The Holy Moment- Caveh Zahedi’s Quest For Truth In Cinema

Although it has a lurid title that invokes B movies of the 1950’s, I Am A Sex Addict is an original work of art that will challenge your ideas of films, reality, and the nature of relationships between a man and a woman. Caveh Zahedi is the director and star of this de-facto home movie, and to say he is a talented filmmaker would be an incomplete sentence. Zahedi is a performance artist, somebody who has the unique ability to flaunt his flaws with honesty and still be able to bond with his audience.

My first exposure to the mind of Caveh Zahedi (like many others) came during Richard Linklater’s animated Waking Life (which I consider one of the best films of this decade). Caveh discusses Andre Brazan’s Theory of “The Holy Moment”, in which since everything is God- film captures God in every frame. This sort of chatter could be dismissed as philosophical bullshit, but that scene (where at the conclusion the two characters attempt a holy moment and turn into clouds) always resonated with me. Pictures, film, and video have been in our lives since we were born, so we have demystified them. But when you think enough about how amazingly strange the process of “capturing moments” is then you can truly wrap your brain around what I Am A Sex Addict is trying to accomplish.

The film (which is part documentary, part fiction, and with a dash of “reality TV” thrown in for good measure) opens up with Caveh in the rectory of a church beginning his confessional about his addiction to prostitutes. He is minutes away from being married (for real), and this decision to begin the story at this moment is one that will elicit groans of tastelessness and exploitation. But this is a perfect place to start the movie, since this joyful hope (what is more optimistic than a wedding?) of the present time makes us relax to what will follow.

And the next hour and a half or so will force you to abandon all preconceived notions of truth, sex, and relationships. And more importantly- what it is that constitutes filmmaking. Because I Am A Sex Addict uses every tool of the trade- there’s still pictures, old home movies, animation, reenactments of real life events, dear-diary-type confessions, and the behind-the-scenes footage of the frustration of trying to recreate what really happened.

Is there a plot? Well, I suppose it is Caveh’s search for a soul mate and his desire to rid himself of his prostitute addiction. Those two things are his goals, and they drive the film forward. I won’t spoil what happens during this quixotic adventure, but I will say that Caveh travels the world and meets all kinds of interesting people (mostly prostitutes but some really cool “regular” women) and the events are documented in an entertaining, comical, and honest manner.

I Am A Sex Addict is all about the obsessions and compulsions of its director/writer/actor, but it never dissolves into narcissism or solipsistic fare. How does Caveh accomplish this? First of all, the film was made with a light comic touch and never takes itself too seriously. Secondly it never devolves into sexual conquest bragging or even celebrates the idea of being a Don Juan-type character. In fact, Caveh is admitting to a weakness and wants help. And third, it is trying to be honest and real about sex- the scenes depicting the act might be blunt but they are never glorifying. If anything, when we see Caveh having an orgasm it only brings to mind the vulnerability and ridiculousness of how we are when we’re naked and engaging in this passionate state.

This film received a very limited release, and the only reason I even heard of it is because I read an article about Caveh Zahedi in the SF Weekly (he lives in San Francisco). I believe it played at The Roxie (a great theatre in The Mission where I last saw a Hal Hartley film), but I missed it. Fortunately I Am A Sex Addict is available on DVD and you can put it in your queue on Netflix. I recommend you do so at once. It will make you forget (for awhile at least) all the crappy and formulaic films that are released by the major studios every week.

http://www.netflix.com/Movie/I_Am_a_Sex_Addict/70052553?trkid=203955

Urban Achiever Philosophy- A Quick Note About The Red Sox

With the Red Sox losing all three games in Yankee Stadium, I will offer this excerpt from The Big Lebowski. At the end of the film The Stranger (who is the narrator) asks The Dude (who just had a crazy adventure involving Nihilists, Pornographers, and In & Out Burgers) “How things been goin'?”

DUDE: Ahh, you know. Strikes and gutters, ups and downs.

THE STRANGER: Sure. Take it easy, Dude--I know that you will.

DUDE: Yeah man. Well, you know, the Dude abides.

Just like The Dude, we should all abide. It sucks losing to The Yankees, and it stings even more considering we could of buried those bastards. The Sox had an 8 game lead at the beginning of the series and winning two would have clinched The AL East Pennant. But while the division crown and ending New York's season are still attainable, there’s no reason to get hung up on those myopic goals. Securing a playoff spot and winning The World Series are what truly matters.

And here are the salient facts: The Red Sox have a 5 game lead in the division, own the best record in all of baseball, and the majority of their remaining games will be against mediocre teams. That last detail should give you the most comfort. Other than the final series against The Yankees (which is at Fenway Park), the combined records of Sox opponents in September are 312 wins and 355 losses.

The Boston Red Sox will still win 100 games and claim their first AL East Pennant since 1995. I will not be crazy enough to predict what will happen in the playoffs (nor do I want to stir up any potential jinxes), but I’m very excited about September and October. The last 3 games were an aberration, and we don’t need any Sox fans getting negative and acting “Un-Dude”.

Take it easy.

Somewhere Near Hollywood & Vine- Part 2 (A Memory Correction)

“It’s a semi-true story, believe it or not. I made up a few things and there’s some I forgot. But the life and the telling are both real to me. And they all run together to be . . . a semi-true story.”
-Jimmy Buffett

It’s no mystery as to why our remembrances tend to be hyperbolic. We are the heroes of our own lives (or at least we should be), and in recanting our experiences we ought make them as exciting as possible. We’re telling stories, stories of tension and drama and lessons learned at the end of the adventure. It’s all a part of how we view ourselves. And if you don’t think you are an exciting and worthy character then nobody else will either.

But while exaggeration is fine, you should always try to sort through the essential details and come up with The Truth. Sometimes you get it right, sometimes you don’t. Storytelling isn’t an exact science.

