Hancock the Walk

Will Smith has a movie coming out next Summer. It's called "Hancock," and it stars the incomparable Mr. Smith alongside superstars Charlize Theron and Jason Bateman in a plot that IMDB outlines like so. So, what I imagine is something like, Will Smith stages a bunch of close shaves with disaster in plain view of the public, ending up in a love triangle with the guy who's doing him a favor. A real supervillain shows up amidst the controlled chaos that Smith and Bateman have orchestrated, and Smith is suddenly in way over his head. He will come to learn that being a real hero means saving people who need saving, not just your reputation. He will defeat the villain and Charlize will remove her top and do the can-can in front of an enormous American flag while the credits roll.

So that's what I think of "Hancock." I'd known that something huge was coming to the HoBo (as I've just renamed Hollywood Boulevard), but had assumed that it was road work or a large premiere or some other ho-hum celebrity nonsunse I've totally grown accustomed to. I couldn't have imagined that it was in some way all of those things, and I certainly couldn't have imagined that I'd somehow become involved in it without even trying.

On Monday morning, when I arrived at that section of the HoBo, something was most definitely up, and it wasn't the sky, but rather something large blotting out most of it. An enormous diffusion sheet was hanging from a giant boom attached to a small tank assuming its position in the middle of the street, and I don't know if you were there when the towers fell or your 7/11 became a Kwik-E-Mart, but there must have been the sense that this thing, this certain place that has been a certain way for as long as it's been part of your world, is suddenly another thing entirely, and it gives you chills to see. People, there shouldn't be people and camera equipment chilling out in the middle of the road, nor should the road be ripped up like somebody stopped a bus with his body and dug hisself three feet into the cement. Yet here was all of that, and there were huge rotating light-source panels twirling ominously on either side of the street, as slick-looking dudes and dudettes in sunglasses chirped into walkie-talkies to the rent-a-cops who rudely ushered pedestrians along the sidewalk and prevented rubberneckers from rubbing their necks while staring on in curiosity.

Looking back, I really must have become quite the jaded little something, because on my way home I'd forgotten there was a set there in the first place. Oh, “Hancock”? I passed on that script back when it was called "the first act of 'Spider-Man 3.'” And just when I was high-fiving myself for possessing the wit you can't buy on trees or something, that's when I saw Charlize Theron and Will Smith strolling in front of the Virgin Megastore, saw them with my very own eyes.



Now, it's difficult to relay the experience of a celebrity sighting as tippity-top as this, because the feeling rests on your actually seeing the person in three dimensions when until now they've existed only in two. But God help me, was I ever a lookie-loo, flipping out my cell phone and snapping away like a Harajuku girl on Western shores. Our girl Charlize and my boy Will were just strolling down the set and saying "hi" to fans on the other side of the street (of course), but an entire filmmaking apparatus cranked and whirred about these two tiny, tiny people that both highlighted the absurdity of movie stardom and underscored its supreme power. Here was a man and a woman (and probably Jason Bateman, somewhere), and here was also this entire operation so incredibly out of proportion to them, doing its multi-million dollar job to ensure that this acre of movieland was maintained for yet another blockbuster season. It was the strangest thing, and I wanted to be caught up in it at the same time I wanted to see the strangeness for what it was. I'd say I succeeded in doing both.

Cut to Wednesday, when I was very much over this whole industry and wanted filming to end so that I'd be accountable for less information when the time came to write this up. Girlfriend got herself a blended mocha for being so fly, then set out down the HoBo for Will's last chance to land some of this straight-up ghetto booty.

Since the sidewalks have always been open to pedestrians during filming (as indeed the signage assured us), I didn't think much of breezing past their flimsy barrier, and got about as far as the Disney Soda Shoppe before realizing that something was up, and it wasn't just the diffusion sheet. A real-live Panavision camera was set up against the wall, and operated on by a real-live person. Everyone here was wearing a badge. People with megaphones were telling other people to put their badges away. I heard snippets of conversation flit by, hurried mentions of "this is gonna be huge," and "put your camera away," and "if there was ever a time you didn't want to be caught on the sidewalk taking pictures because you might die, this is it." I put mine away so I wouldn't have to do the other thing.

In fact, I did try to leave. I got about twenty feet from the El Captian before my natural instincts to make myself as small and unobtrusive as possible kicked in. Basically, if I kept walking away, I'd stick out more than if I just ran back to the El Capitan and illegally showed up in a Will Smith movie. So that's exactly what I did.

