A Letter from a Beautiful Girl can Seriously Change Your Outlook

So I know I haven't written. I know very few people care. It's been a rough and wild ride the last few weeks. Here are the summaries.

UN

I got screwed by Uhaul and am currently arguing with them about 50 dollars. Their website guarantees that if you do not have the truck you reserve when you get there, they will give you 50 dollars. I have sent them e-mails and filed a complaint by telephone. I odered a pickup truck with no cab to move my (queen) mattress from Sherman Oaks to Sam's  apartment in Burbank. This is approximately a 7 mile drive each way. When I got to the Uhaul, they weren't ready, and the first thing they did was say they didn't know why Uhauls website sent me to them, as they did not have pickups, only box trucks. Then I had to wait for the box truck to be readied, which took about 45 minutes. My reservation was 10-1, and I got into a 10 FOOT BOX TRUCK at around 11. It was a pain in the ass. Also the truck made this fabulous squeaking sound (not breaks) and sometimes seemed as if it didn't know how to shift up into the next gears. When i mentioned this to the owner of the facility he offered "Well we done checked the fluids out yesterday." Good. I'm proud of you. I don't know much about vehicles, but perhaps you shoudl check out the REST of the engine, eh? They also tried to get me to rent the truck for 24 hours. I don't know if they had a quota to meet, but they couldn't understand why I'd only need it for 2 hours.

So an 90 minutes later my mattress is firmly planted between the refridgerator and the wall in the kitchen, securing my eventual death in an incendiary-situation (incendiary  as in FLAMES, not as in I've riled a bunch of villagers with witty banter on why I should clearly be their king). Also securing my ability to have breakfast in bed by rolling over. 

I should explain that the apartment we're living in could very easily be a reality tv show. Here we go - I need maybe 5 cameras, with their feeds going directly into some sort of server. We put 3 cameras in the 'main room' and 2 in opposite corners of the kitchen. Our masterful main room is a multipurpose room. Most days of the week it's a living room. On sundays and some evenings it's a theatre for film or sports. On evenings it's a bedroom. There is a desk I've decided is our 'writing centre'. 

Let me elaborate further.

This room is 11x7. Or roughly half the size of a Taco Bell restroom.

And further yet.

We have 3 single guys between the 22 and 23 living in it.

So you can clearly see why my bed is in the kitchen.

...because I snore.

So the living/multipurpose/bedroom is shared by Justin and Sam. It houses 4 macintosh computers (my editing desktop and perosnal use laptop, sam and justin's laptops) and 3 xbox 360s (one from each of us). It houses a single full sized matress on the floor in one corner, and adjacent to that, a small love seat which turns into (justin's) bed.

Through the door is my fortress of solitude. We have a fridge about half the width of a normal fridge. Directly to the right of that, taking up 60% of the available floor space, is my queen sized mattress. I did not choose a queen; it was free. Free is good when you're living on ramen and quesadillas containing nothing but cheese.

Opposite my bed is the pantry - the top shelves contain our snacks and cooking utensils, the bottom shelves contain our garbage and suitcases. The fun part though is when you go to the sink.

Imagine this scenario: you are a guest for the first time in our tiny apartment, maybe, say, for football on a Sunday. You volunteer to clean, but you cannot find the soap. So you open the cabinet under the sink to get the proper detergants, right?

Wrong. Because if you did that, you would find my dresser. Also known as 4 giant ziplock bags filled haphazardly with my clothes. Which leads me to the second reason the last 2 weeks sucked.

DEUX

When tossing my bag under the sink in a rush to leave, a bag that contains my shoes bumped into the ( insert word that means pipe that's connected to the sinks drain here ) causing what i'd like to call a slight leak. I didn't notice. I instead went to Hollywood.

90 Minutes later sam calls. We have to go to a hardware store he says.

Shit. (I say)

3 hours, a trip to Lowes, 3 sausages sauteed with vegetables and many curses later, sam has adheared some sort of plastic-steel-bracelet of 'please god do not let the sink spew dirty water all over my chuck taylors'. It has thus far seemed to work. For a brief second I thought we'd need somewhere new for my clothes, like under a shelf in the bathroom. However now that my fine undergarments (read: fruit of the loom 4 pack) are save from ramen juice, we've decided to use that space for someting far greater: some sort of animal. Bunnies! 

(Note: not serious - we're not even sure if Sams lease is okay with multiple people being housed in it,  much less animals.)

Everything Electronic Fails [THREE!]