In my last blog entry I recounted my first experiences living with my friend Bradleigh in Hollywood. Being tossed into a new and exciting environment will heighten your senses, and those memories will forever be embedded into my brain. So I know I got it right . . . well, most of it.

One of the interesting things about writing a blog is that you can get instant feedback. I spoke with Bradleigh tonight and he didn’t remember those events in 1999 exactly as I had.

“You got it wrong, Bro,” Bradleigh said in his trademark gruff voice that should make him the envy of every voiceover artist in LA. “After that night I was never at the door ready to punch you. I wrote you a note and apologized. In your note you quoted The Big Lebowski, and in mine I did too. And what the fuck is 'apologizing like a madman?' I never apologized like a madman.”

It was an homage to Catcher In The Rye. It was lazy writing. It was also hyperbole.

I had forgotten about his note, but that is exactly what happened. After getting woken up in the middle of the night I went to work that morning. When I returned to the apartment Bradleigh would have already left for his job (the night shift at Miyagi’s). He left a note for me saying he was sorry. It was a sincere apology (not madman-like in any way) and quoting The Dude was a nice touch. At some point we talked it out and all was cool. This was right around my birthday, and I remember making pot of spaghetti and Bradleigh dumping it out and treating me to lunch at Wolfgang Puck Cafe.

While those first few days on June Street were a rough adjustment, the next two years were a helluva lot of fun. Girls, booze, parties, bars, and always something interesting happening in every direction when the sun went down. Bradleigh was a great roommate, and I wouldn’t hesitate sharing an apartment with him again.

But having him waiting at the door after I wrote that note creates more drama, more tension . . . and makes for a better story. Even if it never happened.

Somewhere Near Hollywood & Vine

My first year in Los Angeles was actually spent in Burbank.

Before moving to The West Coast Jamie and I made a scouting mission, driving all around town searching desperately for an apartment. Los Feliz was the best neighborhood we visited, but the places we checked out in our budget had no vacancies. Where else, I wondered, as we maneuvered that rental car up and down the freeways of Los Angeles.

Burbank was twenty minutes from the Hollywood Scene and home of NBC & Warner Brothers. I loved those mountains looming over the city, I knew it would be a quiet place to write, and once I got that TV deal it would be a short commute to work. So we plunked down the first, last, and deposit and I suddenly found myself living in beautiful downtown Burbank.

Our apartment was two blocks from Ikea and the damned mall. Teenaged kids roamed freely. By August it was routinely 100 degrees with a steady sheen of smog. It was not how I pictured LA to be.

A year later Jamie had found love and was moving in with his girl. My friend Bradleigh (as wild as Marilyn Manson but with the heart of The Buddha) had recently split with his girlfriend and was moving out. I wanted Real LA Experiences to write about and needed a room. Bradleigh wanted somebody he could trust to pay the rent and party with. So we became roommates on June Street in Hollywood, California.

At first it was a disaster.

I was used to solitude . . . Jamie would either be at work when I was home or at his girlfriend’s place. In Burbank I wrote, watched movies, and always got a good night’s rest. Sure I’d hit the bars or even drink beers at home, but it was on my terms and my schedule. Nobody ever bothered me.

After my third night living with Bradleigh in Hollywood I wanted to move out.

I had worked that evening at California Pizza Kitchen and had to do the early shift in the morning. I had a few “getting to sleep” beers and called it a night at one a.m. At 3:30 am I was awoken to Kid Rock screaming from the speakers and muffled voices through the walls. The rest of the night I struggled to sleep and fumed inwardly over my roommate’s lack of respect.

That morning I wrote a note, a whole mess of words decrying Bradleigh’s actions and how disappointed I was and blah, blah, blah. The whole afternoon at work I could not stop wondering how Bradleigh would respond. We were friends, but at that point we didn’t know each other very well (less than a year). I also knew he was a bad mofo and could kick my ass.

When I came home he was waiting at the door. Would there be yelling? Would there be punches? No . . . he hugged me and apologized like a madman. Bradleigh’s words were sincere, and at that moment we became the true friends we are today.

Although that wasn’t the last time he ruined a night’s sleep, I could no longer get angry. First of all, I had come to participate in most of Bradleigh’s late night drunken revelries. Secondly, I was meeting all kinds of good, cool, and crazy people that could find their way into my stories (Many of them in what would become A Model Community). And most importantly, I knew that Bradleigh had nothing but respect and always felt bad about rousting me from bed. But the guy was 24 and committed to having a good time, trying to live life to the fullest. There was no way to get mad at somebody like that.

June Street in Hollywood is where I began my LA Adventures, and I have my lifelong friend Bradleigh to thank for introducing me to that sweet madness.

Answering Dan Shaughnessy

When I lived in Boston there were always three reasons to read The Globe- Mike Barnicle, Peter Gammons, and Dan Shaughnessy. All had different styles, but it was a great pleasure to sit down with a cup of coffee and digest the information and entertainment of their words. While those first two writers are no longer with The Boston Globe, Mr. Shaughnessy is still going strong.

Although he was the one who wrote the book The Curse of The Bambino, Shaughnessy of late has turned into an unbridled optimist. Just last month he proclaimed The Patriots were going to The Superbowl and The Red Sox would run away with the AL East. Tom Brady and company have yet to play game one, but as we all know The Sox now find themselves in “a real cockfight” (as Ron Burgandy would say) with The Yankees.

So with six weeks left in the season, Shaughnessy has thrown down the gauntlet for citizens of Red Sox nation. Are you an optimist or a pessimist? Is this going to be 1978 or 2004? Click on the following link to check it out:

http://www.boston.com/sports/baseball/redsox/articles/2007/08/20/its_time_for_decision_07_leading_men_or_fall_guys/

I’ve always been an optimist, always believing The Red Sox will find a way to win the game. Of course until they lose, and then I’m cursing myself for having faith. This fluctuation of emotions is typical of most sports fans, and especially for Sox rooters from 1919 until Keith Foulke threw that ball underhand to Doug Mientkiewicz.