And that's when a car exploded. And then another car exploded, and then several more cars flipped over when they were yanked backwards on steel cables, and smoke machines started pouring out smoke, and my last suspicions that anybody on the sidewalk was an actual pedestrian were dashed when they all started running and screaming from something I COULDN'T SEE. I looked on in fear from underneath the marquee at the El Capitan, and if ever in my life I experienced waves of chills from things in this world being not the way they should be, this was it. And if my shot ends up in the movie, and you see a clueless wiener in a blue checkered button-up looking like he has no idea why he’s in a Will Smith movie, well – that’s your friend, who finally made it onto the Walk of Fame. If only just on top of it.

The Biggest Wang

One of the things that’s nice about getting wasted at a dive bar (and there are many), is that there’s no such thing as pretense. After a certain number of drinks in a place like that, no one’s even heard of being “cool,” which is nice, because I haven’t heard of it when I’m sober. What is “cool,” anyway? Is it something you don’t want to put your tongue on? Gosh, how lame! Dive bars, on the other hand, are loud, messy, crowded, wonderful places where you can shout happy things to your friends. When you take a dive, you’re there to unwind and get hammered off beer and shitty drinks, and that’s just a grand little atmosphere. And it's all just a touch more grand at a little dive called Big Wangs.

Big Wangs is my local(ish) big-time sports bar, and while I’m the kind of sports fan that wonders why they’ve gotta toss a ball around for so long (and can’t you just read the scores in the morning?), something about Big Wangs oozes that turbo-chummy vibe that totally wins me over. Because yo, so you're wearing a beef-stained sweatshirt and ripped jeans with the ass torn out, but at least you don't look half as crappy as that stuffed marlin nailed to the wall. Big Wangs is underlit, the cushions are uneven, the waitresses are sexy and overworked, it takes up an entire leg of a strip mall, and it couldn’t even be more awesome.

When Jessica invited us there for the first time, I couldn’t believe this place had the balls (ha!) to carry a full menu - it gets so crowded in there, some folks have to deal with standing room only. Yet somehow, they pull it together. There’s this incredible thing they make called the “heart-a-tot,” which is such an amazing concept that it bears some loving description: it’s a basket of deep fried tater-tots, tossed in with fried bacon, all swimming in alfredo sauce, and topped with a tiny sprig of parsley, for greens. It’s also a play on the term “heart attack,” which is a term that everyone would feel more comfortable going to see if only there were a play on it, and it’s also the name of another dish they prepare, which cleverly replaces the tater tots with French fries, again called the “Heart Attack.” If you can possibly remain cool during a culinary experience like that, then more power to the establishment. I couldn’t do it. I wept heavy cream.

So last night, Jessica took several of us out again for another crazy night at Big Wangs. It was a big game night, though I’m not sure which, though if I had to guess, I’d say it looked like there was some ultimate fighting going on. And maybe some of that team golf on a dance floor with the big orange ball and the sneakers? I don't know. But boy, was there ever the hell out of some football happening on most of those screens. I’m usually a big fan of casual din, but tonight, yo this noize could make a girl anxious. Hold up, with the roaring!

It was interesting, though, to see an entire room packed so full of people reacting to something I couldn’t possibly relate to less. I settled in on watching them watch the TV, which is pretty disturbing when you think of the TV as an evangelist, which I usually do. (I didn’t grow up with TV.) I thought it might be nice, when the crowd roared up in manly approval, to snap a picture and capture a real moment when something collective and human was happening. I meant to do this only once, but every time they cheered, they got just a little more crazy – more intense, more aggressive, more emphatic, more more. So, every time they roared and pumped their fists in unison, my camera shot up and a silent flash appeared to remind them they were all being watched. I guess that’s not something you can easily hide without covering it, and I think it was yanking them out of their ecstasy, because at one point they cut themselves off from getting too happy without my even taking a picture. That’s some kind of power. It was probably a lot like someone poking you in the ribs when you’re stretching - eventually you learn not to stretch and deal with being all crampy. And yeah, I maybe went on a little bit longer than I probably should have, but these pictures were totally worth my kneecaps. I'll never walk again!