So we begin the process of arranging our electronics - this seems like nothing important, but we have multiple xbox's and computers and very ew grounded outlets. As we plug in an adapter, power surge, no electricity. And we have to call the super who is going to have t walk into our apartment and see a bed in the kitchen. Uh oh.

Luckily we find breakers. We throw them. We vow to curse the outlet with sorcery later.

Also during this entire week our internet was out which severely limited my job search, which is about as active as Kanye's ego but as successful as Patrick Swayze's battle with cancer.

Ponderings With Sean McGee - Episode One

Definitely watch this. Sean stars in a (hopefully weekly) stand up/situational comedy hybrid. Sometimes our humor is off colour....so if you are offended by bad language....sorry. Sean swears when he ponders. We can't help that. We can only capture his essence as an artist.

Quandary of Squalor; or, "I was just talking to that large african american lad!"

So apparently we have a tradition out here, where on your birthday you get a list of tasks that you have to accomplish. It started with portmans birthday a month ago, my first week in Los Angeles. Sean was in Wheeling, and on his plane flight home, got bored and made a list of absurd things for Portman to accomplish on his birthday.

Fast forward. It is now September 4th. My day of birth. And this is my list.

1. Entire bottle of Charles Shaw to the head. 

Liquor and beer in California isn't as cheap as it is back east. However, at least to some benefit, every store sells it. Our favourite liquor selling establishment is Trader Joe's. At Trader Joe's, they have their generic brand name products - including wine. Charles Shaw wine. It's 1.99 a bottle. Instead of doing shots or drinking beer to pregame, we spend 8 dollars on 4 bottles of wine, and each of us has one as quick as possible. However, you'll also note the 'to the head' aspect of the task, which tasks me to drink it as quickly as possible. I drank it in about 4 minutes.

2. Call one girl from LA Express.

The LA Express is one of those things I'm not sure how it is legal to distribute. It's basically a newspaper with pictures of girls and their phone numbers. It advertises 'escort services'. There are many of these booths around the city that have stacks of them. They apparently don't like being asked to do obscene tasks by drunk people at 1 in the morning - even if it is their birthday.

3. Scream "I used to be kind of gay" at some point

I yelled this in the middle of a very busy nightclub/bar that we frequent. Enough said.

4. Introduce yourself to someone random as Gideon.

I think this is fairly self-explanatory. The girl didn't seem to enthused to meet Gideon. Probably because he was a staggering drunk in a bar who interrupted her conversation

5. Text Rachel "If you were out here, boy, oh boy, the things I would do to that onion"

I have no idea where Sean comes up with these things. I' have no idea if Rachel will ever talk to me again; she hasn't responded yet, 14 hours later.

6. Call walmart and inquire on the price and availability of season 1 of Mama's Family.

Made even funnier by the fact that I don't even know what Mama's Family is. Neither did any of the employees at wal-mart. They put me on hold twice. And asked multiple times what I was looking for. I was going to ask them to transfer me to shoes so I could inquire about the price and availability of water shoes, but they hung up on me.

7. Ask Megan and Halie to kiss, they don't have to, you just have to ask

Two of our friends. I asked nicely, for my birthday. They did kiss, so I got bonus points.

8. Ask a guy for a cert. If he offers you anything else, refuse it.

I asked what I think was a Valet for a cert. He was wearing a shiny silver jacket. He handed me a business card and I threw it back at him because I had to refuse anything not a cert. When he picked up his business card and put it back in his pocket, I apologized for throwing his business card because I felt bad.

9. Order a 40 of PBR from a bartender.

The bartender misheard and gave us 4 PBRs. We drank them.

10. Listen to waving flag in it's entirety

I hate Ka'naan. I hate this song. It's miserable. Almost as miserable as Matisyahu, which almost always directly precedes or proceeds the playing of this horrible shitfest. This was the last of the goals I accomplished at about 4AM, and it was painful. (But I was drunk and I sang along)

11. 10 Pushups

This was one of the more difficult things, because I did this approximately 5 minutes after consuming a bottle of wine and 2 vodka redbulls in under 15 minutes. Walking and speaking the english language was difficult, doing pushups was near impossible. After doing 10, Portman and Sam decided it was time to cross it off the list. But sean was out on the balcony smoking and saw nothing, so he insisted I do 2 more to prove it to him. I think I almost died.

12. Talk in a British accent for half an hour. If anyone beleives you are british, explain that you are a well known sound mixer, in town to mix sound for a high budget pornographic movie.