Even with the World Series win in 2004 (and 3 Superbowls for The Pats), I still can’t help but get really high when my teams win and feel like a Hot Pocket of crap when they lose (I’m lucky I wasn’t around any sharp objects after that game in the RCA dome last January). Although I’ve told myself I wouldn’t take it so seriously anymore, these extremes have now seeped into my genes.

So to answer Shaughnessy’s question- the glass is half full.

I never think The Red Sox or Patriots will blow the big game or piss away a divisional lead. To me there is no sense of having that mindset. Sure, they may lose and break your heart, but believing makes the whole experience that much better. For me optimism creates a buzz, an ecstatic feeling of invincibility. So Dice K will most certainly go seven strong innings, Big Papi will always get the clutch hit, and Papelbon will definitely record that final strikeout. I will forever flow as many positive ions to my teams.

(At some point I will write an entry fully explaining The Pauly D Theory of Ions, but in short it’s a kind of yin and yang thing. When we watch games I have to think as positively as I can, and Paul thinks in a negative way- but at a lesser volume. This creates a charge that travels into the TV and onto the field. Yes, we’re completely insane with our theory . . . but it works. And this is digressing in a major way. Back to the The Sox.)

New York had too good a team to simply go away. And although I would love a ten game lead going into the final week of the season, a pennant chase is a helluva lot of fun. Every inning of every game leading up to October is important, and I’m looking forward to them.

As I’m typing this entry I’m listening to the Angels/Yankees game on mlb.com. It’s the 10th inning and some guy named Ryan Budde is up for Anaheim. There is a runner on second and this batter does not have a career RBI. I’m flowing the positive ions and there’s no doubt there will be . . .

A base hit and The Yankees lose. The . . . .Yankees lose. The Sox now hold a 5 game lead in the division. Thanks, Budde.

We have thirty-seven games to play, six of which are with those guys from The Bronx. I say we win four against The Yankees and twenty-six more total. That would leave The Red Sox with a 101- 61 record and their first AL East Pennant since 1995.

If not, Dan Shaughnessy and I owe you all a beer.

Superbad

After seeing the trailer back in April, this has been The Film I’ve been waiting to watch all summer. That little two minute tease featured the now iconic “McLovin” (newcomer Christopher Mintz-Plasse), Arrested Development’s Michael Cera trying to be smooth with a young lady but rambling on like Woody Allen in perfect comedic timing, and the portly curly haired Jonah Hill proclaiming that he wanted to be a drunk girl’s mistake at a party. All of this madness played behind Van Halen’s “Panama”.

Then the screen flashed what matters most to a film- who's behind it. In this case the co-writer was the hilarious Seth Rogen and it was produced by the immensely talented Judd Apatow. It seemed to have all the makings of a smart, free-wheeling, laugh-out-loud film of which very few are made today.

Superbad delivered on its promise.

Although this bears the brilliant comedic stamp of Apatow (Freaks & Geeks, 40 Year-Old Virgin, and Knocked-Up), the script by Rogen and his childhood friend Evan Goldberg must be praised for its wit and originality. And the director- Greg Mottola, who honed his skills on the humor soaked Arrested Development, knows how to pace jokes with plot and make every scene count.

From the opening credits, where the two leads dance in silhouetted animation to a 70’s funk song, the laughs do not stop. We first meet Seth (Hill) & Evan (Cera) as they head off to one of their final days of high school. You instantly understand their true friendship, and their comedic raunchy banter perfectly sets-up the simple premise- they want to have fun and get laid before they go off to different colleges. And it’s the camaraderie between Seth and Evan (and their fear of being separated) that drives the film, that gives it depth underneath their quest to get booze for a party and get down with their high school crushes.

All good plots and stories are about people trying to reach some sort of worthy goal (be it the discovery of the meaning behind the word “Rosebud”, the destruction of an evil ring, or desperately trying to get into some girl’s pants). Since we all have different ideas of what is important, the best films are the ones that convince you that the main characters MUST get what they desire. By setting up a believable world and seeing the earnestness of the people involved in the story, the audience bonds with the characters and roots for them to beat the numerous obstacles they encounter and reach their goals.

That’s why the simple journey of three friends to a party (Seth, Evan, and the nearly piss-yourself-funny McLovin) works perfectly. Superbad is able to hang a thousand funny lines of dialogue (Hill describing how he hides his erection in the waistband of his pants) and bits of physical comedy (Cera singing for a bunch of cokeheads) on the story and have everything work in seamless perfection. This isn’t just Saturday Night Live skits or hilarious stand-up routines, Superbad is a real film that makes you care what happens to the characters.

Is that getting too deep about a movie that graphically portrays a young kid’s obsession with drawing penises and shows the mark a menstruating woman makes on somebody’s pants? Absolutely not. There are so many funny things that happen in Superbad that you couldn’t possible recount them in a review. And I wouldn’t want to reveal too much to somebody who has yet to see the film. But whether it’s McLovin having crazy adventures with two inept cops (played by Rogen and the funny Bill Hader) or Seth and Evan discussing pornographic websites, the characters are not cynical or full of hate and destruction like so many young people who make their way on the nightly news. They are good people at heart. Although these misfits are horny, immature, and drunk . . . you still want to see them succeed.

Rocky Mountain High Part 2

Colorado was now part of my history, and after the plane landed I was back home living with my parents. Although I was disappointed I didn't spend more time there, I knew it was an important experience. The way I figured it, even as a 22-year-old, going west was my first taste of The Unknown. Everything else in my life had been scripted around school- from Kindergarten to my Bachelor’s Degree I always knew where I would be from Fall to Spring. But getting on that train I had no idea what was waiting for me on the other side.