Oh yeah, and a group of thirtysomethings was unwinding at the table just beside us and looking maybe a little older than they probably were, and I couldn’t tell if they were reacting with the rest of the crowd or laughing at the flash photography, but the next time there was a wave of cheers, I turned and snapped their picture. These people suddenly laughed like crazy, and I didn’t even think it was that funny, until I started laughing at their laughter, and you know how this story goes, because suddenly our table and this table of strangers were all laughing at this one thing for no reason other than that we were all totally wasted, and while I’m terrified of meeting strangers in public and pray for nothing other than for conversations with them to end immediately, this is the kind of quintessential bar experience I’ve always hoped to have, because humans are social creatures that crave joy, and we treasure it where we can find it.

Also, one dude in a bowling shirt became our best friend for five minutes when he came over and started doing these unbelievable pointing poses. When we tried to get his e-mail address to send him the photos, he spelled out “Togg_Spears” and not one @-symbol more. He took Jessica’s hand and looked like he was about to crumple it in his, then announced, “WE SHALL ALWAYS HAVE TONIGHT.” It was wild. Then he gave us the Nixon peace-hands and they all left. The end!

I'm all grown up now

Yo, today I watched a pigeon WEDGE ITSELF in between metal and brick on the outside of my office building. It came in all "weeeooo!" for a landing and died instead. The lower half of its body stuck out like in a cartoon.

that is all

O.P.C.

Dear Eric,

Here's the thing. Elaine left us a little gift in the freezer the day she left. You never knew, but she had gotten us something she knew we both would enjoy, and she even left a little note, folded in half and taped to the top, thanking us both for a wild ride on the Slow Roll and a journey through "Hollyweird." It was a gesture as well as a gift. You take one look at it, and you know girl had herself a great time.

Well, you know how I get. Did you know that I left my wallet at Dan's, and left my phone in Jessica's car when we picked up my wallet? Uh, because I didn't. The point is, I forget things. And now, I'm writing to apologize for forgetting some very important thing, and I don't think you could ever forgive me.

You see, Elaine left us this present in the freezer and I never remembered to see what it was. And it's unforgivable because it was a chocolate fucking cake addressed to both of us and I'm eating it right now.

I'm sorry that the whipped mousse is like sliding down David Beckham's snowy ass in a toboggan, except twice as divine. I'm sorry that when the chocolate icing melts so delicately in my mouth, the newborn child next door mewls and kicks and doesn't know why. I'm sorry that the flavor is as rich as Uncle Scrooge's money pool, and that the cake is as hearty as a lumberjack's har-dee-har. I'm sorry that I started in five minutes before it was completely thawed. I'm sorry that this means the chilly center is pleasantly offset by the warmth of the room.

I'm sorry because me and a chocolate cake are in a room together that you aren't in. I'm sorry that there's gonna be plenty left over, because there just won't be by the time you get back. I'm sorry because it was in the freezer for one whole week when we were both home. I'm sorry because I never remembered to check. I'm sorry that there's so much cake, that I really can eat it, and have it, too. I'm sorry that it is sooo good.

I'm sorry that I have to be sorry. It's so delicious. I hope you can forgive me.

Love,
David

Credits.

For those of you who missed the big to-do last night, I was on TV! Like, actual cable! You see, I'm a logger for a respectable Oxygen Network celebreality program that airs on Tuesday nights, and that means I summarize and transcribe all the raw footage that comes in from the field. This all deserves some repping. It's a pretty lowly position, or is at least seen that way in The Biz, and sometimes it doesn't even get credited on television even though we comb through every inch of this footage and are the first to put actions into words, okay, and we decide what is important enough for the editors to see, people I am just saying.

I sort of hopped on board late into production and missed out on a whole month's worth of footage and three weeks of episodes. But I'm a real logger now, and time from some time ago has finally caught up with a certain more nowfangled time, and so, ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you my very first television credit, underlined with my stinky pinky for your viewing convenience!


Isn't that crazy? Dan must have read my blog from Toronto and seen that I couldn't watch the episode on TV, because today I received a small parcel at my desk all clandestine-like with said episode on DVD. Props, Dan. Props till you drop. Props with a cherry on top. Mm, sundae. So, I guess this screen is really just from a DVD and not an actual broadcast, BUT STILL. CHECK THAT OUT! IT'S REAL!

Weirdly enough, it doesn't even feel that weird to me. Although, it is. It's weird to imagine that there is a household out there in some state where they export so many bread baskets watching this show and seeing my name flash by in half a second, because I mean, what if this family took a family photo and right then my name flashed by on their TV? That would mean that a photo existed of my name and some people I'll never, ever meet! What an odd snapshot! Why would this family care about a celebreality program so much? Don't they know it's on again at 10:30? God, relax! I'll be around! Call me if you need anything!