There is a video of me talking to an equally drunk large black man about how I'm a British sound mixer. "I just spoke to that large african american lad!", I proclaim to the camera. I can't comment on this because... I don't have a great memory of the experience. But I know that samuel and portman timed me and I actually went for 45. This was on the list because the first night I was out in Los Angeles, I got blackout-alcohol-poisoning drunk and (apparently, rumored) spoke in a British accent for something like an hour.

It's 3:14 Am and I stare at the moon from the balcony. It's easily 10 degrees cooler outside of our apartment which is drenched in all the best shades of white the world has to offer. In cotton shorts and no shirt I stare out across the road and note the woman in the house on the corner sitting at her desk writing and consider that I should stop and write as well. I wonder if she's writing a screenplay, or a novel, for enjoyment, or a letter to her mother. 

 

I wonder if it will be reviewed publicly in the press.

 

I wonder if she will let me proofread it.

 

I wonder if I could own one of the short quotes of praise on the back.

 

"Truly a masterpiece of our times," says the New York Post.

 

"Powerful and Spellbinding,' says the New Yorker.

 

"Poignant and Post-Coital!' declares Roe Sellers.

 

I chuckle to myself and walk to my bed where I will assuredly write a screenplay. 

 

Scratch that.

 

I chuckle to myself and walk to my bed where I will assuredly check facebook, look to see if anyone has posted a new job on entertainmentcareers.net, monster.com, or craigslist in the 15 minutes since I last checked which is assinine because it's 3:00AM and all of Hollywood's movers and shakers are in bed now, underneath their sheets with much higher thread counts than mine, behind gated driveways and expensive security systems. 

 

I try to picture the hollywood executive that will read my manuscript, my novel, my screenplay - this blog, and think to himself "HOLY shitting wizards, this kid has exactly what we're looking for! He's abrasive, self-depricating, witty, with a hint of dark humor and intelligence, why is he not on our staff?"

 

As I lay in my bed picturing this scenario, suddenly April is in the bed as well - not sensually, just there to exist and torture me.

 

"No hollywood executive will purchase your script if you don't write it first".

 

Intelligent - that's April. Or at least that's April in my head. That's the kind charm that reignites a crush from the 6th grade, which I excellently told her about while drunk on $1.99 a bottle Chadonnay from Trader Joes. In my unemployment, I've found a great deal of time to converse with people about how I will ONE DAY be a great Hollywood writer. Her command of the english language is somehow powerful and vivid, but also strangely grounding and gratifying.

 

"That's right, I say to her - that's right I do need to write, that's how my whole future will come together. Unfortunately", I say to her with a sigh, "unfortunately my writing isn't all that great and I have to attention span of a newborn fruit fly or a pre schooler at the zoo".

 

"Nonsense, you're being ridiculous - you're writing is lovely. Stop complicating things for yourself" 

 

A new voice. Erica - EJR, in the flesh, now sitting at the foot of my bed, her hair elegantly disheveled about her glasses, her blue eyes - the same blue eyes I'd swoon over any day - peering over a beaten copy of some american classic. Animal Farm maybe? Perhaps the Great Gatsby? I notice the chipped finger nail polish as she turns a page; her eyes light up and she purses her lips together in the way I love, probably thinking of the perfect insult since our relationship is founded on mutual cruelty and passionate sarcasm.

 

Erica will now psycho-analyze my writers block, while April will offer useful advice that to me is somewhere just short of the perfect advice I need to carry on.

 

"Maybe you can't write because you don't really want to,'' Erica would offer.

 

"I think you're very witty and creative - you just need to tap into that and market it to the rest of the world,'' April suggests.

 

"Roe, when you left Baltimore, you promised me you'd find a normal girl to inspire you" someone stays sternly.

 

Shit that's right, I did say that. That's Amanda by the way, and she's now pensively resting her head upon my pillow staring at the ceiling.

 

"And so you drove 3000 miles to imagine of your high school girlfriend, a middle school crush, and the girl you're convinced is something special lounging on your bed," she chides. "That doesn't seem very productive!"

 

"I live in Los Angeles, California," I reply. "No one here is normal. Everyone is 'in the industry' - except me. I'm unemployed. No one turns right on red, and everyone has the desire to tell you about their personal lives. I imagine that if I were to walk home drunk from the bar and be struck by a car, the following scenario would take place"

 

EXTERIOR – NIGHT TIME, BUSY STREET

A PARAMEDIC ARRIVES ON THE SCENE WHERE A CAR HAS APPARENTLY HIT SWERVED TO TRY TO AVOID A PEDESTRIAN – THE PEDESTRIAN, ROE, IS LAYING IN A PULL OF HIS OWN BLOOD NEAR THE SIDEWALK, IN OBVIOUS PAIN.