It was a bummer to be back in my hometown, but I really enjoyed getting my thoughts down about what happened . . . . . . .

Saturday
December 5, 1992
Lynn, MA

To continue, I loved being surrounded by Godlike mountains. Then there was skiing those Rockies, blasting down the trails with much glee and scant skill. The first run (Nov. 17th) at Keystone Resort I fell most of the way, but I picked it up fast and by sundown I hardly spilled at all. The only other time I’d been skiing was March of 1988 in Vermont. It was my high school senior trip and we skied for 2 days (extremely memorable, especially Beth and us coming into the lodge just as the sun was setting and me standing there looking at the pink and purple sky and just being amazed I was alive). And in almost a half decade I’d hadn’t been down a mountain on sticks.

Other than ski, the first week was just gong to bars and getting drunk. There was a beer festival night where you paid five bucks for a glass and then 2 dollars to get it filled. I remember stumbling from stand to stand and then being so cold we had to go inside a bar for the fireplace. Why do I remember peeing and seeing a long wall of graffiti? Anyway, I overheard a conversation where somebody said that the only thing people do in Colorado is drink and ski, and that didn’t sound bad to me. You ski a little, work a little, and rest a lot. This credo is fine by me. But unless you get free ski passes you’d go broke after a week.

BEST MOMENT

My favorite moment of that week is the sunset at Dillon Lake. Ranks right up there with watching the ball of fire drop into The Caribbean on that ferry in Cancun. In Colorado the sun sets behind the backdrop of The Rocky Mountains, lighting up the sky with brilliant oranges and purples and reds. What you’re left with is a silhouetted dream of purple outlines. Looking out over that lake just upped the ambiance factor.

2nd FAVORITE MOMENT

Lounging in an outside Jacuzzi at night, with those silhouetted purple mountains and magic sky. The sensation of being cozy and warm in water while looking out at snowy countryside was magnificent.

Now that I have described the good, I will give equal opportunity to the bad. You see, in Summit County, Colorado, if you don’t have a place to live before the ski season begins, you’re screwed. And that’s what we were.

I spent the first week on the couch of 2 apartments that had cats. Not ideal locations for somebody who’s allergic to the little creatures. Couple that with the high altitude and my asthma, and it spelled doom for breathing freely. This was one of the big reasons Rich and I took our trip further west to Las Vegas, The Grand Canyon, and LA (more on that later- I want to stay with Colorado for awhile here). The whole situation was disappointing because a) I thought we had an apartment set-up and b) those damned cats. But the trip to The Pacific Ocean and back the little Geo Metro was incredible, and when Rich & I returned on Thanksgiving my breathing was fine.

We woke up in some musty roadside motel on Thanksgiving morning. I think we paid $30 for the room, and it was overpriced. Rich put a chair up against a door that opened up into another hotel room. We also ran the shower to rid the room of it’s musty smell. Didn’t work. We were on the road early.

What followed was my first Thanksgiving without my family. Steve’s girlfriend (who was mostly annoying) was a Vegetarian and her centerpiece was a meatless lasagna. Rich and I went shopping for more traditional fare, and ended up getting cranberry sauce, peas, corn, and pre-sliced turkey with gravy. We also picked up beer and a bottle of Jameson. Steve grabbed a few bottles of wine.

Returning to the apartment we cooked our food, ate, drank and talked all evening. There was also a fine cherry cheesecake and Irish coffee. I enjoyed myself immensely.

The next week, and my last, were much like the first. We desperately searched for an apartment, failed miserably, and drank. We went to bars Friday, Saturday and Monday. I had a good time (especially the Breckenridge Brewery), but it was unproductive. I also went on a couple of job interviews. One was for a friggin secretary at the newspaper and the other a lowlife housecleaning job at a ski resort. It may sound cynical to put these jobs down as such, but when you graduated from a $22,000 a year college, cynicism comes easily.

I also worked out at a gym and saw Home Alone 2. That reminds me, the first week we saw Dracula and I really enjoyed it (4 stars). Home Alone 2 was stupid, but it that little Caulkin kid made me laugh. That’s about it for the last week. I called Continental, used my AMEX student $99 flight voucher, and finally boarded a plane to Boston.

Now, I would have stayed if I had got an apartment. I think it would have been a great place to write, and it would have been a fun experience. Steve and his girlfriend seemed to think I gave up too early. They believed I should have waited, but neither could comprehend what those cats did to me. Their solution was to work for a ski resort and live in those dorms. I explored that option and didn’t find it appealing. A) The pay sucks B) The work sucks and C) The living quarters suck.

When I offered my opinion of the ski resort job, Steve’s girlfriend said something that put everything into perspective for me. Although that wasn’t her aim, (she was offering a pep talk for Colorado), these were here words of wisdom: “you have to struggle if you want to live here, you have to try really hard. With all things you want you have to make a really big effort.”

That made me realize that I didn’t want to live there that much. When Rich and I discussed this whole Breckenridge move, I knew it wasn’t my ideal situation. Snow and cold temperatures are things I like to avoid. But I saw it as an adventure, an experience that would be fun, challenging, and give me writing material. I was only looking at six months (that was going to be our lease), and figured Red Sox opening day would be my return. If I’m going to struggle, it will be at least 75 degrees outside.

I know I would have enjoyed those six months in Colorado. I wanted to go someplace new and try to live life on my own terms. I wanted to get away from my normal routines and everything familiar. I wanted to experience a new atmosphere, where I lived in my own place and was responsible for feeding, clothing, and sheltering myself. I couldn’t get the shelter part, so fuck it. Back home here I’ll save my money and head off to a warmer climate to start a new life.

