were inseparable—like Steven Tyler and Joe Perry, or Jack Twist and Ennis Del Mar, or Jay and Skittles. Now, circumstance has driven them apart.
Fortunately, during one of my breaks at work—okay, not so much a break as it was down time—I made a Marko finger puppet for Sait and that kept him busy for hours.
Tonight was my first night of work. Myself, along with the other one they hired on to do the job had an evening of training. One of the coordinators (think assistant manager) sat us down and went through a packet of information that told us all the ins and outs of the job. We each took a turn reading a paragraph; similar to what you probably remember doing when you were in second grade. Remember how you would groan and roll your eyes when it came time for the kid to read that had problems with all consonants and you just could not wait for them to finish so that someone competent could do their thing and continue the march of time? The other hire had a tough time getting through his first paragraph. It took approximately three minutes longer than it should have to navigate to the space break. He fumbled over words like “similar” and “greeting.” Whatever. I’ve already seen the fruits of the labor of the California school system. This does not come as shocking, simply disappointing.
I proceeded to read my paragraph with the utmost of ease. Thanks for reading to me when I was younger, Mom. Also, for not giving me Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.
Then it came time for the coordinator to read (remember: coordinator=assistant manager). The coordinator was having just as much trouble as the other new hire getting through his paragraph. That was disheartening for several reasons. But you, dear reader, probably see this as disheartening for your own reasons, so I’ll let you fill in the blanks yourself.
After writing my signature and date multiple times on several different sheets of paper regarding protocol we didn’t actually go over, it was time for hands-on training. I liken it to taking center stage at a Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey circus show, but I have been known to embellish things before, and this time is no exception.
Tonight, we were trained on how to seat guests of the theater. This involves waiting for a guest to arrive with a ticket, walking them up the aisles to their designated row and seat, march back down the stairs and proceed to wait for the next guest. That’s it. And I’m getting paid $9.00 an hour to do it. I worked at a grocery store as an assistant manager for that rate, where a slow day consisted of doing the nightly bookwork, hopping on a cash register when lines got too long, running stock, solving any grievances that came up regarding a food stamp card that had been used so many times the electronic strip would no longer read, and keeping a Bosnian from cracking the skull of some black guy with a tire iron. I worked at a meat packing plant for $9.00 an hour with a man from Laos named Tom Rasavong (enough said). Now I’m getting paid $9.00 to show people to their seats at a movie maybe a dozen times an hour. Once all the movies go in, there is nothing required of me until it’s time for a movie to let out, at which time I open the door and thank people for frequenting our theater. It feels like there is more that I need to be doing. Should I be building something? Maybe do some high dusting? Any pedophiles in a van out front I need to call the cops on? Nope. I was told just to seat and not worry about anything else. After the shows have started, I find myself wandering in and out of theaters, watching tidbits of several different movies over the course of my shift. Within the first week I’ll have probably watched the semi truck flip over in “The Dark Knight” at least two dozen times. I’m strangely drawn to “Vicki Christina Barcelona.” I’m not a huge Woody Allen fan and had never actually seen one of his films until a couple years ago when a certain someone turned me on to them. Yet, I keep coming in time and again to watch it. Maybe it’s because the other movies playing right now include some snobby French film called, “Tell No One,” that has such overt symbolism it would make Oliver Stone blush, a documentary called, “Man On Wire,” (which I predict you will come to know as an Academy Award winning film in 2009) that is really a movie you don’t want to just jump into select parts of (plus, it too, has a glut of French people in it), “Bottle Shock,” a movie about wine (again, too French), “Traitor,” starring Don “Hey, Remember When I Was Bankable In Everything? Remember?” Cheadle, and “Mister Foe,” a movie starring the boy that was Billy Elliot.
As things would have it, I made my first industry connections at Mister Foe. I seated two gentlemen the next night, whose names were Brian Taggert, a writer, and Bob Thompson, a producer. After asking if I were in actor, I explained to them that no, I was a stunt performer/ writer. If I had still had my nametag from the Santa Monica rooftop pool party, there would not have been any question as to what I was. Nevertheless, we chatted until the movie started, exchanged information, and made plans to talk in the future.
When the call of duty is not calling for me and I’m not sneaking in to watch The Joker perform a magic trick, I talk to the other people I work with. Most are high school kids; some are young community college upstarts. As I do so, I carry somewhat an heir of superiority about me, coming as no surprise to anyone that has ever talked to me. However, this is different because I feel this job and the current situation is below me. Yet, seeing as how this is the only job I’m apparently qualified for, maybe my erudition is falsely acquired. Maybe this is exactly where I belong. No, that’s not true. I know the difference between a nickel and a quarter, and I also know not to put them in my mouth and swallow them (we’ll keep working on that one, Max. Remember, baby steps). But hey, it’s a start. Something to keep me in Los Angeles until something more up my alley comes along.