                                               

                                                PARAMEDIC

                        Oh dude, man, shit, that’s gnarly. That looks seriously bad man, but

                        No worries, we’ll have you in tip top shape in no time bro! Can you

                        Hear me alright man?

 

                                                ROE

                        Ah…yeah. I can hear you fine…I got clipped by a car at the knees,

                        not any sort of brain trauma.

 

                                                PARAMEDIC

                        Do you have health insurance and an emergency contact available

                        Buddy?

 

                                                ROE

                        Well, my emergency contact would be my rooomate, and he’s over

                        There with the officers giving a statement. And no, I just moved out

                        to California, no job, no insurance.

 

                                                PARAMEDIC

                        Oh yeah bro, I toally know what it’s like. It sucked before I got my

                        feet in the industry, no job, nothing. Wow man, that’s a lot of blood,

                        good thing I got some bandages am I right?

 

COLOUR DRAINS FROM ROE’S FACE. HE APPEARS TO BE GOING INTO SHOCK. CONFUSION COLOURS HIS FACE

 

                                                ROE

                        In the industry? Please tell me you’re a real paramedic and not an

                        Actor?

 

                                                PARAMEDIC

                        Shit man, what, you think they don’t need on set paramedic crews

in case of emergencies do you? Man , once I worked on a set for an action movie with Harrison Ford, and that bastard god like, a fucking sunburn from the heat of an explosion and he wined like a baby. Oh shit dude, this is so cool I can see your bones man, your shin is sticking out of your jeans!

 

ROE WHIMPERS AND PASSES OUT. THE PARAMEDIC HURREDLY MOTIONS SOME COWORKERS OVER.

 

                                                PARAMEDIC

Haha look at this shit man, kid gets hit by a car and goes into shock. What a douchebag, he’s never gonna make it in the industry!

 

ROE GOES INTO CARDIAC ARREST AND NEARLY DIES BUT IN A LAST MINUTE TWIST, THE INK PEN AND MOLESKINE NOTEBOOK IN HIS FRONT POCKET SLOWS THE BLEEDING AND HE MIRACULOUSLY LIVES AND WRITES A SCREENPLAY ABOUT HIS TRAUMATIC EVENT WHICH WINS AN OSCAR.

 

(Authors Note: Yes I’m aware I stole the random item stopping a serious injury from STRANGER THAN FICTION. No, I don’t care that it isn’t original, most things in Hollywood aren’t: evidence? The yearly remakes of movies that are less than 30 years old)

 

All the girls laugh and swoon at my witty improvisational humor.

 

I wish to clarify that all of these girls have much better vocabularies and verbal mannerisms than noted in this rant, but uh...I suck at dialogue. Which is probably why I'm stressing over this screenplay. Damn it.

 

So now I'm sitting in my bed talking to three beautiful girls admiring my writing that hasn't remotely been written yet. I'd have absolute no chance with any of them if we were in the same room, but here in my head, 3000 miles from either, I am infinite. I am witty to the point of being hysterical, I am intelligent, and I am the best damn writer the industry has ever seen.

 

They may in fact read this blog linked from Facebook and wonder why I've written about them, which is stupid of them because really, anyone I've ever met should expect to be because lets face it : I’m really not that creative. I’m just a decent storyteller is all. It’s just a case of art imitating life.

Actually, my fictional scenario with girls I’m smitten with is more like life imitating art. I’ve watched too many chick flicks from the 80s and that’s why I’m blessed with the ability to use my own literature to torture myself at what is now 4:38 in the morning.

As a note, it is now 4:39 in the morning here on the Left Coast. I have not at all succeeded at writing my script, but have excelled at insulting myself. Now however, I have to work on the script so that I can feel like I’ve accomplished something.

 

I will however save this for my future Memoire. It will be called by one of the three following titles:

1)“My Life as An Elevator: Up, and Down”

2) “You’re Going to Make Someone Very Happy Oneday, Or So They Say”

3) “I Should’ve Stopped Talking 30 Seconds Ago, but Continued Rambling”

 

Whatever the title, I hope the New York Post finds it Poignant and Post-Coital.