And that is my plan. By February I want to move to Florida with Jamie, my roommate Freshman and Sophomore year in college. He’s sick of the cold New England winters and doesn’t have a job either. Key West was good enough for Hemingway and Jimmy Buffett . . . so why not me?

Rocky Mountain High

We have all come to those points in life where staying the course is no longer an option. A decision must be made, and a new path must be followed. When the change happens our emotions will oscillate between optimistic excitement and pessimistic fear. But regardless of what we think or feel, we’re in for an adventure, and we will never be the same.

Through the years I’ve made several of those critical decisions, but the first one happened when I was twenty-two.

The autumn after I graduated college I still hadn’t found a journalism job or any sort of employment that required a degree. I knew I wanted to experience a new city or town, but in my mind that place was warm and sunny. My good friend Rich was moving to Breckenridge where his brother had been living (and loving it). That’s Colorado, where it snows regularly and there are no palm trees or warm breezes. But after a night of polishing off a bottle of Irish Whiskey with Rich and realizing my lack of options, I came to believe that I should make the trip to The Rockies with him. I was all set to make a new life in the mountains.

But, as usual, things didn’t work out as planned.

The apartment we supposedly would be renting was only an illusion. We were forced to stay on people’s couches, and every crash pad had a cat. I’m allergic to anything with fur and we were never able to find a place that we could afford. So I was back in Boston six weeks later. Which was for the best, because I really wanted to move to a tropical island. And I did the next year.

What follows is the beginning of the journal I kept about my Colorado experience. There are many more pages, but for now here is just an excerpt:

DENVER, CO
12/3/1992
Continental FL 744
Liftoff speed 161 mph

My time out west has ended and I am returning back to Boston. Before I say exactly why I am leaving, I should begin with why I went.

On a clear but frigid Boston Tuesday afternoon, I embarked on what I though would be a prolonged stay in Colorado. It was November 10th and I was accompanied by my friend Rich at South Station. With bags in hand we boarded a west bound train in search of a new life. I was eager, but also a bit trepid because I had no clue as to what was in store for me.

The train ride wasn’t the adventure I thought it would be. That’s the best I can say about it. Most of the time was spent reading or listening to Jimmy Buffett and Neil Young tapes. The nights were devoted to drinking, which was also a means of relaxing us so we could fall asleep. We had no private sleeping berths and were confined to regular reclining seats. This was the least enjoyable part of the trip.

We changed trains in Chicago, where I got outside for a five minute look up at the Sears Tower. Hard to believe that only four months earlier I’d gone to the top with Darcie, the girl I’d met in Cancun. Weird . . . Spring Break and the subsequent trip to visit her seem like they happened 10 years ago. But here I was in Chicago again, and I had to forget about the last one and just enjoy walking up the steps from The Untouchables. There were no gangsters shooting and no baby carriages plummeting down the stairs, and soon I was back on the new train and heading west.

On this second train we met a memorable character-Jim from Buffalo. Somewhere around 45, he was an unshaven, coarse, and sloppy drunk. Rich and I were getting pretty hammered in the lounge car on overpriced Budweisers, but compared to this guy we were stone sober. Nonetheless he provided good entertainment.

In addition to the other qualities I described, Jim was first and foremost a paranoid psychotic. He was sure somebody was going to attempt to mug and kill him at any moment. This made him anti-city, and an advocate of guns . . . which put him on the opposite side of the spectrum as me. When I told him I would never fire a gun, Jim went into a raving diatribe about the right to bear arms and the need to protect yourself. If I had taken him seriously he might have been insulting, but basically Jim was just a drunk who wouldn’t leave us alone. A barfly who just needed an audience. We slipped away from him when he went to the bathroom after last call.

Another aspect of the trip I remember vividly is looking out at Nebraska. Being from the East, I had never seen land as flat and barren. It wasn’t desert barren (which I’ll get into later) because there was growth, but it had an eerie quality to it, like you were on another planet. Contributing to this bizarre landscape was the lack of housing. You would occasionally- after a hundred miles- see a house (with a gambrel roof), a barn, a tractor . . . and then no signs of life. Cattle dotted the landscape, seeming like the rulers of this strange land.

Third point of mention is the sudden appearance of mountains. Well, maybe by mileage statistics, it isn’t so sudden. But when you’ve been gazing out at smooth ground for hours upon hours, the appearance of giant mountains in the distance will warp your senses. Especially on a train. The way I remember it was we turned and there they were, objects in your window appearing closer than they actually are. They just didn’t belong, like a mound of mashed potatoes on a foosball table. Although probably a hundred miles away, the Rockies looked close enough to spit at.

I guess other than Jim, the Nebraskan Cattle, and the sudden rising mountains, the train ride was uneventful. During the day Rich and I talked, read, and listened to music. At night we boozed it up and got a few hours of sleep sitting upwards. It was 2 days and nights of anticipation, of wondering what our new lives would be like.

And then we were in Denver.

And it was an omen.

We arrived in Union Station, a fraction of its Chicago counterpart with wooden benches and a big Mountain Time clock that would soon mock us, and waited for the luggage. Our bags made it to Denver 40 minutes after Rich and I did. Our ride an hour after that. There’s nothing like traveling for three days to a place you’ve never been and to have the only person you know there be nearly two hours late.

Steve, Rich’s brother, brought us to Breckenridge in a 1970’s Saab or Volvo. It stalled twice before we got out of Denver, and once on the mountain we slipped and slid so much I began seeing a headline in a Colorado paper reading “3 killed on snowy road, bald tires blamed”. As we kept climbing- physically higher than I’ve ever been in my life, I was continually amazed at the ascent. Out the window you could see what you thought was the top shrouded in white flakes, but then you would soon get to that point and see some more.

Rich asked what his brother thought of our new apartment, and that’s when the second bad omen surfaced. Steve was silent as he maneuvered the death car up a bend. After an exceedingly dramatic pause, he delivered the news. Steve told us that the apartment he thought would be ours had been given to somebody else. We had been out-bided.