I guess what I'm trying to say is, it's real crazy to have a real-live telvision credit, but I've also seen how much work goes into making just one of these episodes happen, and it's A LOT more than I do. We tend to dismiss this programming as slick trash that appears fully-formed on douchey channels we would rather not watch, but people, it doesn't appear fully-formed. An entire building of professionals are in there doing their best with the material they've been given to turn out 23 minutes of airable television and maintain the illusion that it's all effortless. Nothing ensures that it isn't crude homemade garbage. It takes a lot to put together something you can happily forget. Let me tell you: that deserves some credits.

Mario Bother

These are some new pajama pants that I bought for $9.99 from my local Mom and Pop's canteen, Target. They're comfortable and loose, and appropriate for all bedtimes. And wouldn't you know it, here's an article I found in Variety that describes what happened after I bought them:

"Wow, check out these hammer slacks! They've received full marks from the nation's top critics. They've appeared on over 100 top ten lists. Reviewers have piped, 'Boy, does that crotch ever ride appropriately low! There's a ripping yarn if I ever saw one.' Others have trilled, 'Hats off to an exceptional set of trousers! They really hit this one out of Pinna Park!' With the popularity of these pants leaping to the top of the girders, analysts suspect it's only a matter of time before they get the girl. Metaphorically, of course! Certain critics were not so barreled over, however, as one bashed the portly plumber's trademark duds: 'Overall, I'd say that the pants left me feeling kind of blue. And dare I say, high-waisted.' He even went on to knock the whole cask, deeming it 'so numbingly repetitive, I wished there was a POW button!'

"Nevertheless, this little grey barrel's on fire. The consensus among our nation's trouser enthusiasts is, 'these britches have it all buttoned down!' Wa-hoo, Mario! Yah, wa-hoo!"



This is really not a respectable update. I'm just distracting myself from the sad fact that I can't watch my own name go by on television for the first time because none of the televisions in this apartment are hooked up to cable. Boo hoo. And maybe that'd be easy to fix, but you see I'm quite busy hammering out terrible puns to describe my new pajamas. Oh well. C'est la me. Ho, ho.

Less than meets the eye

You guys, Los Angeles is getting so hot, transformers are exploding all over the place and causing rolling blackouts to sweep across the city. Eric and I have just abandoned the dread ovens of the House of Rogge to scarf pizza around Dan's air-conditioner, and this stuff has gotten me munching over several important issues:

1) The Los Angeles region is actually uninhabitable

2) I regularly walk through heat that causes reliable machinery to explode

3) This happens annually, when it should never happen at all

4) Our society is one blackout, four horsemen, and seven days from total anarchy

5) I feel cheated when blackouts happen during the day

I mean, this is actually terrifying. It's so hot here, it limits where the human body is allowed to be. You just can't have rolling blackouts here. As Eric pointed out, this is why old people die in their homes.

On another note, I feel like we too often use the word "transformer" to describe the device on telephone poles that converts raw electrical power into a high-voltage, low-current form for use in our homes. This is ignorant. I want to take that word back. I want to make it OUR word. It becomes so tedious when I'm telling all my friends, "hey, check out my car. Nay, check out my robot. Nay, check out my car," all the while not moving my eyes. I am a lazy bastard and wish we could all respect that my eyes are precious jewels. As it stands, it's more accurate to call Dan's cats "transformers," as they convert feline saliva into a high-voltage, high-current dander that powers my sneezes. Interestingly, they have not yet exploded in the heat.

YOU, SIR, TRANSFORM ME INTO PUFFY DESPAIR

Also, here's a youtube clip that shows exactly what happens to a transformer when everything goes wrong with it. Be sure to read the video's description for an odd sort of thrill.

All Swork and so gay

It's always super weird when I get hit on in public, because I can count the number of times it's happened on four fingers, even though that would be pretty arbitrary since it's only happened three times. I'm not one used to being treated like a young, hot, sexy thing with a young, hot, sexy wiener. So it kinda freaks me out when I'm getting some mad work done at a coffee shop and suddenly I'm on a big loud game show where the prize is having sex with a man. Maybe my work leaves me easily overwhelmed, but that's some pretty high stakes right there.

Of interest: Swork, a comfortably douchey cafe in Eagle Rock, remains the exclusive carriers of "Sworkuccinos."