"There is always something so delightfully real about what is phony here. And something so phony about what is real"

-- Noel Coward

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"A bland, hard-boiled city with no more personality than a paper cup"

-- Raymond Chandler

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"Everything here is too large, too loud, and usually banal in concept. . . . . The plastic asshole of the world"

-- William Faulkner

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Hollywood, tinsel town, the dream factory, where the ambitious come to grow stale and hardened like sourdough bread in the arid badlands. West coast, "left coast", the loose pieces of the North American jigsaw populace clattering down with that population tilt of westward expansion. Perhaps the "Titanic" of our sinking national fortune was tilting this way, the creatively-ambitious rolling down the deck in frenzied thumps as the vessel plunges headlong into the churning sea. Maybe "trickle-down" economics left most of us "all wet" and dancing around the fire in a crazed Voo-Doo revelry to shake out the fear of poverty, coldness, boredom, and death.

As Captain Fulgore and I soaked up the beige southern California atmosphere, a man dressed up like a 1920's silver screen Indian fakir slinked past as if he was making his way across a Persian carpet with pomp and laughing circumstance. Yes, the fleeting allure of fame and immense wealth certainly brought out the animals. . . . .

"A guy without any purpose or any plans-- you're liable to end up just being a drifter. Maybe even a bum. . . . . I want to be happy. Be somebody. Have a good job. Friends. A home. A wife and kids"

Well, ol' Nick Baxter from the 1950's mental hygiene films never counted on the wily sociopathy of a screen idol like Christian Slater, walking off with a pistol, the beautiful girl, and a suitcase of money. Or at least that's how it worked in the movies. . . . . His vision, his way, the young late '80s hustler out of some dubious, long-forgotten filmscape.

Captain Fulgore (-- born Jeremy Small) ran his own goofy, bad taste, shock-jock cable access t.v. show and was looking to ascend to the next level by shopping his DVD's around in person to all those unfortunate enough to lend him their ear. I myself obviously, was the baron of the internet with my creative, outrageous integration of text, images, and unlicensed music. Why not join forces? Share the rent? Write screenplays in our spare time like the dubious low-lives we tried to be?

We squinted up at the sun for a minute, contemplated the glittering ruin of wasted Hollywood promise like so many smashed bottles of Popov vodka, if not a fine cracked glaze of orange juice spilled on the belly of a snoozing, coked-out hooker, then got back in the rented red Cadillac and went smoking and trembling up the boulevard.

Krista was rooting for me back home in St. Louis, as in whom I christened "The Fabulous Miss" every time I strode in through the doors of "Hollywood Video" in my Indiana Jones hat like a big-shot. Every time I rented something cheesy from my youth, she had something to say about that movie-- so wholesome, and soft, and round like a German peasant girl with slightly bugged eyes. We agreed that it was SO SAD that "Mom n' Pop" independents were a thing of the past, superceded by the humongous corporate chains of crisp soulessness. In fact, she had recently bought out choice selections from a deceased small business at fire-sale prices and had literally left with armfulls of old tapes, dropping behind her like bread crumbs. A blanket, slippers, a bowl of popcorn, and a whole weekend of movie memories.

Pathetic but touching.

She had a degree in "Marketing", a vague & vacuous degree if any, was hardly using it to her full potential, and I vowed that if I ever made it big that she could become my sweet, harried manager or something. . . . . holding my calls as I massaged my ego with outrageous creative license.

There was the legend palmed off on the "starry eyed" pilgrims, the beauty of coins-tossed-in-the-air chaos, the myth of the jowl-cheeked director in a baseball cap and a jacket walking by with a camera/tri-pod over his shoulder, there to make "his movie".

But all I saw was this crass old bitch in a leather miniskirt walking her "Poopsie" on the end of a leash, her nose turned up insufferably. Well, she wasn't looking where she was going, and neither was Captain Fulgore. "Thump!". With her histronics for this once-yapping, once-irritating show dog, you thought she was about to shit a brick.

"Uh, we're terrible sorry!", but Missourian penitence wasn't good enough for this burden we took off her hands. She began screeching at the top of her lungs about lawyers-on-retainer n' lawsuits, but at that point "The 'Cap" slammed the foot down on the acceleration. There was the pathetic "splurch!" as Poopsie was run over again, to her redoubled shrieks of grief and fury. Well, what's left of her smooshed dog would make a fine pot-holders: that is, if she even did her own cooking and didn't molest an Hispanic pool man on the side.

They say living out in California does things to people-- the land of drive-thru mortuaries and old ladies such as this being buried in their Ferrais, the fragrant, leather seats tilted comfortably back for a smooth ride off into eternity's ethereal graces. Entombed in a cast of solid concrete so depraved sorts such as ourselves wouldn't get any obscene ideas. Of course, we could always come back with jack-hammers. . . . . and pry her old bony fingers off the steering wheel. Possession is 9/10th's of the law, after-all (-- it works both ways!), even as we would be hauled before the magistrate for unspeakable transgressions before the eyes of God.

But out here it was the God of EGO, or to be more accurate the foul God known as the movie mogul. Or at least someone in the chain of command with the authority to say "yes", which was like finding a publisher for my short stories. Which means to say, I was an agnostic upon the existence of such. Neither affirming nor denying, but reaching the cautious, lukewarm conclusion that "the jury is still out". The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence, while others would be quick to become very bitter.

Instead of "coins-flung-in-the-air" chaos, the reality was more akin to bags of money being passed high overhead on a system of sturdy, institutional ropes. The trick was to learn those ropes, study those ropes, but not to walk around pig-ignorant like a superstitious peasant in sack-cloth crossing himself at the sight of serpents. . . . . for they may lead you to riches, pilgrim. You worked your way up, and you had to start somewhere. Hey, why not? I was young and had my health; what would I want with a job?

Moxie! Sass! Having not a clue what I was talking about-- waving my hands through the air with my grandiose plans "to take the world by storm" like an oversexed World War II G.I. tracing out the curvy outline of a woman. Putting a cigar in my mouth, stalking across the room like a bent-over Groucho Marx wagging his eyebrows, talking in the hammy, fist-swinging voice of a 1940's director spilling out the extravagance of his "next picture". Dubious, sleazy, fibbing when he says that Bob Hope and Bing Crosby are "lined up", and adding-- out the side of his mouth, elbowing the unimpressed studio head with rudeness-- that "there will be a lot of dancing girls and musical numbers!".

They loved my pitch, and hired us on the spot. Pushing the envelope was something I was good at, after-all. I thrived on being socially-unskilled and "not knowing when to stop. . . . .". It feeds my titanic appetite to stretch, verily TRANSGRESS the bounds of postmodern reality to the breaking point. And how all this constructed reality of text, pictures, and recycled media archetypes would come terribly, horrifically crashing down with the flat reality of a camcorder-- and a celebrity, in primal rage, punching out that camera that invades his territory. This is reality: no exchanges, no trade-backs, but how it really is. Snarling beasts in the night. . . . . Jack Nicholson with a golf club.

We will leave the rest up to your imagination, but it wasn't pretty. I held my own because I'm a big guy, but ol' Captain Fulgore-- the geek pointing the camera-- was sent off to the hospital in a wailing ambulance. Many condemn the ideal of the American dream on the grounds that few can attain it without making serious moral compromises. You're darn tootin'.

    

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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

(Rheeee of Crickets)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

("I heard that, Missy!")

© 2010 by Insufferable Industries

Drop "The Bard" a line at
michaeladams_s@yahoo.com

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