Now, before I went to Costco with my Mom and picked out brand new luggage and flannel shirts and an air mattress and wool socks, I had sent a five hundred dollar check to Steve that covered my share of the move-in expense (big bucks for the unemployed). Upon arrival I’d give another $250, and we’d be living in a cabin with a fireplace and mountainside views. But that was no longer so. Steve assured us we’d find something better, and in my excitement I believed him. At noon we stopped for lunch at a roadside diner, and then embarked west on I70 to Breckenridge. We would never find that better apartment, or any apartment of any kind for rent.

But although my time out west was short, as I’ll soon describe, I did get my adventure.

. . . .More of my Colorado journal to follow.

Mulholland Drive Revisited

I still remember the night I walked from Descanso Drive down to Sunset to see Mulholland Drive at The Vista. It was the Sunday of opening weekend, and I got there early because I heard every seat for every show had been sold the day before. I'm pretty sure I went over to Von's and bought some Junior Mints.

There couldn't have been a better place to see that film. Some might argue for The Chinese Theatre, but Lynch's penetration into the madness of Hollywood was made for the Silverlake/Los Feliz crowd . . . the group of us who had long ago rejected the glamour of showbusiness and hungered for a true and twisted version of the LA scene.

I saw Mulholland Drive alone, and from the moment the closing credits rolled I concluded I desperately wanted to talk with someone who had just experienced what I had. But it's a good thing there was nobody to share my thoughts with that night, because I couldn't get home fast enough to transcribe all the ideas that were pinballing around in my brain. But something did slow me down for a few minutes. On Sunset Boulevard about three blocks down from Descanso, a rabbit darted out from some bushes and stopped just before me. It had probably just escaped from some kid's pen and doesn't have any connection to the film, but I couldn't help but think it was emblematic of the Alice In Wonderland trip I had just taken with David Lynch.

I eventually walked up my bumpy hill and got home, and with the help of a bottle of Sangiovese I spent a few hours trying to make sense of Mulholland Drive. I probably could have written 10,000 words, but I only used the front and back of a piece of 3 hole punch screenplay paper in my attempt at making sense of the film. I remember I felt exhausted afterwards, as if I had some how injured my brain with all the weirdness I was trying to contemplate. And I had planned on writing more, possibly organizing everything into an article/essay could try and publish somewhere.

Except that never happened, and I'm pretty sure today is the first time I've read over what I wrote on that night nearly six years ago. I saw "Mulholland Drive" three times in the theatre, but I have not it seen since until this night in 2007. The notes still make sense, but because they were written fresh from the experience my mind was still a bit cloudy. Anyway, for good or ill here they are . . . .

click on the pictures to see them close-up

I still pretty much agree with my nearly six year old interpretation. But I think calling the whole first part of the film "a dream" doesn't do it justice. It is a dream, but it's a dream that penetrates not only Diane's own mind, but also into the collective unconscious of us all. There’s a strong sense of timeless myth that runs through David Lynch’s work, and I recommend reading some Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung to understand such connections to this film.

It's obvious that Lynch loves The Wizard of Oz, Alice In Wonderland, monsters, and all things 1950. But it's even more fascinating to go beyond those stories and symbols to the archetypes and myths that inspired them. I recently read some articles about Lynch that explain how he has been influenced by Indian and Buddhist stories. And his book talks a lot about transcendental meditation. It's fun to know there's something like 3,000 years of mythology seeping through the frames of all David Lynch's films.

But of course you don't need to know anything about Jung, Campbell, or world mythology to understand and enjoy a Lynch film. We see his images (dwarfs, cowboys, flickering lights, monsters, guns) and they automatically connect with us on that deeper level. And while modern folk tales and stories normally have a clearly definable beginning, middle, and end, David Lynch is trying to go beyond that method. He's trying to show on film what we experience in our minds and soul, whether sleeping or conscious. Which sometimes can be confusing, disorientating, and nonsensical, but so is life.

But getting back to specifics of Mulholland Drive, I think it would be less confusing if instead of Naomi Watts in the lead it were George Clooney. The character of Diane/Betty is a lesbian, and it’s her love of Rita/Camilla that drives her into the insane murderous rage that propels the whole story. I’ve heard some people say Lynch was just getting off showing two hot women having sex, but the lesbian angle is imperative to the plot. And it throws us off . . . we’re accustomed to deranged and jilted men stalking their lovers, but having the killer be a woman is disorientating. This twist is piled on top of a non-linear and bizarre narrative to create a total mind fuck.

With this new viewing I've written about 10 new pages of notes, but I just can't explore them tonight. Inland Empire, Lynch’s first film since Mulholland Drive, releases on DVD on Tuesday and I’m gearing myself up for that. There’s a book to be written about those two films, and someday I just might. Because for me, there have been no better films made than Mulholland Drive & Inland Empire in the 21st Century.

My Favorite Books About LA

During the six years I lived in Los Angeles I read everything I could about the city. Buying one novel at Skylight Books in Los Feliz would lead me to checking out six more at the downtown library. The words of all these great writers were comforting, and their thread of history enriched my experiences in LA. But despite my zealous attempt to ingest everything that was written about the city, I didn’t even come close to cresting this mass of literature. Some day I might return to the task, but for now here are some of my favorites (as always, in no particular order).