Returning home to the hostel, Ruby and Rose were already asleep, as it was past 8:00. Both need approximately ten hours of sleep a night, and then they awaken early so they can get a start on tilling. That left me alone with a glum Sait. He was sitting at the dining room table, catching up on episodes of “24.” I went up and asked, “Hey Sait. How was your day?”
“I miss Marko,” was his response.
Poor guy. Sait arrived from Turkey around the same time Marko showed up in California andboth hit it off immediately. They would wake up at the same time, spend practically every waking moment together, and both turned in at the same time every night. They were inseparable—like Steven Tyler and Joe Perry, or Jack Twist and Ennis Del Mar, or Jay and Skittles. Now, circumstance has driven them apart.
Fortunately, during one of my breaks at work—okay, not so much a break as it was down time—I made a Marko finger puppet for Sait and that kept him busy for hours.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
You Get Job!
Round two of the job interview went down today. This time I had to face down the manager known as Nida. After a grueling twenty minutes of interview questions, she handed me my first job in California—floor staff at The Landmark Theatre. Mark this momentous occasion, September 8, 2008, on your calendars, people. I was informed I was one of two people to make the cut. Take that all you high school sophomores and juniors. I took your job. Guess you’ll have to bum marijuana cigarettes off mommy and daddy for a little bit longer.
For whatever reason, I felt pretty good about myself after this slight victory, so I celebrated. On my drive back up Pico, I hit up a Ralphs and bought a half-gallon of chocolate milk and a bag of chicken.
The celebration continued. Remember the greasy longhaired ponytail guy? He was pretty confident that he dropped a $100 dollar Go America! bill through a crack in the patio in the back yard of the hostel, so I watched him for about half an hour, bent over, ass crack peeking out over his faded black jeans, trying to retrieve this imaginary money with a car antennae smeared with cake frosting on the tip. Even after I lost interest in the spectacle, he continued on, pursuing this $100 bill well into the early hours of the next morning. I also couldn’t help but think that if instead of trying to retrieve this money, if he went out and worked for a day or two, he could recoup his loss. But I think he worked a day already this month, so maybe the antennae/frosting technique is the best alternative.
This job couldn’t have come at a better time. For one, Ruby and Rose will be leaving at the end of the week, so I’m going to need something to do to while away the time. For two, I’m practically broke. I have just about enough money to return to Iowa on, which I don’t want to do. It’s only been a month. I still want to try my best to survive at least until the first of the year out here.
Although later that night, a harsh reality set in—Marko informed us he was heading back to New Jersey. It was abrupt and came out of nowhere. We were all stunned. His plane was to leave early the next morning. Previously, he had been working part-time on a paint crew run by a distant relation. This job was not proving viable to pay for the extremely high cost of living out here. Having already lost Hiro, losing Marko was another constant exiting the hostel.
Such is life; people entering and exiting on a whim. By the end of the week, Ruby and Rose will be leaving. We have cell phone numbers. We have emails. We’ll stay in touch. But it won’t ever be the same. We’ll always have that special bond of the six glorious weeks we spent living the hostel life together, and who knows? Maybe our lives will intertwine again. Stranger things have happened. But no matter what, it won’t be the same as it was. Such is life.
For whatever reason, I felt pretty good about myself after this slight victory, so I celebrated. On my drive back up Pico, I hit up a Ralphs and bought a half-gallon of chocolate milk and a bag of chicken.
The celebration continued. Remember the greasy longhaired ponytail guy? He was pretty confident that he dropped a $100 dollar Go America! bill through a crack in the patio in the back yard of the hostel, so I watched him for about half an hour, bent over, ass crack peeking out over his faded black jeans, trying to retrieve this imaginary money with a car antennae smeared with cake frosting on the tip. Even after I lost interest in the spectacle, he continued on, pursuing this $100 bill well into the early hours of the next morning. I also couldn’t help but think that if instead of trying to retrieve this money, if he went out and worked for a day or two, he could recoup his loss. But I think he worked a day already this month, so maybe the antennae/frosting technique is the best alternative.
This job couldn’t have come at a better time. For one, Ruby and Rose will be leaving at the end of the week, so I’m going to need something to do to while away the time. For two, I’m practically broke. I have just about enough money to return to Iowa on, which I don’t want to do. It’s only been a month. I still want to try my best to survive at least until the first of the year out here.
Although later that night, a harsh reality set in—Marko informed us he was heading back to New Jersey. It was abrupt and came out of nowhere. We were all stunned. His plane was to leave early the next morning. Previously, he had been working part-time on a paint crew run by a distant relation. This job was not proving viable to pay for the extremely high cost of living out here. Having already lost Hiro, losing Marko was another constant exiting the hostel.
Such is life; people entering and exiting on a whim. By the end of the week, Ruby and Rose will be leaving. We have cell phone numbers. We have emails. We’ll stay in touch. But it won’t ever be the same. We’ll always have that special bond of the six glorious weeks we spent living the hostel life together, and who knows? Maybe our lives will intertwine again. Stranger things have happened. But no matter what, it won’t be the same as it was. Such is life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