Day of The Locust, by Nathanael West (1939) Nearly 70 years after its publication, this work is still devastatingly relevant. With beautiful prose and perfect comic timing it encapsulates the disgusting phoniness of LA and it’s seductive allure. Tod, Homer, & Faye are characters you will never forget. There’s a consensus that this is The Hollywood Novel, and I would agree.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780451523488&itm=1

Ask The Dust, by John Fante (1939) This book is an ode to an impassioned writer’s struggle to find success in a cold and indifferent city. But while Arturo Bandini is tormented by poverty, prejudice, and philistines, his love for LA never wanes. Although most of the novel is about failure, there is so much energy and love of life that I will never tire of reading it.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780060822552&itm=1


The Comedy Writer, by Peter Farrelly (1998) I arrived in LA the same year this was published, but I didn’t read it until three years later. Which is unfortunate, because it’s story- about a guy from Boston who leaves a good job to become a screenwriter just about mirrored my own life. This book is funny as hell, has great characters, and the story moves like a film.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780385490528&itm=2

The Grifters, by Jim Thompson (1963) Mr. Thompson might be known only as a great Pulp Writer, but this novel is as much literature as a Hemingway piece. The reason it is not regarded as such is probably because the characters are shady and have few redeeming qualities. But I would spend any amount of time with Roy Dillion and his con artist friends. I also love, that in the early 60’s, the author describes his disgust of smog and traffic.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780679732488&itm=2

The Last Tycoon, by F. Scott Fitzgerald (1941) The Great Gatsby might chronicle the ugliness of The American Dream with more wit & style, but with this final book Fitzgerald gives an interesting concluding word on the subject. Unfortunately the legendary author never finished this work. He died of a heart attack at the age of 44, brought on by alcoholism.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780020199854&itm=1

The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler (1939) Yes, this is “hard boiled detective fiction”, but it’s also art. There’s a lot of whodunit plot laced into the story, but there’s also beautiful descriptions of the streets and scenes of LA and real characters that are developed with sincerity. You also have to love that The Big Lebowski was heavily influenced by this book.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780394758282&itm=1

A Model Community, by Michael Ostrowski (2003) This is a shameless plug, but not including it would be like running for president and voting for somebody else. Before I wrote my novel the only book on this list I had read was The Grifters, and that was years before when the film was released (’91, I think). But it was while I was working on rewrites that I began my study of Hollywood Fiction. It was both inspiring and discouraging there were so many wonderful stories set in Los Angeles.

http://www.amazon.com/Model-Community-Michael-Ostrowski/dp/1401087116/ref=sr_1_1/102-3807570-2014518?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1186821952&sr=1-1

I Should Have Stayed at Home, by Horace McCoy (1938) Although the author’s prose doesn’t have the artistic impact of West or Fante, the dialogue is perfect, the story is entertaining, and it strips away all the facades of Hollywood. Despite that the characters are far from the glamour of the movies, they still yearn impossibly for a life they will never get.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9781852424022&itm=3

Play It As It Lays, by Joan Didion (1970) Maria (May-eye-ah) is the quintessential LA Girl- young, beautiful, and disconnected from the rest of the world. But this sojourn from reality isn’t from her being famous or haughty, it’s because everything around her is so grotesque to relate to it would cheapen her as a human being. Maria’s only solace is driving the endless asphalt of the LA Freeway System.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780374529949&itm=1

Shopgirl, by Steve Martin (2000) I first came upon this book when I had just moved from the craziness of Hollywood to the solace of Silverlake. It seemed, like so many of my favorites, like it found me since most of the story takes place in the neighborhood where my new apartment was located. But the reason why I loved this novella wasn’t because I could identify the locations, it was because Steve Martin painted such a haunting and beautiful description of how it felt to be alone in Los Angeles.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780641812521&itm=1

Post Office, by Charles Bukowski (1971) This is a gritty and coarse story of a writer forced to work a job he hates to pay the bills. Although about as un-picturesque as you can get about LA, it sums up a lot of people’s experiences in the city. Being a postman has been supplanted by being a waiter or bartender, but the angst and despair and comic adventures of struggling for your dream can still resonate in the 21st Century.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&EAN=9780876850862&itm=1

Roid Raging To The Record Books

“Any fool can criticize, condemn, and complain, but it takes character and self control to be understanding and forgiving.” –Dale Carnegie

Dale Carnegie never met Barry Bonds.

Major League Baseball now has a new name on top of the all time homerun list. And the name Barry Bonds will inspire millions of people to criticize, condemn, and complain. And if we are to believe the mounds of evidence which states our new “Homerun King” took steroids, then understanding and forgiveness will be scant.

And how can we not believe Barry Bonds took performance enhancing drugs? Look at how he began to magically hit more homeruns after turning 34. Read “Game of Shadows”. Read the SF Chronicle archives:

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2006/03/08/MNGAKHKF371.DTL

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2004/12/03/MNGGFA0UDU65.DTL

Barry Bonds was a great ballplayer before he “allegedly” began juicing in 1999. With 3 MVP trophies and eight Gold Gloves, the guy was a sure thing first ballot Hall of Famer. But does that mean we should ignore all the steroid evidence? Should we just shrug and say, “well, everybody was doing it”?

You could . . . if the sky in your world is made of syringes and clouds of candy human growth hormones.

But regardless of what we think, Barry Bonds’ 756 (and counting) homeruns are in the books. Hammering Hank Aaron is now second all time, whether you like it or not. So what can you do if you love baseball and respect its history and tradition?

You can curse Donald Fehr and the MLB Players Union for fighting like rabid dogs against mandatory steroid testing. You can flip a big fat bird to the owners, who could only see the mysterious spike in homeruns as dollar signs. And we as fans can surely throw an L up to our forehead for cheering blindly for Sosa & McGuire in ‘98 and Mr. Bonds in 2001. From 1961 until 1991 only 3 players hit 50 homeruns in a season, but 66, 70 & 73 didn’t even raise a red flag? Those kinds of stats should have been baseball bats to the back of our heads.

But it’s a lot of fun to see records fall. Being with a group of fans and witnessing history is a pure thrill. When McGuire hit #62 I remember exactly where I was and high-fived total strangers in a packed bar. Even this year, with all the evidence and a complete disdain for Barry Bonds, I was at the game when he hit career HR #750 and I was on my feet and clapping. As a fan it’s easy to get caught up in the feeding frenzy of The Moment. . . especially after seven beers. That is why I don’t have any issues with the 43,154 at AT&T Park and the thousands (millions?) of fans at home who applauded Barry Bonds becoming MLB’s All Time Home Run Leader.

But there’s The Moment and there’s History, and I think you need to separate the two.

I can walk into a Freak Show and cheer for a dwarf doing Shakespeare and a tattoed giant with one ear. But I’m not going to confuse them with Marlon Brando or Vincent Van Gough. And neither am I going to mistake Barry Bonds for Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth, or Willie Mays.

Records are not going to tell me who the greatest ballplayers are. I don’t even rely that heavily on statistics. You have to look at how individuals helped their team win. How they made everybody around them better. People like Aaron, Ruth, Mays, Mickey Mantle, Ted Williams, Jimmy Foxx, Bob Gibson, Joe DiMaggio, Ernie Banks, Nolan Ryan, Roberto Clemente, Bobby Doerr, Tony Gwynn, Carl Yastrzemski, Tom Seaver, and Cal Ripken. There are many other greats who have played the game over the last 100 years who have not hit 756 homeruns and who did not take steroids. I will choose to recognize their achievements as the history of the game.

Random Journal Entry From 1994

I recently posted a short story as a blog entry, but it is now gone. As much as I love reading and writing short stories, they just don’t mix with this format. Fiction & Non-Fiction can sometimes exist side-by-side, but not in a blog, which by its nature is personal journalism. Splicing in short stories is not only confusing, its ill matched to this style. Without indentations, your eyes are moving down the page as if you were reading a newspaper, not a book.

So here is a journal entry from when I used to live in Key West. Just like they set up clips up on Letterman & Leno, here we go: I had just taken my GRE’s and was trying to get admitted to Emerson College for a Master’s Program. My carefree beach bum days were coming to an end.


MAY 8, 1994
4:41 p.m. Sunday

This weekend I sold my first article, tried to buy beer at Wynn Dixie at 7:45 am, drank all day Saturday, and wound up crashing my scooter early this morning. A lot a good, some bad I can laugh at, and that’s all you can ask for in this crazy world.

The article appeared in today’s Key West Citizen, and although it wasn’t terribly interesting (how much fun can you have with a local “Propeller Club”?), it’s my first professional gig in the freelance journalism game. Not much, but a start if you will.

With the drinking, Dave (who went to Bridgewater with Jamie and now runs- at 21- Cape Air’s Key West operations . . . which is scary seeing how much booze that guy can consume) has been my recent accomplice in sinking to new lows. With Jamie spending all his time with his new girlfriend, it’s really nice to have a wing man again. Either I’m his or he’s mine . . . it doesn’t matter. But it’s cool to once again have a like-minded friend to swill beer with and seek out female companionship who doesn’t have to worry about pissing off a girlfriend. Anyway . . . Dave and I started drinking at 11:30 Friday night, stopped for a few hours of sleep, and continued on until 2 a.m. early Sunday. Last night was the highlight, watching a Jim Plunkett type performer at Rum Runners, then dancing with several girls to a good reggae band. I thought I was going to hook up with a cute girl named Shannon, but I lost out to a scrawny kid in a tank top.

Then there’ the wipe out. My right elbow and knee are still stinging, and I left a trail of blood from the door to my sheets, but at least the scooter has just a few nicks. Here are the facts: I had driven down to Tortuga Bay to meet Dave for some afternoon drinking. We took his car to Old Town, where at Rum Runners he left and I stayed to chat up Shannon. Having spent all my cash on booze and leaving nary a dollar for a cab, I walked all the way back to Tortuga Bay ( I can distinctly recall gazing up at the stars and smiling the whole way there).

Exhausted and drunk, I hopped on my scooter, pulled back the throttle, and before I could figure out what happened, there I was on the gravel with a bloody leg. In the whole motor scooter process, there is a thing called the kick-stand. And if you do not release it and try to drive, you will have problems. Luckily the damage to my only asset (I need to sell the damned thing to finance my trip home to Boston), is minimal. Besides, pleading 12 hours of drinking is as good an excuse you can get on this island.

Now I have to get ready for work, and I have sweat dripping from my pits, legs, and just about every limb. Without an air-conditioner, the heat is unbearable. I'm sure Hemingway had AC. But at least this is my last week at Perry’s Restaurant, and in less than a month I will be gone. Although it’s all happening much too fast for my 23 year-old mind.

Soon enough I’ll officially start my vacation (“from myself”, as Bob would say). But first I should begin tackling my problems- selling my scooter and taking care of the apartment. Jamie is going to move in with his girlfriend, but the managers are being hard-asses about the lease. C’mon, man, we live a block from the beach . . . it shouldn’t be too hard to rent this place. But as it stands, I could lose my deposit plus the last month’s rent. I have to do something about that.

And now that I type these words, am I doing the right thing? Pretty soon I will become a member of the unemployed. On my 2 year anniversary of graduating college I will, after spending thousands of dollars and studying my ass off and spending hour upon hour at The Free Press and landing 3 internships, have no job of any kind. Some more sobering facts: I don’t have a car and soon I’ll be living back at home with my parents and I do not have a girlfriend. Also, if everything goes as planned, I’ll actually be spending thousands more dollars to go back to school which will certainly NOT guarantee that I’ll have a career in my field.

What in Sam Hill am I doing?

I guess my advice to myself would be not to analyze my life. Have fun and simply keep faith my wacky choices. I’m not in any way going to let these issues ruin my final days in Key West. Things never, ever, go the way I expect them to, so how can I be disappointed? Just follow the advice of Jimmy Buffett, and make the best of whatever comes your way.